Never (Never, #1) (43)

Peter nods. “And feels with me.”

“Do the animals?”

“Most of them.”

And I’m back in awe now, staring up at him all wide-eyed and stupid.

“Are you impressed?” He smirks.

I nod a bit solemnly. “Yes.”

Peter puts one arm on my waist and the other around my back, brushing his lips over mine.

“Good.”





* * *



* It’s not a terrible look, and it’s really only actually sort of scary if it’s getting dark out.

* That does feel debatable, but it’s not a hill I’m willing to die on.

* And all the things I was worried about just a minute ago topple straight out of my head.





CHAPTER

SEVEN


Sleeping is better when there’s not a pillow wall between you.

Not that he’s holding me or touching me. Sometimes I’ll wake, and his leg will be kicked over me, but that’s about it as far as nightly affections go.

But the wall being down does afford me one thing.

A spectacular morning view.

It might be a contentious thing to say, and he himself would most definitely disagree with it, but I think Peter is his most beautiful while he is sleeping. When he’s awake, he’s never still long enough to be able to take him in properly, and truthfully, there’s much to take in.

There’s almost a lustre to his skin—fairy dust, maybe? I don’t know—something golden that’s over him; he’s gorgeously olive. Freckles that kiss his cheeks and his shoulders like I wish I was allowed to, but he doesn’t like affection on anyone’s terms but his own. His hair is styled every morning by the sea and the wind, and they push it the perfect, wavy way.

His eyes flutter open, and I close mine quickly.

He’d be altogether too smug if he knew I watch him while he sleeps sometimes.

He sits up and shakes me because I’m good at pretending.

“Get up, sleepyhead girl. It’s morning.” He jumps to his feet and flies straight to the beam, flipping off it and soaring over the boys’ beds below us. “Morning, everyone!” Peter yells.

The littlest boys rub their tired eyes awake.

“Medicine!” Peter hollers, and we all groan, but I follow him down and hand it out.

Brodie gives me a tight smile when I hand him his, and I give him an extra warm smile because I feel as though he needs it.

“You’re looking rather tall today, Brodie.”

Something flickers over his face, and he says nothing, but he sits down quickly before Peter has a chance to look over at him.

I slide into the seat next to Peter and reach across him to a bowl of berries, pulling them closer to me.

“Gorgeous spread, Hobb! Thank you!” I call out in the hopes that they’ll hear me.

“You don’t have to thank him,” Peter says as he shovels some bacon into his mouth.

I shrug breezily. “But isn’t it nice to?”

Peter pulls a face. “He has to. He’s a slave.”

I peer over at Peter. “Not an actual slave?”

He frowns at an apple he’s holding, bites down—big crunch. He glares at the bite mark he made in it, then he looks over at me, straightening up.

“Why do you always wear the same thing?” Peter asks, staring at me with his head tilted.

My head pulls back. “I beg your pardon?”

“The same clothes.” Peter squints at me. “You’re always in them.”

I wave my hand at him. “So are you.”

“Tiger Lily never wears the same thing,” he says loudly over me and looks back at his apple before he takes another bite from it.

“There is no Tiger Lily, Peter,” I tell him, straightening up. “Her name is Calla.”

He turns and faces me again. “Calla never wears the same thing.”

“Well.” I give him a curt smile. “I suppose someone told her to pack appropriately then.”

Peter rolls his eyes and pushes back from the table. “This again!”

I shake my head at him, incredulous. “You told me I didn’t need anything! Do you know what that implies?”

He glares at me. “Of course I know what it implies.”

“And yet—” I lift one eyebrow, pointedly.

“I don’t want to talk about this anymore,” he says, walking away from the table. “It’s boring.”

I frown after him. “Where are you going?”

“Just somewhere not with you,” he says before he takes off out the window.

I stare after him, my cheeks a bit pink, mildly mortified, and the silence from the Lost Boys makes it worse.

They all stare at their plates, not daring to say anything in case Peter’s spying. He would spy too, to listen to see if someone said anything that went against what he thinks.

It’s the closest I’ve come to crying this whole time I’ve been here, so suddenly and strangely stripped of confidence, I might as well be sitting here naked in front of them.

They don’t know what to do. I don’t know what to do. They just sit there in this horrible silence, sad for me, looking at their hands, their plates, their toes, the wall, anything but me, and it’s awful.