“Neverland.” The word is a throaty gasp that conjures images of silk sheets and hot, slick mouths. “That isn’t—Neverland isn’t…that’s just astory,”she insists stubbornly, but she’s seen enough to question her sanity. To question how firmly the lines of truth are written.
“The stories are all real somewhere,” I reply with a shrug. “Whether your mind or another reality, does it truly matter?”
Her mouth twists in frustration, and she shakes her head wildly as she backs away from me. Swiping at her gore-covered hair, she stares at me like I’ve got her trapped. Like I’ll pounce at any moment.
“You’re crazier than I thought,” she hisses. “I suppose you’re about to tell me you’re Peter Pan?”
The name cleaves through the room like she’s sliced it with a sword. My death explodes from me, skittering powerfully into the bookshelf behind Willa. Charred pieces of paper rain down from the shelves, showering the room in snowy debris, as pain rattles my skull so suddenly, I’m forced to bend over—to tug at my hair and groan through gritted teeth until the agony passes.
“Donotspeak that name again unless you wish to rot from the inside out,” I thunder.
Willa watches warily as I struggle to recall my ribbons, as I fight to feel my humanity—to feel something other than the ice of death. It takes all my restraint not to slice her throat right here, simply for having the misfortunate of witnessing my vulnerability.
I’m the King of Carrion. No one sees me weak and lives, but this is the second time today I’ve nearly lost control in front of Willa. It has to be the stress of everything—of the Strayed attack; of my death’s infatuation with her; of seeing my past written along the delicate lines of her face.
My head pounds, and I’m still leaning over my knees when Willa asks, “Where’s your hook, then?”
I let out a rough laugh, the noise scraping up my dry throat, as I finally manage to stand up straight. “So sure I’m the villain in this particular story, are you?”
She gives me a pointed stare, and I relent with a careless wave. “Stories change as they’re passed from one person to another.Thatdetail has been somewhat exaggerated, just as my kingdom’s name has been warped by time. Allow me toset the record straight…Your world is dying becausethis oneis dying. Letum is the product of the dreams of your world, and your worlddreamsbecause of Letum’s magic. Neither can exist without the other. And you…you’re going to save both.”
Willa begins to shake her head, backing away from me further, until she bumps into the back of a loveseat.
“Even if this is all true—” The words are stilted, like they’ve been pulled from her mouth against her will. “You have the wrong person.” She says it again, like wishing it will make it true. She has yet to learn that though we live in a fairy tale, the only wishes granted here are ones of agony.
I narrow my eyes. “That’s where you’re wrong,Darling.”
The word rolls across my tongue gently but the way Willa stumbles backward, I may as well have struck her. My lips pull into a cruel smile as understanding crashes over her like a wave.
“Wish as hard as you want, Willa…Darling…Fredrik.” Her full name rings through the room, and I swear, the shadows of the island stand up and pay attention.
I stalk toward her, and she measures my steps, sprawling backward onto the couch without taking her eyes from me. She jumps as lightning flashes, illuminating the violet sky, followed by a giant crash of thunder that rocks the entire palace. The sound of the past and present colliding, hot and cold, light and dark. Shivers erupt over her skin, and intimate fear shines in Willa’s eyes.
“I know exactly who you are because you werebornfor me. And now…now, I will take what’s mine.”
Chapter twelve
Willa Darling Fredrik.
The name still lingers over an hour later when I sink into the giant tub, the words a ghostly echo in the dark of the castle. Despite the chill of Niko’s voice in my mind, I let out a moan as the delicious heat of the water sinks into my aching muscles. Exhaustion pulls heavy at every part of my body. It weighs on my limbs and chest, presses against my veins until even my blood feels sluggish. My head is both fuzzy and raw, like I’ve somehow burned my thoughts with acid.
Willa Darling Fredrik.
The name in anyone’s mouth would have startled me. It’s been years since I’ve been called by it as there’s no one left alive to remember my last name, let alone the ridiculous middle name my mother insisted on giving me. A family heirloom that’s lasted longer than the family itself.
Adrenaline pulses through me, as I remember the way it sounded in the king’s mouth. That nimble tongue, that drawlingaccent. He’d said it like it was wanton; he’d said it like heownedit.
Willa Darling.Not an infuriating nickname, nor a condescending moniker.
The Carrion King knows who I am.
Which means I need to get the fuck out of here before he can figure out the rest.
Despite my exhaustion, I scrub viciously, turning the water a light shade of pink. I stare at the swirls for a long moment, before I work up the courage to examine my shoulder. Though it aches terribly, like a phantom imprint of the tiger’s claws shredding through it, the skin is smoothed over. There’s no resistance when I rotate it, the muscles and tendons strong as ever. Swallowing down a sudden rush of emotion, I tear my gaze away from my body.
Everyone else has their stories written along their skin—one from a fall on their bike when they were twelve; a spill when they’d gone skiing with their families—but I have none. Only an expanse of unmarked skin, a blank canvas. Like I’ve never lived at all.
Blinking away the hot sting in my eyes, I finish washing and climb from the tub.
