Chapter Twelve Arion #2
“—here you are, asking a mermaid for help,” she finishes for me, batting her lashes sweetly.
“Humiliating, isn’t it? I imagine it’ll be even more so when all those petty thieves, criminal underlords, palace guards, and weak-ass warlocks catch up with you under Constane’s orders.
You were his little plaything, right? His pet?
” She tuts and shakes her head. “Oh, how the mighty have fallen.”
Relax. Breathe. Relax. Breathe.
The emotions churning in my stomach don’t belong to me.
They’re her fault. The cord’s fault. I can’t afford another outburst; I can’t afford to lose control as I did earlier.
It’s what she wants—to provoke me, to manipulate me.
Still, I can’t seem to stop anger from slithering through the cracks in my chest when she’s around.
Though Elder Branche would’ve punished—grievously punished—the lapse in judgement, I can’t stop energy from cracking at my fingertips.
And I want to shake her. To throttle her, if that’s what it’ll take to make her understand.
This is not a game.
We are going to die if she refuses to work together.
She arches a brow because she knows, her lush lips twisting as silence descends over us.
“You want to reach a compromise, Arion Stone?” Her tongue drags slow across her lower lip, and I tense at the sight. At the sound of my full name on that wicked tongue.
“Yes.”
“Fine. These are my terms.” She saunters closer, remaining just out of reach.
I resist the urge to seize the cord and close the distance.
“I want to be free of you. Forever. I want to repay this debt, and I never want to see your face again. If it takes the heart to do that, wonderful. If it takes me saving your sorry skin, great. But I will not be shackled to you at the end of this. I…” She sucks in a sharp breath, and when she speaks again, it might be the only truth she’s ever uttered. “I will not be shackled to anyone.”
It’s hard to argue with that. In fact, it—“Sounds like paradise.”
“Yes.” Her gaze lowers to my palm splayed wide, inches from her now. She hesitates before looking up at me again. “So we’re in agreement? We put up with each other until the debt is repaid?”
“No lying, cheating, or harming each other,” I warn. “We’re in this together.”
“Okay, warlock.” She nods, and I struggle to smother the cursed relief coursing through me. She still eyes me warily, after all, as though I might suddenly bite her. As though we have any other choice than the one forced upon us by my stupid mistake.
“Okay, mermaid,” I say back.
She reaches delicate fingers toward me.
And the cord—it smolders.
As if we’ve been lit on fire, as if we’re burning at the stake.
She hasn’t even touched me, and lust prickles along my skin in the worst sort of torture.
Immediate. All-consuming and inexplicable.
I don’t simply want her touch; I need it.
I crave it as if she’s my last meal and I have to savor every bite.
Her fingers twitch—curl—as if she feels it too, her hand wavering in the air so close to my own.
And for one wild, fleeting second, I imagine capturing it, crushing her against me.
Tasting her skin as I devour every inch, learning the curve of her throat, the shell of her ear, and the delicious dip of her collarbone.
Lower still. Unbidden, my gaze drops to the swell of her breasts through my tunic, and the sight of it—of her, this pink-haired demon wearing my clothes—makes my entire body tighten to the point of pain. My magic roils. My cock hardens.
In that wild, fleeting second, I need Zephyra of the Syl as I’ve never needed anything else.
I am a warlock, however. I do not bow to desire. I do not bow to anything.
So I take her hand slowly, inch by inch, and focus on controlling my breathing. My own reckless thoughts. It’s the bond. It must be. If possible, my gut clenches tighter at the thought of the pink-haired mermaid spread beneath me. Open. Willing.
Stop it.
I force the image away, thinking hard as our hands entwine. Because if I feel this strange connection, she does too. That is something I can use to my advantage.
Zephyra is impulsive, after all. Emotional.
The bond glistens between us, brighter than ever, as her chest rises and falls against the soft fabric of my shirt.
I refuse to track each breath, refuse to look at her at all, instead staring at our clasped hands.
An innocent touch, but still so heated, we might as well be holding an open flame.
For several long seconds, that’s all that exists—her hand, my hand, as each waits for the other to pull away.
I expected her palm to feel clammy, cold, like that of her kin, but Zephyra’s skin is warm and dry. And soft.
Why is her hand so soft?
I rip mine from hers, unable to stand it for another second, and her cheeks flush a delectable shade of pink. In what? Anger? Shame? Her heartbeat continues to pulsate through the cord, matching my own thunderous pulse, and I curse myself for wondering.
She isn’t the only one disgusted.
“Come along,” I demand, and I pivot on my heel without a backward glance.
I continue the trek to the far side of the island, where a bridge rises over the deep blue depths of the Sel.
“We can catch a carriage to Greenwood Isles. Since I’m expected to disguise us for the length of our travels, I’ll need time to rest beforehand. ”
Yes. I shake my head to clear it, to plan.
I can enchant a carriage for speed, perhaps tie her to a horse or Pegasus, and wake every so often to refresh the enchantment.
And to ensure Zephyra hasn’t wriggled out of our deal and flown away.
With a bit of magic, we can make it to the Greenwood Isles in a day or two. Maybe less.
When she doesn’t follow, however, I turn.
She watches me warily, her wide eyes torn between my face and my hand. “Last rule?” she offers. I gesture for her to get on with it. We don’t have fucking time for all this talking.
“No touching,” she says. “Whatever that was—it can’t happen again.”