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Luke met his gaze squarely, even as he murmured to Colby, nonsense words about fish and the beautiful ocean. There was violence in his moss-green eyes that had never been there before, as if he had his own message to share with Syrus.

Do whatever you have to do to keep us safe.

Or maybe that was Syrus’s wishful thinking, that Luke would forgive him any monstrosity.

Movement from the dead man had Syrus returning his attention in that direction. He kept his eyes on the man’s face, refusing to look at the weapon threatening Luke’s life.

“Now,” the dead man commanded eagerly. “Let go of the boat and do it now.”

Syrus released the boat and let himself transform. The borrowed clothes ripped from his body as he did so, taken away by the next wave. It was shallower here than he preferred, and he curled his tail under the water to keep himself upright, testing the strength of the motion. He ran his tongue along the inside of his sharpened teeth, and had to fight yet again not to bare them in warning.

“From now on, no touching the boat. If you try to climb in, if you so much as brush against it, I’ll shoot.”

Syrus nodded, holding his webbed hands out of the water in a clear sign that he understood.

The dead man grinned. “Lead the way.”

Syrus didn’t bother arguing that he didn’t know the way. He in fact had some idea of his pod’s likely escape path, if not their destination, based on food sources and their need to get to deeper water. It wouldn’t hurt to go in that general direction. They wouldn’t reach the pod in the time they had.

The dead man would never see another of Syrus’s kind.

Syrus dove down into the water and swam out a ways, then bobbed up. After a moment and some murmured words from the dead man, Luke started the motor, and the boat followed.

Syrus continued on like that. Diving down, swimming out, bobbing up. He didn’t let the fear of what might come take over. He went as slowly as he dared, luring his prey out further into the water. Into the deep.

It could almost have been considered peaceful, and the familiar comfort of the ocean had Syrus’s mind returning where it shouldn’t, to the knowledge that had been eating at him on the short, dreadful drive to the beach.

The knowledge that his beautiful courtship had been twisted into a terrible joke.

Syrus had come into his mate’s life vowing to care for him and his spawn, to be their mighty protector. He’d considered himself the missing piece to Luke and Colby’s happiness, as they were so clearly the missing piece to his own.

But hubris didn’t belong solely to mortals.

Because this danger? This threat that, with a few wrong moves, could steal the lives Syrus had vowed to protect?

Syrus had brought it to them, led it straight to their door. And while he could save them—he would save them—it didn’t change the fact that he’d already failed them. He’d failed them the moment he’d drawn Luke down to the beach.

And nothing Syrus did would change that.

It was a repetitive, monotonous journey—or it would have been, had Syrus’s bloodlust for his enemy not been reverberating through his very bones—but eventually Syrus had them out past sight of shore. Everywhere was blue water and gray sky, the quiet around them broken only by the occasional call of a seafaring bird.

The dead man may have had his weapon, but they were in Syrus’s domain now.

Syrus popped up from the water yet again, and the boat headed toward him. Syrus remained in place and studied the inhabitants with what he hoped was a rational mind. He had keener eyesight in this form, and he could see that the dead man wasn’t holding his gun as steady as before.

He hadn’t thought ahead, that one. Hadn’t considered for how long he’d have to hold his weapon in the air to keep his threat active. This whole scheme was a fit of desperation, poorly planned and poorly executed.

Syrus might have felt triumphant in that truth, if not for the fact that little Colby had finally met his limit. His sniffles and whines had become full-blown wailing, and Luke’s soothing murmurs were no longer working to calm him down.

It tore at Syrus’s chest, but it only seemed to infuriate the dead man.

“Keep him quiet,” he ordered, loudly enough that Syrus could hear him over the distance.

Syrus swam slowly closer.

“He’s cold, and he’s hungry,” Luke argued. His voice was softer than the dead man’s, but Syrus could still hear the frustration and helplessness underneath. “I don’t have any of his snacks with me.”

“I don’t give a fuck!” The words were harsh, and there was an inherent threat in them.