Chapter 20
“Peter!” I shout, but my voice is swallowed by the eerie silence that follows Wake’s song.
I turn and find Wake’s attention now focused on me. His dark, predatory eyes lock onto mine, and I feel a shiver run down my spine.
Wake pulls himself completely from the water, his massive form looming over me. Water cascades from his body, and the scent of the sea fills the air. His translucent skin shimmers under the dim light, and his muscles ripple with raw power. I stare up at him, wide-eyed, unable to look away.
It’s not just fear that holds me captive—there’s something awe-inspiring, almost divine about him. He is the single most terrible and glorious thing I have ever seen. I wonder if this is what early humans felt when they described seeing angels in person—confirmation of the supernatural, of a world beyond our own.
“Pho-ebe,” Wake growls, his voice a deep rumble that vibrates through my bones. I hadn’t noticed his song had stopped; hadn’t noticed him pull himself completely from the water. And I only notice too late that he is primed to attack.
Wake lunges forward with the speed of a striking cobra. His webbed claws swipe through the air where Peter had stood just moments before. The sheer force of his movement sends a gust of wind whipping past me, throwing me off-balance. I stumble backward, my mind racing for a way to defuse the situation.
“Wake, no!” I shout, holding up my hands in a desperate attempt to calm him. “Safe! I’m safe!”
He hesitates, his gaze flickering between me and the unconscious form of Peter. His chest heaves with each breath, and the frilled collar around his neck flares menacingly. The tension in the air is palpable, and I can feel my heart pounding in my chest.
“Please, Wake,” I say, my voice trembling. “He’s not a threat. He’s… friend.”
Wake narrows his eyes. I can see the conflict in his eyes, the struggle to understand.
I take a deep breath, trying to steady myself. “Friend,” I repeat, gesturing to Peter. “Not enemy. Friend.”
He lets out a rolling chuff, followed by a click. When my transcriptor translates, I feel the tension slowly begin to leave my shoulders: Pod.
“Close enough,” I laugh.
Wake’s eyes soften slightly, but his body remains tense. He glances down at Peter, then back at me. I can see the gears turning in his mind as he ponders over the new vocabulary.
“Wake… talk… to Pho-ebe,” he says, his tone insistent.
“Yes,” I say, nodding vigorously. “Talk to me.”
He repeats the first few strands of his song. The transponder’s response almost feels accusatory: Mate.
“Mate?” The word sends a jolt through me, and I feel my cheeks flush. “Is…is that what you think I am?” I say, stumbling over my words.
Wake’s eyes search mine, and I can see the flicker of recognition that turns to hunger. He takes a deep breath, the tension in his body slowly easing. He raises a webbed hand, and I tentatively reach out to meet him.
Our fingers touch, and I feel a strange, electric connection. It’s as if a current passes between us, a silent understanding that transcends words. Wake’s grip is surprisingly gentle, and I can feel the warmth of his skin against mine.
“Pho-ebe,” he says softly, his voice filled with a mixture of relief and frustration.
I nod, fear and something more dangerous, something…hotter, making my throat dry. “Yes, Wake. Show me what you want.”
Wake snatches me up with startling speed and begins sniffing me, his nostrils flaring as he takes in my scent. His agitation grows quickly, and his handling of me becomes rougher.
I suddenly become acutely aware of his size compared to mine. With his tail coiled beneath him like a snake, Wake sits easily at eight feet high. He outsizes me in every way, and I realize with a jolt of fear that I have no idea what to do if he becomes violent.
“Pho-ebe…Mate,” he growls, his voice low and menacing. “No…Mate. No…Mate.”
His razor-sharp frills and fins bristle, and I instinctively jerk away, accidentally scratching my wrist on one of his fore fins. I gasp in pain and flinch, but Wake grabs my hurt wrist and lifts me by the arm until my feet are barely touching the floor.
“Ah! Wake, this hurts. Please put me down!” I pant, but he ignores me. He sniffs out the blood leaking from the scratch on my wrist.
“Mate,” he snarls, shaking me. I cry out, feeling disoriented from the jostling. “I don’t know what that means! Why are you angry? What did I do?”
His expression grows darker, more frustrated by the language barrier between us. His nostrils flare, and the constant faint scent of petrichor and brine grows stronger, quickly surrounding us like a mist.
Wake grabs me close with both hands and buries his face in my neck, breathing deeply. When he pulls away, he looks as if he’s smelled something foul.
“You don’t like the way I smell,” I reason aloud, then remember the moment of wrongness I’d felt earlier in the shower when I’d meticulously scrubbed all traces of petrichor and brine from my skin.
Of course, I think. “I don’t smell like you anymore. You… the fragrance that I keep smelling… you marked me as your mate, and I washed it away,” I conclude.
I didn't know why I hadn’t thought of it sooner. Animals claim their territory with scent markers all the time, so why wouldn’t a merman? The question was, when had Wake had the opportunity to…
My mind is suddenly filled with memories of Wake's tongue ravishing my body, buried between my legs. A full-bodied shudder runs across my skin, making me shiver.
I feel the moment the memories begin to take effect, feel the rush of warmth in my core. Wake's nostrils flare again, and the second he scents my arousal, I know that our attempts at human communication are over.
No matter how much I try to reason with him, Wake isn’t human. He is a beast, ready to claim his mate.
And my body has just confirmed that I am willing prey.
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