Wendy tried to judge whether or not he was lying. She still didn’t know how he knew her name.
“You look pale,” Peter cut in, giving her a worried look. He moved to take a step closer, but seemed to think better of it and stopped.
Maybe he was some sort of stalker, but that didn’t feel right, either. She was terrified of him, but Peter also looked very wary of her. It was hard to keep up this idea that he was a threat when he kept dipping his chin and peering at her carefully. He squinted slightly.
Was he trying to study her face, too?
Wendy licked her lips. She wanted to ask him how he knew her, to get a real answer, but she couldn’t work up the courage.
“So…” Peter rocked back and forth on the balls of his feet, his hands stuffed into his pockets. “Do you want me to help you out of there?” he asked. His mouth twitched with a suppressed grin.
Wendy’s jeans were ruined. The metal springs had pushed them up her leg and the denim was torn. The cuts weren’t deep, but they stung like hell. A thin red line of blood trailed down her ankle and into her shoe. She glanced back up at Peter. She didn’t trust him, not by a long shot. But standing there, barefoot and apprehensive, he didn’t seem like much of a threat. And the sooner she got out of here—and out of the woods—the better.
“Yes,” she finally agreed, but not without shame.
Peter took a cautious step forward. “Do you promise not to punch me again?”
Wendy shot him a seething glare. “No.”
Peter’s lips broke into a smile. Dimples cut deep into his cheeks. Peter shrugged. “Fair enough.”
He knelt down next to the cot. Lingering fear made Wendy lean away from him, pressing herself against the wall. The metal tugged at her leg. “You need to stop fighting against it or you won’t be able to get out,” Peter said, looking up at her.
His nearness was overwhelming. She couldn’t tell if she wanted to shove him away again or reach out and touch him, just to see if he was real.
Wendy let out a half-irritated, half-pained growl. “Fine,” she said through clenched teeth.
He was still watching her with those startling blue eyes.
“Stop looking at me like that,” she told him. He quickly looked down, but she could just see the corner of his smile.
Carefully, she shifted her weight to her good leg, letting the other drop a bit and relax. Peter worked his fingers between the knots of spirals and gave them a quick tug, and suddenly her leg was free. Wendy’s foot dropped to the wooden floor and she let out a surprised yelp.
As she toppled forward, she snatched Peter’s hand to brace herself. His palm was rough but very warm. Wendy quickly retreated, causing her to lose balance again. She did an odd dance on one foot until she limped free of the ruined cot.
Peter stood and there was a wide grin on his face.
Wendy scowled. “What?”
“That looked funny,” he said with a shrug.
“Shut up.”
He made no effort to hide his amusement. “Does it feel okay?”
“It feels like I got my leg caught in a bear trap,” she said tersely as she put her foot down and tried resting her weight on it. The cuts stung, but there didn’t seem to be any other damage.
But at least she could move now, even if she was seconds away from falling through the half-rotted floorboards. “What are you doing here?” she asked him. She heard the harshness in her own voice begin to slip away.
“Well, I just got you unstuck from the bed springs—”
“No, I mean what are you doing here?”
Peter groaned and tipped his head back. “Not this again.”
Wendy closed her eyes for a moment to rein in her frustration. “I mean,” she started again, “why are you in this old hunting shack?”
Peter glanced around and shrugged his shoulders. “’Cause I’m staying here?” he said slowly, as if to judge whether or not he was answering her question right.
It didn’t make sense. Why on earth would someone willingly decide to stay in a place like this? The woods had at least a dozen hunting shacks tucked into the logging roads. There was no sign of anyone other than Peter being here in the last several years.
“Where are your parents?” she asked. There was no way he was of legal age. He was much older than the magical boy, Peter Pan, that Wendy knew from her stories, but he definitely wasn’t eighteen.
“Haven’t got any.” He said it so simply, and with such lack of importance, that it took a moment for it to register.