Zephyra’s gaze widens as her legs appear. Though she tensed when the process started, as if waiting for me to fillet her instead, she relaxes now, albeit slowly. Wiggling her toes, then her ankles, she says in a shocked voice, “That didn’t hurt.”
I avert my gaze. “Were you expecting it to?”
“I was expecting you to torture me, yes.”
Too irritated to answer, I finish drying the salt from the puddles on the island, turning it from ocean water to fresh water in seconds flat. My stomach churns from the exertion, and a slight taste of ash coats my tongue. I ignore it. There’s no time to rest, no time to contemplate this abhorrent partnership for another second.I need that fucking heart.
“I won’t need to torture you if you don’t betray me.” Unable to think of anything else to do—and grinding my teeth as I do it—I offer a hand to help her off the ground. She stares at it as if it’s diseased. Repressing a snarl, I say, “Get up. We’ve wasted enough time here.”
“And if I don’t want to?”
“I don’t care what you want.”
Her eyes narrow as if in challenge, and I pray to Mortem for fucking patience. Just as I move to rescind my hand, she snatches it back, and the cord—it twirls around my arm first before shooting from my fingers to hers. She gasps as it strings itself around her body. Flames engulf my own from the barest touch of her fingers, stoking my pulse faster, harder. Without permission, my body bows toward her like a mast caught in a hurricane, as if I have nocontrolover this desire, and—and this isn’t right. This isn’t natural. Even as the thought forms, however, it feels very far away. Very unimportant. The bond pulses as blood roars in my ears, as I bend to my knees to sink in front of her, to touchmoreof her—
No.
I yank my hand away at the last moment, and the sight of her wide eyes, her flushed cheeks, is like a bucket of ice water overhead. Scrambling away from me, she darts to her feet on her own, brushing her hands on her ruined tunic. Then—finally—she nods once, twice. Three times. More to herself than to me. Her cheeks are still pink. “Fine. This is fine, and I’ll play nice.For now.” She grins then, collecting herself with alarming speed, and it’s like staring into the gaping maw of a great white. “Until I break this fucking bond, that is. Then you’re on your own.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
ZEPHYRA
What the shit are you doing?” I ask, though I know damn well what the warlock is doing.
He’s taking off hisclothes.
“Relax, mermaid.” Arion slides deft fingers under the hem of his tunic and peels the cotton from his body slowly, the fabric sliding over six defined abdominal muscles, two perfect pectorals, and brutally broad shoulders before he pulls it over his head and enchants it past his wings. I’m not even sure he realizes just how devastating the action is. My stomach clenches, and a rare fire pools low in my stomach. I can’t breathe. I can’t watch.
Pivoting on my heel, I hasten to turn before I catch another glimpse of his light brown skin. The ebony tattoos on his chest. The powerful tension straining his muscles.Goddess help me.The silvered cord wraps around my ankle, sparkling with abominable clarity, and I loathe the sight of it all. He may be gorgeous, but he’s still a fucking monster. “Do you often disrobe for fun or is this something more insidious I should know about?”
A soft sphere hits me square in the back, and I glance down to see his tunic crumpled at my feet. My throat bobs with unease.
“I thoughtyoumight consider covering up,” he says in ajudgmental, albeit still flat, tone. “But if you’d prefer to remain half naked, I’ll take it back.”
I turn back around, folding my arms across my chest. Sure, my own clothing has been reduced to shreds of scratchy linen thanks to my imprisonment and both of my transformations, and my hair is the only thing separating the warlock’s gaze from my breasts—ifhe ever dared to look below my chin—but I don’t want to give him the satisfaction of being right. Of feeling chivalrous. And besides, one of the hazards of being a merrow is losing one’s pants, or skirts, or dresses.Constantly.Anytime my tail appears, the clothing around it is usually shredded to a useless pile of ribbons. “Is my nudity making you uncomfortable, warlock?”
He arches a cold brow, gaze unwavering from my face. “You nearly fainted when you saw me shirtless.”
“I did not.”
He just stares at me silently, a knowing gleam in his frigid silver-gold eyes. “It’s okay to admit you find me attractive, mermaid. Most do.”
At that, I have no choice but to scoff. This partnership will never last. He isinfuriating. Small-minded, arrogant, and seriously disturbed. “You’re about as beautiful as you are humble.” I snatch the shirt off the ground and exchange it with my ruined one, ignoring that it—he—smells like honey and lemon and salt. The black tunic falls to my upper thighs, much softer than anything I’ve been able to afford in the last six months. It reminds me of different times.
Worse times.
After sliding the remainders of my own ruined clothing to the ground, I square my shoulders. “Happy now?”
“No.” He spins around, steps over the rubble of a broken palace, and marches toward the far end of the island. Leaving me to chase after him on shaky legs. Now that salt water has touched me again, magic swirls in my stomach, a maelstrom of aecorian power previously dormant for half a year that begs me to throw the warlock into the sea. To pummel him with manipulated waves and controlled currents until he understands who is really in charge here.
But I can’t.
The second I use my aecorian magic, the sorcerer will find me. He’ll come.
Already, we’re sitting ducks. It won’t be long before he sends an army to the island. Merrow warriors and sea monsters. All manners of deadly things to wrench me back to my prison.
Arion and I don’t stand a chance against the High Sorcerer of the Four Seas. No one does.
