As Finn continues to study me, I wait for him to admit that he was wrong.
“Where’s Owen?”
“Where’s Owen?”I repeat the odd question once and then twice in my head before I comprehend the arrangement of the words. When the meaning clarifies, I jerk my head around and realize that in the short moments of speaking to Finn, Owen and his date wandered off.
And I didn’t realize it because I wasn’t paying attention.
Damn it.
I turn back to Finn to find him still intently watching me, absentmindedly tracing his thumb over a thin scar on his forearm. There was a time when we were teenagers, I considered if Finn’s staring might have been caused by romantic interest.
What a disaster that would have been.
If attempting to establish a relationship with Owen—a man of my own kind—is a jog up a steep hill, then dating Finn would be akin to scaling a mountain.
The man is human after all.
That fact alone would cause my parents to expire on the spot. Another selkie or nothing. No doubt they’d rather I live a life of spinsterhood, wrapped in bubble wrap and stored in a bulletproof box in their attic.
A romantic relationship with Finn is impossible.
Why am I even pondering the impossibility? Owen is my mate.
Or he will be soon enough.
“You don’t need to stare at me so hard,” I inform him. “You’ll give yourself a headache.”
Finn blinks, his head giving a slight jerk, as if he didn’t realize what he was doing.
Maybe he didn’t. Sometimes, when I’m pondering a particularly challenging problem at work, I will retreat fully into my brain, only to come back to myself and realize I’ve been gazing at a wall. Or a lamp. Or a trash can.
I hope my colleagues don’t assume I am fascinated by trash receptacles.
Am I a trash can to Finn?
The thought encourages me to retreat into myself even more than Owen’s quick abandonment did. Which is unacceptable because I am required to care much more about Owen’s opinion than any others.
Starting today.
Long ago, the gods made it clear that Owen MacNamara was my fated mate. Not Finn Hammond.
The human is not mine and never will be.
2
FINN
She’s back.
Thank God. Or thank the gods, as her kind like to say.
The sight of Isla Brown still has me entranced even though I’ve had all my life to get over my infatuation. I’ve known since I was sixteen that nothing can ever happen between Isla and me.
Not after one shitshow of a night.
“I can’t be expected to pay attention when someone is actively distracting me.” Isla turns warm brown eyes on me after realizing Owen disappeared.
People might scoff, hearing me describe anything about Isla as warm. With her blunt way of speaking, most everyone considers her to be robotic. Cold.
