Chapter Seventeen Zephyra
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
ZEPHYRA
Salt water floods my nose and mouth, and it’s as if I can finally breathe again.
The transformation takes seconds. A burst of shimmering light.
A flicker of scales. My turquoise tail skims through the water easily, and I haul Arion after me, pulling him deeper and deeper into the Sel.
Aecorian magic courses through my veins, an addictive rush of oceanic power—of home, of my blood, of the Syl—but I refuse to unlock that door.
To open it so the big, bad wolf can come prowling through.
We did not survive the isle, murderous trees, and those robed freaks just to succumb to the sorcerer.
A knife twists deep in my stomach. The destruction we left and the people who died—the people we abandoned to those monsters—will haunt me forever.
Just like my past. But I—I can’t think about that.
Not right now. Maybe not ever again. And perhaps that makes me horrible and wretched, but I can’t afford to be anything else.
In order to survive, I have to keep going. Keep moving. Keep breathing.
The silver cord coils around my arm, evidence that jumping into the sea wasn’t quite the rescue mission I assumed it would be. Still, we escaped. That has to be enough. It all has to be enough.
I don’t stop swimming. Slicing through the tumultuous current, waves crashing and rolling overhead, I clutch Arion’s hand.
His fingers squeeze mine as the cord wraps around his arm too.
Tethering us. Shackling us. For once, it doesn’t feel so much like a burden.
I know he’s aching. I know he’s exhausted.
I know he’s using what magic he has left to breathe and he’s beginning to panic as his wings become leaden in the salty depths.
When I’m confident we’re far enough that those freaks—the death cult—aren’t near and haven’t leapt in after us, I turn.
Arion doesn’t drop my hand.
He stares at me beneath the sea. Dark brown hair, strong jaw, silver-gold eyes.
Devastating as ever. His shirt has been rendered utterly useless by the Sel, so transparent that I can trace each abdominal with my eyes.
He arches a brow as if to appear cool, calm, and collected, though he knows I can feel he is anything but.
In this moment, for some foolish fucking reason, I can’t bring myself to hate him as much.
Maybe it’s because his earlier words echo in my ears.
Zephyra. You need to run.
And then when I didn’t, when I hesitated because what would be the point in running when Arion was captured too—
Torture me, then. Kill me. Leave the mermaid alone.
He tried to save me. Despite the fact that it was hopeless.
I move toward him, untangling my hand from his to cup his face. He winces at the touch, either startled or repulsed, but I don’t let it bother me. He tried to save me.
“Arion.” With perfect clarity, my melodious voice spills into the sea. “I can gift you the ability to breathe down here. If we’ll be in the sea often, it could be helpful. Otherwise, we’ll have to resurface and risk the cult spotting us.”
He nods in response, and I know he’s too spent to speak to my mind now.
“The thing is…” I clear my throat, and my gaze falls to his lips. “A merrow can only gift a human the ability to breathe underwater with a—a kiss. And once given, it can never be taken away. Anytime you submerge yourself in the sea, you’ll grow gills.”
I look up, and those molten eyes rove my face.
They narrow as he raises a hand to cover my own.
His thumb brushes over my knuckles—a touch that burns me straight to the core.
Another nod. My stomach clenches. I slide my other hand to his chest. Lay a soft palm atop his heart.
It thuds against me in a nervous rhythm.
Though, I’m not sure which of us should be more nervous right now.
“Okay, warlock,” I whisper.
I hesitate. Glance at his lips again. My fingers curl into his shirt, and the cord between us blazes. I lean in. Close. So, so close. It’s feels like standing at the edge of a cliff. Feels like the second before falling or flying. Kissing him with our bond is dangerous. It’s a risk.
So is drowning, of course.
He growls, impatient as ever, and closes the distance for me. Fisting my hair, he pulls me forward. I collapse against his chest, against the muscle and hot skin of my enemy. A human. A warlock.
He kisses me.
It’s not soft or sweet or even tentative.
It’s hard. Violent. Ferocious. It’s centuries of war, of loathing, of bloodshed and loss all in a single second, and I—I don’t know how to comprehend it.
Emotions wash through me, each of them more complicated than the last. I hate Arion.
I hate who he is. But he kisses me as if he’s been imagining this moment, calculating each touch to be the most brutal, the most precise, the most severe.
He is devouring me.
His lips fight mine, the electric current between us building to a shattering roar in our veins, and I can’t help curling my tail toward him. Can’t help melting as he palms my waist, fingers pressing deliciously into my scales. It’s just a kiss. One kiss. A gift.
I hardly notice the gills that carve into his neck.
Hardly notice the sheer relief he feels when he can release the tether of his magic.
Because he doesn’t stop. And kissing Arion—it’s not like kissing anyone else.
He is a storm. A hurricane battering a shore.
A cyclone whirling, demolishing, breaking everything in its wake, and, oh goddess, this is going to haunt me forever too. This warlock. His lips. His tongue.
I hate him, and he is going to haunt me forever.
The thought wrenches me away from him. I separate us by several inches, unable to stop my fingers from trailing to my lips.
Raw and swollen and aching. Fuck. The cord snaps taut, stretching from his heart to mine, and our chests heave with barely repressed hunger.
His eyes don’t leave my face. Even as something cold touches my shoulder, and I spin to find—
The man from the prison.
The man who saved us from the cult with a stupid bucket of water.
Shit. Has he been here the whole time? That is…
a little more than slightly mortifying. Black hair, tinged blue beneath the sea, is tied neatly at his nape, while a heavy four-piece suit weighs down his wiry limbs.
He points with his sword from his mouth to his neck to his chest. Then to Arion. Then to me.
And then he folds his hands as if in prayer, pleading with wide brown eyes for me to kiss him too. Because he is also a human, and he is also running out of air. Although, he doesn’t seem to have the magic to help himself like Arion.
I glance back at Arion. “Another friend of yours?”
Arion frowns. He crosses his arms, and his voice comes out just a strong—just as melodious—as mine. “Not in the slightest.”
Of course, I recall that—their arguments about Abysses and Arion’s palpable resentment toward him. Still, he is the reason we managed to escape the cult. “We probably shouldn’t let him drown.”
The man nods intently, swimming desperately between us and pointing to me again.
“He is a criminal,” Arion says.
I scoff at that. “You just decimated an island.”
“You asked me to.”
“We can’t do this again, warlock.” Maybe he won’t haunt me. Maybe he’ll remain a giant pain in my ass forever. “Are we killing him or are we saving him?”
“You want to kiss him?” Arion’s gaze narrows on my lips, and the cord pulses seafoam green. I lick them, and I swear his pupils dilate. His throat bobs. Desire pools low in my belly.
All the while, the man floats there between us, gesturing wildly with his sword.
“Obviously, we aren’t going to kill him,” I say. “He helped us.”
Arion grits his teeth. “Fine.”
“Fine.”
“So kiss him, then.”
“I will.”
Arion doesn’t turn away. In fact, he only seems to stare harder. In challenge. In threat. But this is good; I can prove to both of us that our kiss meant nothing. That nothing has changed, and it won’t ever happen again. I just helped Arion breathe easier. I’ll help this man do the same.
I crook a finger at the stranger, beckoning him forward before asking Arion, “Does he have a name, or should I just moan my own?”
Arion growls at that. So easily provoked. I flash him a seductive grin, and his gaze burns through mine. “His name is Gavriall,” he says. “Go on, mermaid. Tell me how he tastes.”
“Gavriall.” I fix my grin on the man. He’s handsome. Tall and lithe. High cheekbones. Smooth tawny skin. He’s just, unfortunately, nowhere near as attractive as Arion. “Would you like the ability to breathe underwater?”
Gavriall nods fervently, his cheeks purpling.
I don’t waste another second. In truth, I really don’t want anyone else to die. Not because of me.
I touch the cleft on Gavriall’s chin with a tender finger, and he shivers. Then, softly, I brush my lips against his. He presses a warm hand against the small of my back. It feels wrong. Too cold. Too smooth. Too different.
However, Arion is definitely feeling this through the bond, and I don’t want to give him the smug satisfaction of knowing I was nearly undone by his lips and no one else’s.
So I moan, sliding my fingers into Gavriall’s hair.
Arion watches me. He doesn’t look away. Not as Gavriall’s gills emerge.
Not as Gavriall’s hand slides up over my spine.
Not as my breasts push into Gavriall’s chest, and his sword falls to the ground. Abandoned. Forgotten.
Arion glares. His muscles tense. But he doesn’t look away, so I don’t either.
Gavriall breathes me in, and my tail wraps around him. His tongue flicks out then, caressing mine with a gentle stroke, and—
“Enough.” Arion hooks an arm around my waist and drags me back into his chest. I collapse against him with a surprised gasp.
Somehow, Arion has collected the sword as well, and he thrusts it toward Gavriall, keeping his other hand on my stomach.
“Here. Arm yourself. Gods know you have no other use.”
Gavriall beams at us, gills slitting the flesh behind his ear, and accepts his sword.
“Thanks,” he says easily, as though Arion isn’t fuming and I’m not trembling in a warlock’s arms. “I thought I was going to die about fifty different ways in the last ten minutes.”
I fight to ignore the heat branding my belly from Arion’s touch. Why won’t he let me go?
“You followed us,” Arion says. Not a question. A statement.
“Technically, I followed her.” Gavriall gestures to me while treading water with clumsily kicked legs.
“You inquired about Abysses, about Mortem’s heart, and then freed a mermaid from her noose.
You’re a traitor. The entire kingdom wants you dead.
I figured you were either onto something, or…
” He drifts off, but Arion is happy to finish the sentence for him.
The warlock somehow becomes even more rigid behind me. “Or you would turn me in. Take the credit for my capture.”
“In my defense, they’re offering a lot of money to whoever brings you in. Dead or alive.”
Arion snarls at that. “Hence the sword.”
Gavriall nods, not the least bit ashamed.
“Hence the sword.” A pause. A single beat where I wonder if I’ll have to kill this man with my bare hands.
The cord pulses with Arion’s anger. With remorse.
“I couldn’t let you die. Turns out, I don’t have the stomach for murder.
Just for coin.” He meets Arion’s gaze and holds it.
Something passes between them. Something almost akin to understanding.
“Since I’ve tethered my ship to your rocky shores—where are we headed next? ”
Arion’s voice drops to a dangerous decibel. “You’re not staying, Praesepultus.”
“I disagree.” Gavriall wags his brows. “I’m the one with the sword, after all.”
Arion’s mouth falls open with another argument, but I lift a hand and press it to his lips.
A shock of lust lances through me. I pretend I don’t feel it.
“We don’t have time to measure dicks right now.
If you want to come with us, you’re going to help us.
” Arion balks at that, but I refuse to remove my palm.
“He’s here. He knows where we are. He knows what we’re looking for.
” My gaze narrows on Gavriall’s face. “He either dies, or he stays.”
“I vote stays,” Gavriall offers. “I have many talents, least of all my effervescent charisma. I don’t hog blankets, and I make a mean cup of citrus tea.”
I ignore him, feeling Arion’s frustration boil to a head.
“We need a safe spot where we can discuss this further. We can’t resurface anywhere near that isle, and we can’t keep treading water here.
Since both you and those robed freaks found us, it’s not impossible for others to do the same.
Our best bet is one of the Sel’s underwater caverns.
We rest. We talk. We—we figure this shit out.
Okay?” I peer over my shoulder at Arion in question, and his gaze continues to sear into mine.
Through mine. He nods once. His lips part against my hand. My stomach tumbles.
“Sounds positively fabulous,” Gavriall says, plunging forward with zero sense of direction, “but perhaps we should save the simmering sexual tension for when we arrive. Eaten by sharks or speared by cultists aren’t exactly my ideas of fun.”
I yank my hand from Arion’s mouth, and he shoves me from his arms. We drift apart as inconspicuously as possible. “There will be none of that.”
Gavriall turns with a taunting grin. “Sharks, cultists, or sexual tension?”
“All three,” Arion growls.
“Then you have never shared a bed with me, Warlock Stone. I always simmer with sexuality.” Gavriall winks suggestively before he continues his merry swim to nowhere.
Arion glances at me—just once, so briefly I almost miss it—and then slices through the water after Gavriall. I follow, though dread sinks like an anchor in my gut.
Something about this—about all this—feels wrong.