The fact that he was wearing cargo shorts and a faded blue T-shirt wasn’t strange, but the shorts were way too big and they were held up by a knotted length of rope. The shirt hung loosely from his shoulders, the neckline frayed and unraveling. They were both covered in dirt.
Wendy gave her head a shake. She refused to be lured into a false sense of security by this boy who had taken her to a hunting shack in the middle of the woods.
“Are you going to kill me?” Wendy blurted out.
He blinked. “What?”
“Are you going to kill me?” she repeated. Hot, sticky blood trickled down her calf. She’d seen this same scene play out in at least a dozen different movies. She would go missing, her face would be plastered all over the news, her parents would have to go through the same torture all over again—
Peter laughed, but his eyebrows were still drawn in confusion. “I— What— Wendy, why would I want to kill you?” he asked, taking a step forward.
“STOP!” Her hand shot out, fingers splayed as if she could hold him back while she was stuck in a decrepit old cot. Wendy was surprised when he did actually stop, looking all the more confused.
He didn’t look particularly large, but ropes of muscle still wound their way around his lithe build. Wendy’s free hand went to her forehead, trying to steady herself. “Please, just stop.”
“Stop what?” Peter’s hand went up to touch his cheek again. “I’m not doing anything! Wendy—”
“Stop—stop calling me Wendy!” Her eyes darted around the room again. The only way out was through the door, and on the other side of it was the woods. Who knew how deep he had taken her or how far she was from home.
Peter cocked an eyebrow at her. “You … don’t want me calling you your name?” he said slowly.
“No.” He shouldn’t even know her name to begin with!
Peter frowned and scratched the back of his neck. “That doesn’t make sense,” he said, his hand dropping to his side in defeat.
“Did you kidnap Benjamin Lane and Ashley Ford?” Wendy demanded.
“Kidnap?” He gave her a bewildered look, blue eyes going wide. “What—”
Frustration growled in the back of her throat. “Who are you? What do you want with me?”
He leaned closer to her and pointed to himself. “I’m Peter,” he said slowly, as if he were trying to explain something very simple to a small child. She couldn’t tell if he was being serious or making fun of her.
Either way, Wendy glared. “No. I mean, who are you?”
Peter scratched the back of his head again. There were pine needles stuck in his messy auburn hair. “You’re acting really weird. Is this some kind of game I’m not getting?”
A manic laugh shotgunned out of her. “I’m weird?” Wendy demanded. “You kidnapped me and are holding me hostage in a hunting shack in the middle of the woods!”
“Kidnapped? I didn’t kidnap you, you fainted—”
“I got knocked out because you—”
“Fainted,” he corrected. Wendy spluttered—was he serious?—but he continued on. “You fainted, I brought you here so you weren’t just lying out on the grass all night”—he paused in counting on his fingers to slant her a look—“you’re welcome, by the way. And you’re only being held ‘hostage’ by that mess of springs you got yourself caught in,” Peter added, pointing at her leg.
Wendy teetered on her good foot. She didn’t have a leg to stand on, metaphorically—or literally—speaking. This all sounded semi-rational, but Wendy still didn’t trust him. She squinted at him.
The fact that he stood there, looking both triumphant and amused, didn’t help her mood.
It was maddening because she did recognize him, but for reasons that didn’t make any logical sense. It was all things she had imagined about Peter Pan. The small chip in the corner of his front tooth. The confidence in his voice. That damn charming smile. And those eyes that felt like she was looking at stars.
Wendy forced herself to focus, to think practically. She needed to get somewhere safe because being with him felt dangerous. It was the sort of danger you felt before jumping off a cliff into water: a low rush in the pit of her stomach that made her fingers tingle.
“Why didn’t you just take me into my house instead of dragging me out here?” Wendy ventured.
She could see him chew on the inside of his cheek. The muscles in his jaw flexed and relaxed, accentuating the curve of his freckle-peppered cheekbones. “I didn’t want to run into your parents,” he said, scuffing the floor with his bare heel. “I mean, it’d look pretty weird if I just showed up at your house with you unconscious.”