“Of course you don’t.” Stiffly, she hurries to follow Roan and Harlee down the closest tunnel.
I open my mouth to call out after her but can think of nothing to say that would make things easier between us. So I follow slowly, giving her time to put space between us.
Chapter Eight
Lydia
“Good lord, this is heavy,” Harlee says, straining to pull the net through the black water.
I take more of the slack, enjoying the physical exertion. On the other side of the lake, Roan slows down, keeping level with us. Two Humans versus one Ril’os—Roan would absolutely be winning if he weren’t such a gentleman.
The net is made of a super-fine wire, threaded together in an intricate weave. It wasn’t heavy before we put it into the water, but now that it’s filling with algae, it’s starting to drag. Before today, I would’ve sworn algae didn’t weigh much; but when you’re trying to scoop up several tons of the stuff, it’s like trying to tow a car with nothing but a length of wire rope. It’s been a hot second since I’ve been to the gym, and my muscles burn.
Sweat glistens on Harlee’s forehead, and damp strands of hair have glued themselves to the sides of her face. I probably don’t look any better. The air is thick with humidity. The cave walls run with moisture, and occasionally a stalactite will releasea drop of water on my head or, worse, down the back of my T-shirt.
We reach the far end of the lake, and Roan hooks his end of the net onto a large crank wheel. The net bulges with algae, although it’s hard to see with most of it being underwater.
The cave is about the size of a football pitch. The lake covers the entire cave floor, and there’s a metal walkway around the outskirts. It’s on this walkway that the crank wheel lives.
I copy Roan, straining against the drag to loop our corner of the net onto the wheel. That done, Roan starts winding the handle, and the crank begins the unenviable task of hauling the net and its catch from the water.
Strange that it’s not automatic, considering both Roan and Killan have literal robots in their kitchens that cook them dinner each night. But I guess tech costs money, and this is an easy job—easy for Roan, at least.
He doesn’t appear bothered by the strain. He doesn’t have hair that can get damp with sweat. He doesn’t wear clothes that can become drenched in perspiration. Hell, he doesn’t have skin through which to perspire. Whereas I’m trying to peel my T-shirt away from my sticky stomach and using my other hand to fan my hot face.
It’s a sauna down here. Steam rises off the lake’s surface, shimmering in the sparse overhead lighting—artificial lights, of course, because we’re at least four stories underground.
Thankfully, I’m only afraid of heights, and not claustrophobic.
“Good job, babe.” Harlee beams at Roan. “How do we get the algae from here”—she points at the bulging net—“to there?” And she points to a side tunnel down which is located the drying cave, where the wet algae is going to be processed into something more palatable than stringy sludge.
“Excellent question.” I glance down at my sweat-soaked T-shirt, imagining it covered in algae, which is how it’s going to look if we have to carry it all ourselves.
And shouldn’t we be wearing gloves? It is food-grade algae after all, meant for consumption.
I open my mouth to ask about safety precautions, thinking of all the hours I’ve spent wearing a hairnet to stop stray hair falling into my bread dough, but Killan steps forward. I hadn’t noticed him standing in the shadows, watching us.
He’s pushing what looks like a large wheelbarrow. There are three shovels inside, and Roan takes one. Killan takes another, and I grab the third, which must usually be for Sorin. The handle is a little too thick for me to get a sturdy grip, but I don’t let that stop me from helping. I’m here against Killan’s better judgment, and I’m determined to prove that I can, in fact, be helpful.
Why? Purely for the satisfaction of Killan having to admit he was wrong.
Yes, I’m vindictive. And yes, I’m competitive. Always have been. It’s why I wanted to open my own bakery—because I know I make amazing bread, and I didn’t want to keep sharing my accolades with an employer. When I win another Sydney’s Best Bakery award, I don’t want it to have the name of someone else’s business engraved on the trophy.
You might ask if a trophy is a good enough reason to have broken off my engagement to possibly the only man who’ll ever truly love me. And I’d give you the same answer I gave to my mum: of course. It’s everything the trophy stands for—all the hard work. All the hours and weeks andyearsof practice. All the love and passion and focus I’ve dedicated to my craft.
There’s the old saying:Don’t trust a skinny baker. Well, I don’t think it’s true. The motto I live by isDon’t trust a weak baker. It takes strength to knead dough every day. It takesmuscles to lift industrial-sized racks of bread from hot ovens. It’s not for the fainthearted.
After all,biceps are for show, triceps are for dough.
I brush the back of my hand over my damp brow, pushing pink hair off my forehead, as Killan leans his shovel against the wall. The wheelbarrow is full to overflowing, with lengths of stringy algae spilling over the sides.
The wheelbarrow must have a small motor, because it takes hardly any forward momentum to get it moving. It sways and rocks as it trundles down the stone tunnel to the drying room, Killan keeping it company. It reminds me of a Roomba. Instead of vacuuming the carpet, it’s lugging algae from one cave to another.
Harlee eyes the remaining algae, heaped along one long edge of the lake, tons and tons of the stuff. “It’s going to take a while, isn’t it?”
“Oh, yes.” Roan laughs, his upper hands still holding the handle of his shovel, while one of his lower hands cups Harlee’s ass. It’s a subtle move, and I bet he thinks I haven’t noticed that he’s groping his bride-to-be. They’re standing close together. It’s fairly dark in the cave. And with the water reflecting off everything, it’s like there’s a disco ball hanging from the ceiling, sending shadows dancing over the stalactites. But the flush on Harlee’s face is a dead giveaway.
I’m left staring aimlessly around the cave, trying not to make eye contact with either one of them. There’s a sort of crack in the wall that catches my attention and provides me with an excuse to edge away, giving them space.
