says, bowing her head in reverence.
Grom scowls. Nalia’s pulse pounds against his chest, his head, his entire body. He doesn’t remember her pulse being this strong, this intrusive. She’s in the Ceremony Chamber. Why, why, why?
“As you were,” Grom nearly growls, making his way through the elongated opening.
The Ceremony Chamber is nothing but century after century of Syrena records etched and carved into aged rock—a much more practical material than the humans’ papyrus, Grom is sure—stacked atop one another, maintained for an eternity by the Archives and the Trackers and the freezing waters. Grom has always been in awe of this chamber, even before it meant something to him personally. Before it meant his possible escape from the law. He’s always felt as if past lives, past experiences called out to him from the stone tablets, as if this place held answers to future questions he might have one day as a Triton king.
But now, it feels as if this place has closed off access to itself, replaced by the suffocating pulse of her .
Deciding the meeting is inevitable—he knows she senses him just as clearly as he senses her—he chooses the diplomatic course and follows her pulse until he finds her draped over a stone tablet in a far corner of the cave.
Nalia is all grown up.
From head to fin-tip, she takes up the length of the tablet and then some. She’s twisted her long black hair into a braid and tied a knot at the end to keep it in place. Though a strand of seaweed is wrapped tightly around her torso in the traditional female cover, it doesn’t quite hide the swell of her breasts. Without looking up, she says, “What are you doing here?”
Though her voice is full of disdain, it’s not unpleasant. In fact, it has a rich texture to it, velvety as a fin, and it fills up the cave with her presence. He doesn’t like it. Not at all. Grom clears his throat. “I might ask the same of you, princess.”
She huffs, but still won’t look at him, which is sure to drive him mad. “Yes, you might.”
It occurs to Grom that he really does want to know why she’s here. Is she here for the same reason I am? Does she seek a way out of this arrangement too? Hope licks at his insides, but then a sense of rejection instantly quells it. After all these years, she still dares to snub him.
I won’t have it, not again. Not with all the females I have throwing themselves at me at every change in the current. What makes her so special?
Then Nalia, firstborn, third-generation Poseidon heir, looks up.
And Grom almost falters. “You’ve…you’ve changed, princess.”
Yes, it’s the same pulse he remembers from years earlier. But it’s not the same face. Not the puffer fish face with hammerhead tendencies. No, this face, this new Nalia, this grown-up Nalia, is breathtaking. Her eyes are still huge, yes, but in a way that makes his mouth go dry despite the ocean around him. And the color of them! Didn’t he remember them being dull and plain? Could they always have been this vibrant, this crystalline violet? And her lips. So full. So alluring. So pouty.
So contrary.
“You haven’t changed at all,” she counters, crossing her arms. “Except, your mouth hangs open wider than I remember.”
Grom clamps his mouth shut.
“And you still haven’t answered my question. What are you doing here?” she says.
Grom offers his most charming grin, but from the look on her face the effort is wasted. “Surely you know. I’m here to make sure there is no mistake in the records. That I am the only Syrena lucky enough to be your mate.”
Her eyes declare him full of whale dung. “Liar,” is what she says out loud.
“I swear by Triton’s trident.” He places three fingers on his Royal birthmark, the small image of a trident embedded into his skin just before stomach turns into fin. “I had to make sure you were mine.”
She uncrosses her arms. “You and I do not like each other.”
“Is that so? I didn’t
Grom scowls. Nalia’s pulse pounds against his chest, his head, his entire body. He doesn’t remember her pulse being this strong, this intrusive. She’s in the Ceremony Chamber. Why, why, why?
“As you were,” Grom nearly growls, making his way through the elongated opening.
The Ceremony Chamber is nothing but century after century of Syrena records etched and carved into aged rock—a much more practical material than the humans’ papyrus, Grom is sure—stacked atop one another, maintained for an eternity by the Archives and the Trackers and the freezing waters. Grom has always been in awe of this chamber, even before it meant something to him personally. Before it meant his possible escape from the law. He’s always felt as if past lives, past experiences called out to him from the stone tablets, as if this place held answers to future questions he might have one day as a Triton king.
But now, it feels as if this place has closed off access to itself, replaced by the suffocating pulse of her .
Deciding the meeting is inevitable—he knows she senses him just as clearly as he senses her—he chooses the diplomatic course and follows her pulse until he finds her draped over a stone tablet in a far corner of the cave.
Nalia is all grown up.
From head to fin-tip, she takes up the length of the tablet and then some. She’s twisted her long black hair into a braid and tied a knot at the end to keep it in place. Though a strand of seaweed is wrapped tightly around her torso in the traditional female cover, it doesn’t quite hide the swell of her breasts. Without looking up, she says, “What are you doing here?”
Though her voice is full of disdain, it’s not unpleasant. In fact, it has a rich texture to it, velvety as a fin, and it fills up the cave with her presence. He doesn’t like it. Not at all. Grom clears his throat. “I might ask the same of you, princess.”
She huffs, but still won’t look at him, which is sure to drive him mad. “Yes, you might.”
It occurs to Grom that he really does want to know why she’s here. Is she here for the same reason I am? Does she seek a way out of this arrangement too? Hope licks at his insides, but then a sense of rejection instantly quells it. After all these years, she still dares to snub him.
I won’t have it, not again. Not with all the females I have throwing themselves at me at every change in the current. What makes her so special?
Then Nalia, firstborn, third-generation Poseidon heir, looks up.
And Grom almost falters. “You’ve…you’ve changed, princess.”
Yes, it’s the same pulse he remembers from years earlier. But it’s not the same face. Not the puffer fish face with hammerhead tendencies. No, this face, this new Nalia, this grown-up Nalia, is breathtaking. Her eyes are still huge, yes, but in a way that makes his mouth go dry despite the ocean around him. And the color of them! Didn’t he remember them being dull and plain? Could they always have been this vibrant, this crystalline violet? And her lips. So full. So alluring. So pouty.
So contrary.
“You haven’t changed at all,” she counters, crossing her arms. “Except, your mouth hangs open wider than I remember.”
Grom clamps his mouth shut.
“And you still haven’t answered my question. What are you doing here?” she says.
Grom offers his most charming grin, but from the look on her face the effort is wasted. “Surely you know. I’m here to make sure there is no mistake in the records. That I am the only Syrena lucky enough to be your mate.”
Her eyes declare him full of whale dung. “Liar,” is what she says out loud.
“I swear by Triton’s trident.” He places three fingers on his Royal birthmark, the small image of a trident embedded into his skin just before stomach turns into fin. “I had to make sure you were mine.”
She uncrosses her arms. “You and I do not like each other.”
“Is that so? I didn’t
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