Chapter 7
Iris
Iris woke up slowly, then all at once, jolting upright in an unfamiliar bed in a strange room, all of it washed in that aged driftwood smell that clung to Finn like a second skin.
How had she gotten in his bed?
For one horrified moment, she worried she might have followed her desire right into his room. She felt a wave of relief when she realized she was still fully dressed, tragically.
Sure, some part of her was A-okay with the idea of getting naked and glandular with Finn.
Especially after that delicious foot massage and the way such a chaste touch somehow managed to spark little fires of need to break out through her body.
She was a mermaid, after all. They were sensual creatures.
She enjoyed getting warm and steamy with a partner as much as the next person.
The other part of her, though, that still found Finn—even after hours in his company—stuffy and stiff, constantly bringing the conversation back to politics and surface-level observations, wanted nothing to do with some base, biological response to a man she was being forced to marry.
“That’s enough of that,” she mumbled to herself as she climbed out of bed, feeling aches in her land legs she hadn’t anticipated.
She went into the bathroom to brush out her hair before changing into one of the outfits Henry had left for her—long, flowing pale blue pants in a material he’d called ‘linen’ and a tight, white, silky top he’d called a camisole, though she couldn’t quite remember what else he’d said about that particular garment.
There was a rich, thick scent in the air as she made her way into the common area.
“What is that?” she asked, sniffing the air.
“That, my sweet sea spawn, is ground-bean juice,” Monty declared, producing two mugs (gray, of course, like everything in Finn’s home). “The humans call it ‘coffee,’ and I find it is best served with a lot of cream and sugar. Enjoy.”
She took the mug, the heat teasing her fingers, making a shiver rack her system. “Why is it so cold in here?”
“That is what the human women call Women’s Winter.”
“Women’s Winter?”
“That’s when the temperatures outside skyrocket, so the men set the internal temperatures to frigid. And the women freeze.”
She certainly felt like she was freezing. Little bumps had pebbled up all over her skin.
“Monty, do you have any idea how I wound up in Finn’s bed?”
“Seeing as he was asleep in the living room this morning when I came out to look for Check—a snack …” the pelican caught himself “… I would assume he did the thing every swoon-worthy romantic lead would do. He carried you to bed.”
She went ahead and ignored the way her chest warmed, and her belly swooped at the idea of that.
Too many romance novels, giving her subconscious all sorts of silly ideas.
“I can’t believe I have to tell you this again, but you can’t eat Finn’s cat.”
“I haven’t touched him,” Monty declared, but the way the cat hissed at the pelican when he looked over told Iris all she needed to know.
“Didn’t you eat enough last night?” she asked. Her mind wandered back to all those foreign meals and the pleasant explosion of strange new tastes and textures across her tongue. She’d particularly enjoyed the pizza and fries, even if Monty declared they were ‘very bad’ for them.
“Apparently not,” another voice said as the apartment door closed. “Because he had me order break—”
Finn broke off with a choked sound as he came into the kitchen and his gaze landed on her.
His whole body language had changed.
He’d gone from uncharacteristically relaxed to ramrod straight, his shoulders spread, chest broad, and his pupils blown wide in a blink.
Her own gaze moved down, confused by his reaction.
That was when she remembered what Henry had said about the camisole. That they were for being worn under other tops. To ‘protect her modesty.’
At the time, she hadn’t understood his meaning. But in the freezing apartment, her nipples had hardened into points that pressed against the tight material.
Her gaze flicked back to Finn, finding his lips slightly parted, his breath coming quick and shallow.
When she took a breath, making her breasts press even harder against the material, an almost pained sound escaped him.
For a moment, she was helpless but to follow the urge to track her eyes down his body as well.
Gone was his stuffy suit. In its place was a white T-shirt that hugged his toned body and showed off surprisingly strong arms. His pants were different, too. They were a flowing gray material that showed off his outlines.
One outline in particular.
Surprised by the tightening of need in her core, her gaze shot back up to his face just a second before he forced his to rise as well.
“Iris, my sweet, innocent, adorably naive little mergirl,” Monty—who’d likely witnessed the entire encounter with his sharp eye for details—started. “Remember how we discussed needing another layer of clothing? I’m partial to a flowing evening gown, but I suppose a sweater would suffice.”
“Oh, right. Yes, he did … Henry mentioned that,” Iris said. She was suddenly too aware of her own body, finding herself almost … uncomfortable with it. That was a first. And the swirling sensation in her stomach was not a welcome one. “I forgot. I, uh, I will change …”
“Wait,” Finn said. His voice was choked, making him clear his throat before continuing. “No,” he said, shaking his head. “Don’t change. This is your home now too. You should be in whatever makes you comfortable.”
“For goodness’ sake, Mister Mayor, sir,” Monty said, eyes bugging. “Don’t say that to her. What is most natural to a mermaid is near nothing at all.”
“I’m not a fool, Monty,” Iris said, feelings bruised. “I know humans have to wear clothing.”
“Iris, don’t worry about it. You look … fine.”
Fine?
She looked … fine?
A word so aggressively neutral it might as well have come with a shrug. Was this some sort of political tactic? Downplay her, make her doubt her own beauty? To what end? What purpose would that serve his campaign? To make her more relatable?
Henry’s words from the day before came back to her on a loop. He’d made constant comments about how she was, essentially, ‘too much’ and how they would need to ‘tone her down’ to cater to mass appeal.
Was that what Finn was attempting to do?
Because she had clearly seen the proof of his desire when he’d been looking at her.
So instead of celebrating her beauty that he clearly appreciated, he wanted to make her question it, if not outright start to think less of herself?
The hurt that had started to pool in her chest began to churn and flow until it became a tsunami of rage.
How dare he make her doubt herself?
Him with his salt-slick smile and his manufactured personality.
Iris dropped her mug back down on the counter with a loud click before turning and striding back to the bedroom, slamming the door for good measure, before walking to the closet to pull on one of the many tops Henry had provided.
Not because she felt suddenly less beautiful, but because she no longer wanted Finn to notice it. He had no right.
This was good, she told herself as she buttoned the long-sleeved top. She needed the reminder of why this marriage could not go on.
It wasn’t just the marriage she resented; it was the quiet reshaping of herself she hadn’t even noticed happening.
A little less shimmer. A little less sway in her step. A little more fabric, a little more resilience.
She hadn’t agreed to be edited.
And if she let this go, let them go on correcting her voice, her walk, her wardrobe, she wouldn’t be Iris anymore.
She’d be some shimmering shell of a woman she didn’t even recognize anymore.
She couldn’t allow that to happen.
By the time she made it out of the bedroom, Finn was gone, and Monty was looming over the cat with his beak spread wide.
“Monty!”
The pelican snapped his beak closed, turning with a guilty look. “Pure instinct, I assure you,” he said, lifting his head. “I am far too refined to actually eat a cat.”
“I’m not so sure of that,” she said. She scooped up the cat and hugged it to her chest. His little body started to vibrate, the sensation immediately calming her frayed nerves. “Where did he go?”
“Henry came to take him to the gym. But not before he left that for us,” Monty said, gesturing toward a stack of little square cases of plastic.
“What are they?”
“Documentaries. But not the ones about the tragic backstories and scandals of the elite. Oh, no. They’re docu-mentaries about humans.”
“Humans?”
“Henry said he was concerned about your lack of understanding of how the world works. So he brought these for us to watch. I’m sure they won’t be dry enough for us to choke on,” he mumbled.
His gaze took her in. “Yes. That is much more appropriate. Even if it won’t make your fiancé pitch a tent like the cami did. ”
“What does that mean?” Iris asked.
Monty cleared his throat a bit as he waddled over to the kitchen.
“Well, um, let’s see if the documentaries explain it,” he said with an uncharacteristic amount of discomfort. “I will get them all queued up. You bring all the food over to the coffee table. It looks like we are having an inside day.”
With that, the two of them sat down on the sectional with a spread of French toast, pancakes, hash browns, bacon, and eggs.
“Not fish eggs,” Monty was quick to explain when Iris’s lip curled.
That was the one seafood she could never bring herself to eat—something about the texture making her gag—but her mother liked to have them served at all their royal meals.
And, apparently, it wasn’t becoming of a princess to try to discreetly spit the eggs into her hand and feed them to the snails that always hung under the table, hoping for scraps.
She didn’t let herself remember the time she’d tried to hide the eggs in her seashell bra. Only to have them come floating out when she’d been dancing with an important selkie political figure.