Before she could rise to follow Pan, a slow, twisting hunger coiled in Wendy’s gut. It wasn’t fear, or apprehension this time.

  Her stomach growled. She pressed a hand to it, frowning.

  Pan stretched lazily, arms over head, ear cocked to the side. He grinned. “Oh, you’re still mortal enough to be hungry?”

  Wendy ignored him. The sheets pooled around her waist as she shifted to sit properly, her muscles aching in that too-real way, like she had been run through and stitched back together. Maybe, in some way, she had.

  The air here was thick, warmer than she liked, heavy with scents she was still adjusting to—melted wax, parchment, the faint metallic tang of something not quite blood, not quite iron. Her skin felt strange, too—less the wrongness from before, but something off, something different.

  Then, she noticed.

  Her clothes were gone.

  A sharp chill shot down her spine.

  She hadn’t even noticed until now, too overwhelmed by everything else—by the new weight in her skull, by the warped edges of her vision, by the fact that she had woken up not alone.

  She wasn’t in her usual tank top and hoodie. The well-worn sweatpants she had lived in. Slept in. Swum in. Run for her life in.

  She made a choked noise, somewhere between a gasp and a shriek.

  Instead, a nightgown, thin and loose, brushed against her skin, draping softly over her shoulders. It was old-fashioned, long and flowing, but the material was fine, almost weightless, the hem pooling where it had been bunched by the sheets.

  Pan was watching her, head tilted, eyes gleaming with unreadable amusement.

  “Where are my clothes?” the demand coming out sharper than she meant, yanking the blankets up around her, her fingers gripping the fabric tight.

  Pan shrugged, utterly unconcerned. “Gone.”

  Wendy’s grip tightened on the sheets. “Gone where?”

  “They were ruined.” He kicked off the floor drifting backwards, stretching his arms behind his head like this was the most casual conversation in the world. “Torn to shreds, soaked in mist, caked in blood. Barely even cloth anymore.”

  Wendy grimaced, remembering.

  Pan continued, unfazed. “Not that I mind a little filth, but you seemed like the type to get squeamish about rotting fabric.”

  Her jaw clenched. “You changed me?”

  Heat burned up her neck.

  She wasn’t sure if it was fury or mortification.

  Pan blinked at her, expression unreadable for a heartbeat before his mouth curled into something amused. “Would you rather have woken up in nothing?” His grin widened, sharp and wolfish, flashing too many teeth. “Because I could have left you like that.”

  Her face burned hotter.

  “You absolute bastard—” The words died in a snarl, too full of fury to finish.

  “I didn’t do anything scandalous, if that’s what you’re worried about, Darling.” His voice dripped with mockery. “I have better things to do than gawk at unconscious girls.”

  Wendy grabbed the nearest pillow and threw it at him.

  Pan caught it effortlessly, still grinning.

  “I want my clothes back,” she snapped.

  Pan tsked. “Can’t bring back what no longer exists.” He tossed the pillow aside, striding towards the far door. “But if it bothers you that much, there’s a room down the hall. Pick out something new.”

  Wendy crossed her arms tightly, still gripping the sheets like armor.

  Pan gestured lazily toward the door. “Go on. I promise not to peek.”

  She shot him a glare, swinging her legs over the edge of the bed. Bare feet met cool wooden floors.

  Pan smirked. “Or, you know, you can keep the nightgown. It looks right on you.”

  Muttering under her breath about privacy, she stood, tugging the nightgown down as much as she could. Pan didn’t stop heading out of the other end of the room, though his gaze followed her, still laced with that insufferable amusement.

  Wendy strode to the door, biting back the lingering heat in her face.

  She didn’t look back.

  Then, something flickered at the edge of her vision.

  A thread of silver.

  Thin and luminous, twisting in the air like a floating seam, stretched lazily down the dim hallway.

  She swallowed, hesitating.

  It wanted her to follow.

  Wendy set her jaw and stepped forward.

  The silver thread led her to a door just slightly ajar, waiting.

  Beyond it—

  A room full of dressers and wardrobes, closets standing open, spilling silks, cotton, leather, and lace.

  She exhaled slowly, stepping inside.

  The moment Wendy stepped into the room, she knew something was wrong.

  The space was too vast, stretching in ways that defied logic. The walls curved at unnatural angles, bending inward, as if the entire room was folding over itself. The ceiling arched impossibly high in some places and slanted low in others, as if the room couldn’t decide how much space it was meant to contain. Dressers and wardrobes crammed every available inch, their hulking shapes looming over one another, some rotting and splintered, others polished to a gleam.

  A silver thread twisted lazily in the air ahead of her, looping toward a distant armoire.

  Wendy scowled.

  She wasn’t about to let his eye tell her what to do.

  With a sharp turn, she strode in the opposite direction, toward a dark walnut dresser pressed against the farthest wall. The wood was cold beneath her fingers as she gripped the handle and pulled the top drawer open.

  She immediately regretted it.

  The inside stretched impossibly deep, a cavern of folded fabric shifting like ink in water. Shadows pooled at the bottom, too dark, as if the drawer dropped into something far deeper than its wooden frame should allow.

  She hesitated, then reached inside, fingertips brushing against cool leather.

  The moment she made contact, the thing moved.

  It surged upward, too fast to react, too alive. A strip of dark, supple leather shot from the depths, winding around her wrist with unnatural precision. Before she could yank her arm back, the rest of it followed, coiling up her forearm in a fluid, relentless motion.

  A vambrace, or something like it. Not just armor. Not just leather.

  It settled against her skin, cinching tight from wrist to elbow with a series of swift, decisive tugs. A pulse of pressure ran through it, not painful but final, as if the thing had locked itself into place.

  Wendy gasped, grabbing at the edges, trying to pry it off. The leather did not budge.

  Then she felt it.

  A strange tugging sensation along the underside of her arm.

  She twisted, heart hammering, and saw the lacing along the inner seam. At first, it looked ordinary—thin, dark cords threaded through the vambrace’s metal eyelets, weaving the edges together. But then she realized—

  It wasn’t just lacing through the eyelets.

  It was lacing through her skin.

  The cords had sunk seamlessly into her flesh, threading through like stitches, vanishing beneath the surface only to reemerge further down. There was no blood. No pain. Only a quiet, inevitable sensation, like it had always been there, like it had simply settled.

  Her breathing came fast, sharp.

  She clawed at it, fingers digging at the edges, trying to find a seam, something to loosen, something to undo.

  Nothing.

  The vambrace did not shift. The lacing did not unravel.

  A quiet pressure built in her mind, sinking into her thoughts. It was not words, not exactly. It was knowledge, unfurling inside her like ink blooming in water.

  Blades.

  A thousand knives at her fingertips, weightless, infinite, waiting to be summoned. Shadows spilling from her hands, weapons forming from nothing. The vambrace whispered these things to her—not in sound, but in understanding, in instinct. She knew what it could do. She knew how to call them.

  She swallowed hard, stomach twisting.

  With a sharp breath, she tried again to pull the thing off. It did not so much as shift.

  She clenched her jaw, glaring down at it, frustration curling hot in her chest.

  She was going to have to ask Pan how to take it off.

  The silver thread pulsed in the corner of her vision, curling smugly in the air.

  Scowling, Wendy turned away, brushing the lingering sensation from her wrist. She grabbed at random, yanking open another drawer at waist height—

  The moment Wendy yanked open the drawer, something shot out. A mass of fabric unfurled in a violent snap, lashing around her ankle before she could react. Cold, smooth, clinging.

  She gasped, jerking her foot back, but the skirt coiled higher, wrapping tight around her calf. The weight of it dragged, pulling her off balance. She stumbled, arms flailing as the fabric slithered upward, twisting with an uncanny precision, gripping tighter with every inch.

  Her breath hitched. It was not alive. It had no pulse, no shape beyond what it wanted to be. But it moved with intent. It sought a waist, sought a body. Sought her.

  Panic spiked in her throat. She kicked hard, trying to wrench free, but the fabric resisted, constricting, fighting to stay. The hem snapped up toward her thigh, desperate to settle, to seal itself in place.

  She staggered back, grabbing at it, clawing at the material. It flexed beneath her fingers, clinging like wet silk, refusing to let go.

  She kicked again, harder. This time, the force ripped it loose. The skirt tumbled away in a flutter of cloth, collapsing into a shapeless heap on the floor.

  It did not stay down.

  The fabric twitched, then convulsed, a terrible gathering of folds and pleats, preparing to lunge again. Wendy didn’t give it the chance. She seized the drawer’s edge, jamming the skirt back in, and shoved, slamming it shut so hard the wood groaned.

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  Silence.

  She took a shaking breath, pulse pounding in her ears.

  Then—faint, almost imperceptible—the handle rattled.

  Something inside shifted, pressing against the wood.

  Waiting.

  Wendy stumbled back, keeping her eyes locked on the drawer, breath uneven. The air in the room felt different now. Thicker. A quiet, humming tension, as if the wardrobe was only just waking up.What the hell is this place?

  The silver thread flickered, curling toward an armoire near the back of the room, swaying like a beckoning finger.

  Wendy folded her arms tightly.

  “No,” she muttered, glaring at it. “I am not wearing something you pick.”

  The thread drifted, unbothered.

  She turned away, marching to the nearest wardrobe. The handle was cool beneath her fingers as she yanked it open, revealing rows of coats from a time long past. Great sweeping cloaks, high-collared trench coats, thick woolen overcoats stitched with intricate patterns. The air inside smelled of pipe smoke, salt air, and something more elusive—something old, something waiting. Some of these had never been worn. Others had been worn too much.

  She reached for a dark green jacket.

  The moment her fingers brushed the fabric, the wardrobe shifted.

  Not like furniture settling. Not like wood creaking with age.

  This was movement. A living thing adjusting itself.

  The space around her twisted.

  Dressers groaned as they scraped across the floor, rearranging with a silent, fluid grace. The walls stretched, expanding and contorting, dragging the ceiling higher, warping the room’s dimensions. The armoire she had just touched was suddenly on the opposite side of the room, though she had never seen it move.

  A deep unease curled in her stomach.

  The fabric around her shivered.

  Then it lunged.

  The coats in the wardrobe unfurled, spilling forward, their empty sleeves reaching. Before she could react, the entire dresser beside her shuddered violently. Its drawers burst open, vomiting out shirts, vests, breeches, skirts, all tumbling toward her in a great wave of fabric.

  Wendy stumbled back, but the clothes followed.

  A cloak wrapped around her shoulders, cinching tight, dragging her downward. A thick coat slammed against her chest, pressing against her as if measuring her frame. Skirts curled around her legs, tightening like grasping hands. Gloves crawled over her fingers, too many at once, fighting for space.

  She gasped, struggling against the suffocating weight.

  More garments spilled from every direction. Gowns slithered up her arms like creeping ivy, their silks whispering as they twisted and knotted themselves. Heavy woolen trousers coiled around her ankles, yanking her off balance. A leather vest clenched against her ribs, straps tightening, fastening before she could shove it off.

  She clawed at the layers piling onto her, twisting and shoving, but for every piece she tore away, more took its place.

  The room was drowning her.

  Not in water, but in cloth, in weight, in the desperate, clawing need of a thousand unworn things.

  A dress locked around her torso, its corset laces pulling taut on their own. Another cloak draped over her head, its hood swallowing her vision. The sheer number of them pressed against her from all sides, crushing, suffocating, burying.

  She fought harder, arms thrashing, trying to break free.

  The air grew thick with the scent of mothballs and old fabric, of dust and perfume, of something deeper and nameless.

  A low, whispering rustle filled her ears.

  The room was breathing.

  It did not want her dead.

  It wanted her dressed.

  A new terror coiled in her chest as the realization struck. These were not clothes waiting to be worn. These were things that needed to be worn. Things that had spent too long abandoned, too long empty.

  And they had found her.

  Her pulse pounded as she struggled against the weight, her movements growing sluggish, her breath coming in short, shallow bursts. The layers pressed tighter, the corset pulling against her ribs, the cloaks draping heavier, the coats settling around her like armor, like a second skin.

  The silver thread pulsed at the edge of her vision.

  She barely saw it through the tangled mass of fabric, but it was there, curling toward the back of the room, leading toward the armoire.

  The shriek of metal cut through the air like a blade against bone.

  Tinker exploded into the room, a streak of silver and black, her wings a blur of razors screaming as they tore through space. The sound alone was enough to drive everything back. The shifting fabric recoiled, not stilled but retreating, as if the very presence of her blades had burned them.

  Wendy flinched, sucking in a breath as the air itself seemed to shift.

  The dresses, the cloaks, the coats—everything that had been tightening, pressing, suffocating—withered away from her, curling back like shadows recoiling from light. The wardrobe doors that had breathed only moments before slammed shut, their movement sudden and final, as if pretending they had never stirred at all.

  Tinker hovered in front of Wendy, wings snapping once, her liquid-black eyes narrowing. She let out a rapid burst of sharp, staccato clicks, each one punctuated with irritation.

  Wendy didn’t need to speak Tinker’s language to understand.

  You’re an idiot.

  But the fae wasn’t done.

  She turned sharply, zipping higher into the room, her blade-wings vibrating with a sound that sent a ripple through the stillness.

  The clothes twitched.

  They had pulled back, but they had not let go.

  Tinker let out another shriek of steel.

  And then she moved.

  She tore through the air like a thrown dagger, her wings a flurry of gleaming knives. She didn’t simply scare the clothes back—she cut them down.

  The first swipe of her wings sent a cloak unraveling into shreds. A second strike sliced through a velvet gown, the fabric curling inward as if trying to escape before it collapsed in ribbons. She twisted midair, diving through the racks and dressers, slashing coats apart, carving through skirts before they could slither away.

  The sound was unbearable.

  The ripping, the tearing—Wendy swore she could hear it.

  It was not the soft sound of fabric being torn. It was something worse. Something raw, something that curled under her skin and made her teeth clench. It was a hundred little screams, thin and keening, a desperate, dying wail as each garment was shredded beyond recognition.

  They knew.

  Whatever had animated them, whatever had filled them with that awful hunger, knew they were being destroyed.

  A knot of revulsion coiled in Wendy’s gut, but she could not look away.

  Tinker tore through the last of them, wings flashing in the dim light, until nothing was left but limp, ruined fabric littering the floor.

  Then she stopped, hovering above the destruction, her wings slowing to a faint metallic hum.

  Her black eyes flicked toward Wendy.

  Another sharp tsk, as if this had all been a waste of her time.

  She crossed her arms, clicking something fast and irritated under her breath, then shot Wendy one last withering look before whipping around and slicing through the room with sharp, precise movements. She barely paused as she yanked open a dresser drawer, grabbed something, and flung it at Wendy’s face.

  Fabric hit her like a slap.

  Wendy swore, stumbling, tearing the clothes off her head.

  It was a pair of sturdy canvas trousers, reinforced at the knees, the kind built for rough wear.

  Tinker was already at another dresser.

  Another shirt smacked Wendy in the face.

  Then a leather corset—thick, reinforced, meant for actual protection rather than style.

  Then a jerkin, its thick shoulder pauldrons made of layered, worn leather.

  Wendy could barely keep up, her arms now full of clothing, her hair slightly disheveled from the sheer force of Tinker’s rapid-fire delivery.

  The little fae finally paused, tilting her head, considering.

  She seemed satisfied.

  Wendy wasn’t sure if she should be grateful or deeply concerned that she was basically being given armor.

  Tinker chittered one last time, wings rasping against each other in a sharp, final note, before shooting up toward the rafters and vanishing into the shadows. She lingered, just long enough to make her point.

  Tinker had not wanted to come. She had waited until the last possible moment, let Wendy choke on silk and wool, let the wardrobe tighten its grip. Until there had been no other choice.

  It wasn’t concern that drove Tinker.

  It was resentment.

  And worse, Pan had sent her.

  A slow burn of frustration curled through Wendy’s chest, settling somewhere between gratitude and fury.

  Wendy exhaled, steadying herself.

  She glanced down at the bundle of clothes in her arms.

  Then at the rest of the room.

  Everything was still. Silent.

  For now.

  The room watched her.

  It didn’t breathe, it didn’t move, but Wendy felt it. A pressure in the air, a weight that had not been there before, something lurking just beyond perception. Her skin prickled as she adjusted her grip on the bundle of clothes.

  The door was still open behind her. A few steps, and she could leave this place behind.

  She turned sharply on her heel and walked out without looking back.

  The hallway felt normal in comparison. The walls, though grand and impossibly stretched in places, did not bend inward, did not shift when she wasn’t looking. The only thing that moved was the silver thread, still lingering, still curling faintly at the edge of her vision.

  Wendy ignored it.

  She took a deep breath, rolling her shoulders, grounding herself in the simple fact that she was out of that room. The bundle of clothes was heavier than it should have been, the leather pressing against her forearms, the thick material promising weight and durability.

  Not comfort.

  Not softness.

  Not the kind of thing someone gave a girl who wasn’t expected to fight.

  Her lips pressed into a thin line.

  Her grip tightened on the fabric. She wasn’t going to play into whatever game Pan was setting up. She just needed to get dressed and get through this.

  The hallway stretched long before her, doors lining the walls, all carved from dark wood, none of them marked. But she felt which one was meant for her.

  Second on the left.

  A memory not her own flickered through her mind—the briefest flash of a hand pushing that very door open, of stepping inside, of brushing fingertips along the carved frame. Not her hand. Not her memory.

  His.

  Her jaw clenched.

  Ignoring the way her pulse ticked faster, she reached out and shoved the door open.

  The room inside was dimly lit, soft lantern glow casting golden shadows across a space that was both grand and cluttered. A large four-poster bed loomed against the far wall, tangled sheets spilling onto the wooden floor. The scent of old parchment and something faintly sweet lingered in the air.

  Wendy didn’t hesitate. She kicked the door shut behind her and threw the bundle of clothes onto a nearby chair. The nightgown she wore was loose and comfortable, but now that she was thinking about it, it felt wrong. The soft fabric skimmed over her skin in a way that wasn’t hers.

  It was not what she had fallen into Neverworld wearing.

  Someone had changed her.

  And Pan was the only one here.

  Her fists clenched at her sides, heat curling under her skin again.

  He is so dead.

  She whirled, yanked open the door again, and stormed back into the hallway.

  The way back to the main chamber felt shorter this time. She found him exactly where she expected—sprawled in a chair, a plate of food balanced lazily in one hand, a bite halfway to his mouth.

  He smirked as soon as he saw her.

  "Ah," he said, swallowing the bite. "Tinker helped you, I see. Good. You would’ve been in there all day if I left you to it."

  Wendy didn’t slow.

  She marched straight up to him, grabbed the edge of the table, and slammed her palm down beside his plate.

  "You changed my clothes."

  Pan blinked up at her, unbothered.

  "This again? Yes."

  "Are you serious?" Her voice was sharp, teeth bared. "You don’t just—you don’t do that!"

  He tilted his head, eyes gleaming with something between amusement and vague curiosity.

  "You were unconscious, Darling." He said it so simply, like that excused everything. "Your clothes were ruined. What was I supposed to do, let you sleep in them?"

  "Yes!" she snapped. "Or you could have just—I don’t know—left something next to me and let me change when I woke up like a normal person!"

  Pan rolled his eyes, leaning back in his chair. "Wendy, do I seem normal to you?"

  "That’s not the point!" She dragged her fingers through her hair, breathing hard. "God, I hate you."

  Pan’s grin only widened. "You’re welcome, by the way."

  "For what?"

  He gestured vaguely. "For not leaving you in a pile of shredded, mist-soaked fabric."

  Wendy wanted to throw something at him.

  Pan, apparently sensing this, plucked a piece of bread from his plate and tossed it into his mouth, chewing leisurely.

  She exhaled hard through her nose. "I want my clothes back."

  Pan shrugged. "Can’t."

  "Why not?"

  "Burned them," he said easily. "They were beyond saving."

  Wendy twitched.

  "You burned them?" she echoed, barely restraining the urge to grab him by the collar and shake him.

  He flicked his fingers in a casual gesture. "Consider it a favor. They were disgusting."

  Wendy let out a frustrated growl, dragging her hands down her face. She knew Pan was playing with her.

  He always was.

  He pushed and prodded, twisted her reactions into something entertaining, something he could sink his teeth into. And worse—she kept letting him. Every barb he threw, every smirk, every calculated flick of his fingers, she fell for it.

  She needed to stop.

  She needed to focus on what mattered.

  Like eating before she actually murdered him.

  Wendy inhaled sharply, unclenching her fists. Her shoulders ached with the effort of holding back the urge to launch something—anything—at his infuriating face.

  "Fine," she muttered, voice clipped. "Whatever."

  She spun on her heel, forcing herself to walk instead of storm back to the bedroom. The wood beneath her bare feet was cool, grounding. Breathe.

  Behind her, Pan chuckled, the sound warm with satisfaction.

  "Enjoy your armor, Darling," he called.

  She didn’t see his smirk falter, the momentary flicker of something unreadable behind his eyes. Didn’t see the way his gaze locked onto her hand, where a shadow had almost taken form, a blade that wasn’t quite there, curling like smoke before vanishing.

  But for that brief second, Pan wasn’t smiling.

  Wendy did not slam the door.

  But only because she knew he wanted her to.

  Instead, she shut it with a slow, deliberate click, exhaling sharply as she pressed her forehead against the wood.

  Pan was insufferable. A storm wrapped in a smirk. And worse—he was winning.

  She sucked in another breath, rolling her shoulders, willing herself to let it go. There are more important things.

  Like food.

  And the fact that her stomach was twisting itself into knots—not just from frustration, but from hunger that gnawed at the edges of her patience. She wasn’t going to eat in a borrowed nightgown.

  Pushing away from the door, she turned, her gaze settling on the chair where she had left the bundle of clothes.

  Her fingers brushed over the top layer, feeling the worn leather, the sturdy fabric, the weight of buckles and laces.

  Armor.

  That was what it was.

  Not in the way of knights and shining steel, but in the way of people who expected trouble. People who had learned, the hard way, that softness got you hurt. That light fabrics and easy seams didn’t last in places like this.

  A slow exhale through her nose.

  She reached for the blouse first, fingers brushing over the off-white fabric. Not delicate. Not soft. Built to last. The trousers were thick, reinforced, the corset more armor than adornment. A fitted vest of dark brown leather, boned but flexible, lacing up the sides instead of the front. Even the jerkin, the heaviest piece, leather layered over the shoulders like quiet protection. Not an outfit. A warning.

  She hesitated.

  Tinker had chosen these things for her.

  Her fingers tightened on the fabric. Her pulse beat harder in her throat.

  Fear wouldn’t help her.

  She had spent too long drowning in it already.

  Her jaw set.

  She yanked off the nightgown, dragging the blouse over her head and tightening the laces down the front.

  The trousers fit well enough, though they sat a little loose at the waist. She pulled the corset-vest tighter, the pressure surprising, grounding. The weight settled around her ribs, a reminder of her own body, her own solidity.

  When she threw on the jerkin, she felt the shift immediately.

  She stepped toward the mirror, pulse unsteady.

  The girl who stared back wasn’t wrong. But she wasn’t right, either.

  The nightgown had been soft. Familiar. A reminder of something distant and normal. She should have wanted that.

  But she didn’t.

  She wasn’t a girl in a nightgown anymore. And for the first time, she didn’t want to be.The lantern light caught her eyes. One blue, the other green, unnatural, the color bleeding like ink into water.

  She didn’t look like a girl from London anymore.

  She looked like someone who belonged here.

  A sharp knock at the door.

  Wendy stiffened.

  "Are you dressed, or should I come in and be scandalized?"

  Pan.

  Of course it was Pan.

  Wendy rolled her eyes. "If you value your existence, you will stay outside that door."

  A chuckle. "Noted. Breakfast is getting cold, Darling."

  She sighed.

  Whatever came next, she would face it on a full stomach.

  She turned toward the door.