Page 16 of Stolen Magic of the Deep

Something rocks beneath me, like the undulation of a boat. Maybe it is a boat. I’m not sure. Everything feels hazy. But then a voice, long and sweet, like a lullaby echoing across time, reaches me. She isn’t calling to me. She’s calling for me. Pleading. A cry for help.

Then—chaos.

Explosions and screams. Flashes of light happen all at once, and I can’t piece any of it together. The rocking turns violent, my balance disappearing. I try to reach for something, anything, but I can’t move. Can’t . . . see.

A heartbeat later, the swaying and rocking collapse into nothing, leaving only pitch-black stillness. The lullaby from the chaos fades, and another voice takes its place, whispering across my mind, familiar in a way that makes my skin prickle.

“I know you do not trust him,” the voice says gently. “But do everything he asks. He’s my son and we need you.”

I gasp for air. What the hell was that?

The dream refuses to be processed. Whatever it was—whoever that voice belonged to—it’s too much. The thought is shoved down.

Time to move. I kick start my day as always, starting with my skincare routine, but I stall halfway through it. It’s still dark outside. A glance at my work phone reads 5:23 a.m.

My memory evades me for a moment, and I forget why sleep was so difficult. I’m not going to work today. Instead, I’m being pulled to go somewhere I’m pretty sure I should avoid.

Once dressed in a bikini, I throw a loose t-shirt and shorts over it, then scan the room for my tennis shoes. Searching my entire room, and still remaining barefoot, is when my memory returns. I placed them in the foyer after I got home yesterday.

My socks slide across the floor toward the entryway table, and I run my fingers across the surface—a long, skinny white table with gold trim. My shoes lie to the side on the floor. I snatch them up and walk to the couch to put them on, noticing the chair he put by the elevator was back at the island bar, and the blanket has been neatly folded with the pillow placed on top.

I’m so used to the quiescence that has acquainted itself with my home, I almost forget he should be on the couch.

I survey the room. No sign of him.

I check the guest bathroom, assuming his kind uses a toilet. Do they? Add that to my ever-growing list of bizarre questions I never thought I’d ask.

Still no sign of him.

I move into the kitchen, eyes narrowed, scanning every corner deliberately before landing on the sliding glass door that leads to the balcony. My penthouse is the only home in the building that has one. A perfect view after hours spent diving in the depths of the ocean . . . for some people.

Too bad the ocean is the easy part of the job. The real work happens on land, buried in paperwork meant to keep wealthy sponsors satisfied.

I circle the kitchen island and slide the glass door open, the quiet shhh of it filtering through the dining room.

The chill from the breeze hits me first, brushing against my cheeks, as I continue to search for him.

He leans over the glass railing around the corner, staring out at the rising sun that hides behind some incoming storm clouds. The soft breeze plays with the longer strands of his hair, lifting them just slightly. He appears focused, like he’s deep in his own thoughts.

In another life, he’d look like any other man enjoying a quiet storm-ridden sunrise. The broad shoulders. The calm posture. The kind of face people instinctively trusted.

I could walk back inside. Lock the door. Call Leo. Call the police, again. Tell myself this bizarre encounter is over. So why am I standing here instead?

He doesn’t turn to look at me. “You didn’t sleep well,” he says, his eyes fixed on the sky. His voice is calm. Simple. Like a quiet observation, not a question.

I freeze for a second. How would he know that?

I locked my door. My dream wasn’t loud. I didn’t make a sound. Did I? A chill snakes up my spine, coiling at the base of my neck. He heard me. Somehow, he heard me.

I want to ask him how. I want to demand answers. But the words tangle in my throat, creating a tight knot of caution. So instead, I lean into the only thing that still feels like armor—silence.

He doesn’t move, but I see his fingers tighten slightly on the balcony railing. “I did not hear anything, if that is what you are worried about,” he says, his voice even. “I could feel it.” After a beat, he adds cryptically, “The magic speaks to me.”

I freeze just outside the doorway, arms crossed tight over my chest. Of course, he felt it. Of course, the mystical ocean guy has a magical radar.

Leaning against the frame of the doorway, I respond the only way I know how.

“Great. So you have an internal magical radar?” I say, crossing my arms tighter. “Of course you do.”