I give a slight nod. “I’m fine,” I tell him, finally forcing myself to meet his eyes.
Safe on the ground and with the morning sun finally lighting the world, I take my first real look at him. He certainly doesn’t seem like any Peter Pan I’ve ever seen. He’s no child, for one. He’s taller than the Captain, but he looks about the same age—Pan, too, is maybe a couple of years older than I am. Though the barest hint of light stubble lines his jaw, his face is missing the worn, exhausted quality I now realize was the Captain’s defining feature.
His white-blond hair stands on end in an artful disarray that gives the impression he’s constantly in flight, like the wind itself can’t keep its greedy fingers out of those unruly locks. Just as I’d suspected back on the ship, he’s beautiful. But I see now that he has a hint of darkness to him, a suggestion of danger that doesn’t so much warn you away as make you want to lean closer, to learn his secrets.
He’s wearing the same tight, jaggedly stitched pants as Fiona and a high-necked vest that exposes the well-defined muscles in his bare arms and chest. The pale skin over his collarbone and around each bicep and wrist is adorned with bloodred tattoos that remind me of something.
It takes a second for the memory to bubble up, murky and indistinct as all the others, and then I realize where I’ve seen markings like Pan’s tattoos before—they’re similar to the rune stones my mom has always made and collected.
That recognition helps me remember her a little more clearly—every time we moved, she would take her collection of small, smooth pebbles and line our new windowsills with them. In every new place we went, she found another stone and painstakingly carved a crooked symbol into its surface. She’d wrap each stone carefully and keep them with her until she could set them out on the next window. My mom always said the runes she used were old Celtic symbols for protection—
I reach out without thinking, and touch one of the red markings that adorns the skin below Pan’s collarbone. The red lines aren’t smooth like a tattoo should be. They’re raised, ever so slightly. They’re not just tattoos, I realize. They’re scars. Someone carved these symbols into his skin.
The warmth of his skin beneath my fingertips brings me back to myself and, embarrassed, I pull my hand away like I’ve been burned. My cheeks are hot with the awareness of how strangely forward it was to touch him like that, but even in my embarrassment, something makes me want to reach out again, something pulls me toward him.
I clench my hands into fists at my sides instead. “What are they?” I ask.
“They were a gift from my mother,” he replies with a small smile.
“Your mother did that to you?” I say, horrified.
“She did it for me, Gwendolyn,” he says.
His face is still serene, pleasant even, as he takes my hand and brings it up to his chest again, covering mine with his own. Beneath my fingertips and the raised edges of the carved lines, his heartbeat is slow and steady. His eyes, with their glacial-blue irises ringed by midnight, never leave mine.
“In this world, power requires sacrifice, Gwendolyn. The Queen sacrificed some of her power to bestow these gifts onto me. I accepted the pain, and in return, I received the power they give me. Some allow me to break free from the earth—flight, as you’ve seen. Others give me the power to speak to the island and compel it to obey,” he says, pointing to a different marking.
Then he takes my hand in his, pulling it away from the marks on his chest, and raises it to his lips. Still holding my gaze, he kisses the underside of my wrist softly before releasing it.
I rub absently at the bit of skin that burns where his lips brushed over it. When he smiles again, my skin practically buzzes with heat where his lips touched me. But there’s a memory tugging at me, even through the pleasant haze of his attention. There’s something I’m supposed to be doing. . . .
Olivia, a small voice whispers, reminding me.
I can’t seem to look away. “Where’s Olivia?” I murmur, the words thick and unwelcome in my mouth.
I think I see impatience crash through his expression, but it’s gone so quickly, I wonder if I imagined it. “She’s most likely still sleeping. I thought I would show you my favorite part of the island rather than disturb her so early.”
What I want is to see Olivia, but he looks so hopeful—almost shy and boyish—I can’t seem to make myself disappoint him. “It’s beautiful,” I tell him honestly.
“Come.” He gestures that I should sit at the water’s edge before he lowers himself to the ground, his long, leather-clad legs outstretched comfortably.
The clearing is empty and silent except for the soft rush of water from the falls. No one knows where I am. I don’t even know where I am. Tentatively, I sit, keeping distance between me and the beautiful boy who’s brought me to this place.