A thick, gloved hand slams over my mouth, the taste of grease and latex filling my throat. I scream, but it’s muffled against his palm. I fight, my gold chains clinking frantically, my heels kicking at the air, but I’m being hoisted.
“PETER!” I try to shriek, the word a strangled vibration.
They don’t just grab me; they snare me. A steel cinch-line is snapped around my waist, biting into the lace and my ribs. I am being winched upward, my feet leaving the blood-slicked floor. I look down, my hand outstretched, reaching for Peter’s limp form.
Hook is turning, his gun raised, but the smoke from the flash-bang is too thick. He’s firing blindly, the muzzle flashes illuminating the chaos. “Secure the girl!” he bellows, but he’s too far away.
I am dragged through the jagged hole in the ceiling, the sharp edges of the lath and plaster tearing at my skin and my dress. The physical pain is nothing compared to the sight of Peter’s body getting smaller and smaller on the marble floor.
I’m pulled onto the roof, the freezing rain hitting my face, and before I can even gasp for air, a heavy black hood is shoved over my head. The world vanishes. I amthrown into the back of a van, the metal floor vibrating beneath me, the scent of gasoline and old sweat suffocating me.
The van roars to life, tires screeching, and I am tossed like a ragdoll against the side. The last thing I feel before the darkness takes me fully is the rhythmic, mocking pulse of the tracker on my finger, still beating in time with a heart I’m no longer sure is still alive.
Part Four
Walls don’t need to be brick to keep you. Sometimes they’re mirrors. Sometimes they’re memories. Sometimes they’re the voice that whispers “good girl” right before you break.
Peter
The first thing I taste is copper. The second is the freezing, salt-crusted air of the Atlantic.
My lungs feel like they’ve been packed with jagged glass and set on fire. Every breath is a jagged, shallow struggle against the void. I try to move, to reach for the warmth that was just in my lap, but my arms are lead, pinned to a surface that vibrates with the low, rhythmic thrum of a heavy engine.
“Wen…dy…”
The name is a wet splutter, a spray of blood and bile that hits the front of my shirt. My eyes snap open, the world a blurring, spinning kaleidoscope of industrial greys and shadows. I’m not in the ballroom. There are no lilies here. There is only the smell of diesel, old iron, and the sea.
“Easy, boy. You’re leaking like a stuck pig on my favourite upholstery.”
The voice is like a serrated blade dragged over velvet. I blink, my vision finally tunnelling into focus. I’m lyingon a medical cot inside a moving vehicle—a massive, armoured transport.
Standing over me is a nightmare I haven’t seen in three years. James Hook. He’s leaning against the ribbed steel wall of the van, his midnight coat open, the wicked, polished chrome of his hook catching the dim red tactical lights.
Behind him, leaning against the back doors with her arms crossed over a tactical vest, is Tahlia.
Even through the haze of blood loss, she’s unmistakable. Her blonde hair is pulled back into a messy, high knot, a few stray strands glowing like gold thread in the red light. She’s staring at me with that signature look of pure annoyance, her jaw working a piece of gum with aggressive apathy.
“He’s awake,” she snaps, her voice a sharp, biting chime. “Great. Can we drop him at a vet now? He’s getting blood on the floorboards and I’m the one who has to hose this thing out.”
“Patience, Tink,” Hook murmurs, not even looking back at her. “Our guest of honour has had a very long night. He’s forgotten his manners.”
Tahlia rolls her eyes so hard I’m surprised she doesn’t see her own brain. “His manners? Hook, he’s a Hale. They’re born without them. And if you call me Tink one more time, I’m going to use your hook to stir my coffee.”
Hook’s head snaps around, his blue eyes flashing with a sudden, lethal coldness. “Careful, Tahlia. Don’t think for a second that because we’re in transit, I won’t bend you over this crate and remind you exactly who owns the air you breathe. Behave. Or I’ll have the boys toss you out the back at sixty miles an hour.”
Tahlia doesn’t flinch, but she blows a small, mocking pink bubble with her gum before popping it. She doesn’t say another word, but the “fuck you” is written in the sharp line of her shoulders.
I groan, my head lolling to the side as I look at Hook. My brain is a fog of pain and morphine, but the reality of his presence hits me like a freight train.
“Fuck,” I rasp, the word ending in a choked cough. “If you’re here… if I’m in your cage… it must be bad.”
“Bad?” Hook lets out a dry, hollow laugh, stepping closer until his hook is inches from my throat. “Peter, your house is a bonfire. Your Council is a pile of ash. And the North End just pulled off the heist of the century.”
I freeze. The pain in my chest vanishes, replaced by a cold, hollow vacuum. I scramble to sit up, my hand flying to the empty space beside me on the cot.
“Where is she?” I snarl, my voice a viral, guttural mess. I grab Hook’s lapel with a bloody hand, ignoring the way Tahlia shifts her grip on her submachine gun. “Hook! Where is Wendy?”
Hook’s expression shifts. The mockery fades, replaced by a grim, clinical stillness. He reaches down, his gloved hand removing mine from his coat with a firm, crushing strength.
