Chapter 9
Phoebe
The Kitchen—Castletide
Storm-colored eyes lock on me the way gravity locks planets in orbit.
There is something mystical about them.
Like if I stare long enough, I can see the waves move within his eyes.
His shoulders fill the archway, the runes along his throat faintly glowing.
He doesn’t look at anyone else, just me.
I’m not doing anything special, just sitting at a side table with his maid’s son, stew staining my fingertips, laughter still warm on my lips. But the way he looks at me? It’s enough to make me tremble.
“Phoebe.”
My name from his mouth is both a statement and a claim.
I stiffen, because I don’t know how to respond to the pull in his voice.
A voice that is both command and tide.
“Lord Kael,” Amber says quickly, standing straighter, her cheeks flushing bronze.
She dips her head low, then nudges Corin. “Up, boy.”
Corin scrambles off his chair, bowing awkwardly. I hate the sudden stiffness, the way the room holds its breath for him.
I hate that I feel it too—the awe, the nervous flutter low in my stomach.
“Be at ease,” he says, and the kitchen workers begin to stir again.
Kael steps inside fully now, his gaze never leaving mine.
His hand brushes the back of a chair, long fingers flexing like he’s considering dragging it close.
I force myself to speak first, because if I don’t, I’ll drown in the silence.
“I, uh, I was hungry.”
He blinks. Then, something like amusement flickers over his impossibly sharp features.
“Then you should eat.”
It sounds simple. Obvious.
But the way he says it, like it’s a personal gift he’s granting me, makes my pulse skip.
Amber sets a steaming basket of rolls in front of me, bowing low again before backing away.
Kael’s gaze follows the motion, then returns to me, heavier now.
“Enjoy it,” he murmurs, as though the stew isn’t just food but some ritual I’ve unknowingly entered into. “You’ll need your strength, viyella.”
Heat rushes to my cheeks at the way he says it—viyella.
Mate.
Not just a title.
A vow.
And for the first time since waking in this impossible place, I wonder what it would feel like to stop fighting the pull of his tide and let myself sink.
“My Lord?” Amber cants her head, waiting for instruction.
“Yes, I think I shall have some as well,” Kael returns smoothly. “Come, Corin, finish your meal.”
Then he’s sitting with me. With us.
Amber looks freaked out, but she says nothing as she fills another bowl—a bigger one—and sets it in front of him.
I expect conversation to stall out, but Kael proves me wrong.
“Lord Kael, do you like my boat?” Corin pipes up, holding up the block he’s scribbled on.
“Indeed, Corin, I do,” Kael says gravely. “Is this to be your boat someday?”
“Aye, my Lord. I shall be a captain in your navy when I grow up!”
“Will you now? Then you must study, work hard, and always obey your papa and mama. Won’t you, Corin?”
“I will, my Lord! I will!”
“Good lad.” Kael ruffles the boy’s hair, and I feel my chest ache at how normal—how human—that gesture is, coming from someone who looks like he could sink continents if he sneezed wrong.
“All finished, Corin. Come, it’s time for lessons,” Amber chides gently, tugging the boy to his feet.
“Will you be needing anything else, milady?” she asks me.
“It is fine, Amber. Take Corin to his lessons. I have the Lady Phoebe now,” Kael says, and I wonder if he does. Have me, that is.
He is charming. Beautiful. Disarming in a way I could never have imagined. And now we’re alone.
“You don’t have me,” I mutter, narrowing my eyes.
His mouth curves, lazy, like a storm tide rolling in.
“No?”
“No. I’m not some—some clam you can just pry open and call yours.”
That smile deepens, and my treacherous pulse skips.
“I would not pry, Telya. I would coax. The sea teaches patience.”
I snort.
“Patience? You kidnapped me yesterday.”
“Necessary,” he says, spooning stew into his mouth like we’re discussing the weather instead of felonies. “The Aqua Moon waits for no one.”
“Do you ever hear yourself?” I ask, leaning forward, voice sharp with disbelief. “You sound like a pirate fortune cookie.”
That does it.
He laughs, low and rough, and the sound rumbles through me like surf under a pier.
“You have teeth,” he says approvingly, voice low enough that it strokes along my skin. “Good. I prefer a viyella who bites.”
My cheeks flame so hot I could fry one of those squid rings on them.
“Your preferences don’t really concern me.”
His gaze catches mine, unflinching, hungry.
“I agree. Not nearly enough.”
“Not at all,” I snap, though my pulse betrays me with every frantic beat.
“I am the Demon Lord of Water,” he says, leaning closer, his voice a tide I can’t block out. “I sit on the throne of Castletide. I am the King of Currents, the Master of the Tide—do you not fear my wrath, Lady Phoebe?”
I should.
God, I should.
He looks every inch the storm he claims to command, all carved muscle, and glowing runes, spiraling horns, and sea storm eyes that could drown me in one look.
But fear isn’t the thing licking at the base of my spine.
“Fear your wrath?” I say, holding his gaze even as my throat goes dry. “No.”
Your kiss? Maybe, I add silently, because the memory of his mouth on mine—oxygen and salt and sin—still burns hotter than his threats.
Something flickers across his face, dangerous and beautiful, like lightning caught between clouds.
I sit back, heart pounding, clutching silence like a shield, because if I say one more word, I might not be able to pretend I don’t want him.
We continue to eat in charged silence, and I’m so distracted I don’t even pretend to eat less than I normally do.
What would be the point in that?
When we are finished, Kael doesn’t ask if he can walk me back to my rooms.
He simply rises, offers me his hand, and waits until I take it—like the decision is mine, even though we both know I don’t have many of those left.
His shadow looms behind him, longer than anyone else’s in the kitchen.
I don’t know if that’s because he’s the Demon Lord of whatever, or simply because he’s so big. He must be nearly seven feet tall, but his movements are graceful and fluid—like an athlete or a ballet dancer.
Like the water.
“I can find my own way back,” I murmur, looking anywhere but at him.
“No,” he says, calm but final. “You’ll walk with me.”
It isn’t a request.
And to my complete disgust, my stomach does that swoop thing—like when the roller coaster drops and you don’t know if you’re screaming from terror or delight.
Fine. Let him play tour guide. I can roll with it.
We step into one of those endless corridors lined with sea-glass windows, the air warm and carrying that briny, storm-kissed scent that clings to him.
His stride is purposeful, long. Mine is more stubborn. Slow. Designed to make him wait—for me.
“So, what’s the deal?” I ask, my voice sharper than it needs to be, just to prove I still have teeth. “Do you always abduct women mid-shift at aquariums, or am I just lucky number one?”
The corner of his mouth twitches, like he might actually laugh.
“The sea doesn’t choose often, Phoebe.”
“Oh, great. So, I’m a lottery ticket.”
He glances at me. His eyes are stormy-dark and too damn intense.
“No. You’re the prize.”
My heart lurches at that—stupid body, always betraying me.
“You really need to work on your pickup lines,” I grumble, because sarcasm is safer than admitting how my cheeks are heating at his words.
His hand brushes the small of my back as we walk, guiding me through a curve in the corridor.
It’s infuriatingly gentle, like he thinks I might bolt or dissolve into seawater at any second.
My pulse kicks, traitor that it is.
“Pickup lines?” he repeats, brow furrowing like I’ve just spoken in riddles.
He looks so serious about it that I almost laugh.
He’s a horned, rune-covered Demon Lord who abducted me in a whirlpool, and yet he’s standing here genuinely puzzled about basic dating slang.
It’s stupidly hot. Which I refuse to admit.
“Yeah,” I say, sighing as if I’m explaining algebra to a particularly handsome toddler. “You know—corny things guys say to try to get women to have sex with them.”
He tilts his head, considering this like I’ve just given him state secrets.
“I can assure you I need no lines for this purpose,” he says finally, voice low, the words curling like surf around rocks. “Besides, I told you. You’re my viyella.”
The absolute arrogance of this man.
My stomach flips anyway.
“Yeah, about that.” I stop dead in the middle of the hall and whirl on him, chin lifted high enough to fake courage. “You keep throwing that word around like it’s supposed to mean something to me. But newsflash—I didn’t agree to be anyone’s anything.”
His storm-colored eyes lock on mine, intent and unwavering.
The weight of him is enough to make me want to back up, but I don’t.
Not one step.
“You will,” he says, calm as the tide, like inevitability is the same thing as romance.
I roll my eyes so hard I’m surprised they don’t sprain.
“Wow. Real smooth. Do you come with a pamphlet too? ‘Welcome to Nightfall: Congratulations, You’ve Been Kidnapped, Please Enjoy Your Complimentary Viyella.’”
His mouth curves, small but there. A smile. Which is unfair, because it makes him even more gorgeous, and I am trying very hard to dislike him.
“I do not know this word pamphlet,” he admits. “But if it pleases you, I will have Aloysious write one. Only one small correction. It is you who are my viyella. The correct term for a male mate is viyen.”
Christ, he almost makes me laugh, and I hate it.
My lips still twitch, though. Damn him.
He studies me for a long, unreadable moment.
His runes flicker faintly, the light tracing his throat, his chest, like the tide itself is impatient with him.
“Well, whatever. I never said I was going to be your viyella, or that you were my viyen!”
Kael freezes. Then he exhales slowly, as if he’s making a decision.
“Let me be clear.” His voice deepens, weighty with something that makes the fine hairs on my arms rise.
“Tomorrow night, under the Full Aqua Moon, the Tidal Lands will watch as I, their Lord and ruler of these lands, take you, my viyella, with the blessing of the Fates before one and all.”
I blink. “Wait. What?”
“We will have a ceremony tomorrow night, and it will bind us, Lady Phoebe,” he says, as if this is the simplest, most obvious thing in the world.
“Y-you can’t mean—”
“You’ll be fitted for your gown at dawn.”
I actually laugh, because what else do you do when a horned Sea Lord tells you, you’re getting married tomorrow?
“Gown? Like a wedding gown?” My voice pitches high. “You’re out of your damn mind. We just met. Yesterday—literally yesterday—you dragged me through a magical whirlpool against my will!”
His jaw tightens, but his eyes don’t leave mine.
“You called. I answered. And the sea chose. The Aqua Moon waits for no one. It must be tomorrow.”
I shake my head, laughing again, but it sounds brittle even to me.
“You can’t just—what do you even call this? Bride-napping?”
His hand lifts, not touching me but close enough I feel the pull.
“Call it what you wish. But know this, Telya—” His voice is thunder wrapped in silk. “Tomorrow night, you will stand beside me. And when the tide bears witness, nothing in this world or yours will unmake what we are.”
“No, I won’t—”
“What will you do then, Phoebe Sewell? Little human trapped in the big bad world that is Nightfall?” His voice strikes me harder than a slap.
And it hits me then.
He’s right.
Goddamn him, he’s right!
If I leave right now, walk out of his castle—how would I get back home?
And the scarier question is the one that pops unbidden into my brain—what would I be going back to?
My knees wobble, not just from the fury coiling in me but from something else.
Something darker.
Something that feels terrifyingly like want.