Page 53 of Stealing the Merman

“Mermen don’t get fleas.”

“Of course you don’t.” Darin gave an exasperated sigh, but he was laughing. “You’re too perfect.”

“Precisely.”

Finn’s affinity for animals continued to show as they crossed the jungle. At times, parrots would fly out of the trees and land on the low branches hanging onto the path. If Conall didn’t know any better, he’d think they were watching Finn. Maybe they were. It wasn’t like they saw a merman on legs every day. One of them, green as a shamrock with a hint of red above its beak and sky blue wingtips, decided to sit on Finn’s shoulder. Finn, with his luminous hair and immaculate skin, would never look like a pirate, but with the parrot, it was the closest he’d get.

They hiked across the island’s center in two hours, during which Finn sported an iron erection in his breeches. He was agitated with need, and at one point suggested they go off into the woods and take care of it there, but Conall wanted to leave him hanging for a while. Finn deserved all the release he could get, but a little wait would intensify the experience.

In Esperanza, a fishing village on the southern shores, they rented a boat to explore the coast. The locals liked venturing out and told tales of stunning bays and secluded beaches. It was music to Conall’s ears. An undeveloped place, far from the clutches of European empires and their fleets. He could live there in peace. And while he couldn’t see himself as a fisherman, he was industrious and certain he’d come up with something.

Finn hadn’t taken his potion since the day before and once Conall and Darin rowed out of sight of the settlement, Finn’s legs morphed into their original fishtail form. His scales shone in the sun, the various colors reflecting the light, making it dance across his form. He jumped into the waves, his fishtail arcing in midair.

“He’s gorgeous,” Darin breathed, craning his neck from where he sat on the front thwart to watch Finn as he dove under.

Finn swam ahead of them, dipping into different bays to scout them out. Conall longed for a place to call his own. No one held the land along the coast, and whoever pitched their tent first claimed it. If Conall built a hut there, he could live in nature and come into Esperanza for supplies.

Conall was lost in thought when Finn popped out of the sea at the side of the boat. The water darkened his curls and pearled off his skin. “Have a look at this one.” Finn pointed toward the mouth of a bay. “There’s a broad, beautiful beach.”

“It’s called Mosquito Bay,” Conall said. He knew the map of Vieques by heart, and the name of this area wasn’t promising.

“There are no mosquitoes,” Finn said. “And the beach is good, I promise.”

“Swim ahead,” Conall said, grabbing the paddles.

The damp wood was light in his hands, and the power of his muscular arms pushed them forward as they darted toward the bay. Darin couldn’t keep up, performing one stroke for every two Conall made, but it was the effort that counted, and Conall didn’t expect him to match his pace.

He had a few weeks to establish himself in the Esperanza area before he had to return to Vieques Town. The Brethren of the Coast was due to gather, and Conall was still a pirate captain, hence his attendance was expected, if not required. The Brethren was a loose association of pirates in the Caribbean. They oversaw the adherence to pirate code, regulated raids and held court. As captain, Conall was part of the Brethren, though not for much longer, if he began a new life.

The boat’s bow parted the waves, closing in on the beach. At the narrow mouth of the bay, less than a hundred yards wide at its slimmest, the current gained force, carrying the boat toward the shore.

The low evening sun reflected golden on sand and waves alike as the bow of the boat hit the beach. Darin grabbed a wooden post and a rope and jumped into the waist-deep water. He waded through the waves and took the boat by the bow, pulling it halfway onto the beach. There, he rammed the post into the sand, tying the boat to it. Conall handed him an armful of supplies, then grasped the gunwale with one hand and arced feet first into the water. It was pleasantly warm, gentle waves lapping at him.

He picked up Finn, wrapping one arm around his torso, the other supporting him below his butt. Finn pressed against Conall’s front, and a shaky moan escaped him. It caught Conall off guard.

“Sorry,” Finn mumbled, shuddering with what could only be arousal.

“No.” Conall kissed his cheek. “Don’t be.”

Conall carried him on land, holding him tight, thumbs caressing his skin as the occasional whimper fell from Finn’s lips. Was his need that dire? Conall and Darin had satisfied him in the morning. But that was half a day ago. How bad had it been for Finn before the potion?

Conall placed him on the woven seagrass mat that Darin rolled out, close enough to the shoreline for him to get in by himself should he want to, though Conall was ready to carry him.

He was about to sit on the mat when he spotted movement under the sand. The damp grains lumped, forming a heap akin to a small molehill, as something underneath the beach pushed upward. A crab?

“Look,” Finn squealed, taking Darin’s hand, pointing at the moving sand.

Conall crouched next to them to get a better look. The pile collapsed on itself, the grains trickling into a cavity underneath. A tiny black ball broke through the sand. Finn and Darin sucked in a breath. It wasn’t a crab. It was a hatching sea turtle.

The hatchling freed itself up to the front flippers, then stopped moving.

Darin made a concerned noise. “What…?”

“It’s resting. It just broke the eggshell. Must be exhausting when you’ve been born seconds ago.” Conall placed a hand on Finn’s shoulder, the softness of his skin almost making him moan. “Were you this cute when you broke out of your clam?”

A faint blush graced Finn’s cheeks, though, with his eyes trained on the turtle, he was only half-listening, his attention split. “The clam releases us when we’re fully grown,” Finn said as if that was an answer.

The hatchling’s flippers patted the sand, then it stilled. The task of freeing itself was an exhausting one in the first minutes of a turtle’s life.

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