The scientist in me wants to catalog everything—measure the algae's luminescent output, test the water's salinity, map the cave's dimensions. But my body knows I'm standing in something's den, breathing its air, surrounded by its scent, and every nerve ending screams awareness of how exposed I am.
"Mercer." The voice comes from everywhere and nowhere, low and rough. It's not a greeting—it's a claim. "Mainlander. You're here to solve our little problem."
Stripping away my title sends a chill down my spine. I move deeper, my hand trailing along the cold stone wall. "I came to investigate the algae blooms. The drowning victims?—"
"I know why you're here." He's closer now, much closer than his voice was a second ago. "The question is whether you're smart enough to leave."
My eyes adjust enough now. There's a pool of seawater at the center, darker shapes that might be storage, and there—shadows moving near the back wall. He's not standing still. He's circling.
"Chief MacLeod said you know the deep waters." I keep my voice steady and professional. "I need information about?—"
"Need." He's beside me suddenly. I didn't hear him move. I didn't see him cross the space. There's just heat at my shoulder, the scent of salt and wildness. "You don't get to need things here, Dr. Mercer. This is my territory. My waters. You ask. I decide."
The possessive edge in his voice sends a chill down my spine. I turn to face him and immediately regret it.
His eyes are like the ones I saw in the window, not just reflecting light but generating it. Luminous and fixed on me with an intensity that makes my breath stick.
"What do you want to know?" Each word comes out rough, bitten off. "Be specific."
Scientific training wars with the instinct screaming at me to back away. "The algae. It has a cellular structure that doesn't match known species and bioluminescence I can't explain. It's appearing on drowning victims who died in shallow water, but the species only grows at extreme depth. Someone is harvesting it, cultivating it."
"Smart girl." He moves, and I track him by the movement of the shadows. He's circling me now, deciding which angle to strike from. "What makes you think I know anything about harvesting deep-water algae?"
"Chief MacLeod says you know these waters better than anyone. You live in a cave on the coast. And you were watching me through my lab window earlier." I turn as he circles, refusing to give him my back. "Those eyes are hard to miss."
Hunger flashes across his face. There's dark amusement there too. "You noticed."
"Difficult to forget."
He stops moving. He plants himself directly in front of me, and I have to tilt my head back to meet his gaze. The size of him registers properly now—broad shoulders, muscular frame, taking up space in a way that makes the cave feel smaller. Heat radiates from him despite the cold, and underneath the salt smell is musk and smoke.
"The algae grows in the eastern trenches." His voice drops lower, intimate and threatening all at once. "Thermal vents. Deep floor. At depths that would crush you in seconds." He reaches past me, arm brushing my shoulder with deliberate pressure, and pulls a water-stained map from a shelf carved into the rock. "These coordinates show high concentrations. Someone's harvesting directly from the source."
He spreads the map on a flat rock surface, but he doesn't move away. He stays close, crowds my space.
I bend over the map because looking at coordinates is safer than looking at him. I see geographic specifics, depth markers. Exactly what I need.
"How do you know these locations?" My voice doesn't sound as steady as I want.
"I dive them."
"Without equipment." It's not a question. The pieces click together—the impossible knowledge, the predator grace, the eyes that glow in darkness. "You're telling me you free-dive to depths that would kill anyone else."
"I'm telling you these waters are mine. I know when things change. When algae that belongs at depth starts showing up on corpses." He leans in, and suddenly I'm trapped between him and the rock wall. "I know when outsiders come poking around asking questions they're not ready for answers to."
It's overwhelming—the smell, the way he's looking at me like prey he wants to tear apart just to see what's inside.
"People are dying." I force the words out. "If you know?—"
"I know plenty." His mouth curves, sharp and dangerous. "I know you've been collecting samples. I know you taste the air when you're thinking, like you're trying to analyze everything by scent. I know you don't scare easy, but you should. Because these waters are hunting, and they don't care about your doctorate."
The casual invasion of that knowledge—that he's been watching me that closely—sends alarm and something else through my system in equal measure.
"The data doesn't support?—"
"Your data is shit." He cuts me off, voice rough as broken glass. "Your models don't work here. Your science can't explain half of what you've seen, but you keep pretending it can because the alternative scares the shit out of you."
He's right. I hate that he's right.
