Page 79 of The Merman's Betrothal
He wrapped his legs around Fionn’s body, grabbed hold of Fionn’s arms and used every ounce of strength to ram himself against Fionn’s cock. Fionn tried to mouth something, some instruction or warning but Rory was having none of it. He buried whatever the words were in a savage kiss, biting Fionn’s lip and drawing blood.
He felt so fucking free of himself. Like he’d cast off an old coat that had been dragging him down. He was free and he had Fionn and he had the ocean and that was all he needed.
It was the tickle of fins that finally broke Rory from the kiss. Drawing away, he discovered Fionn looking woozy, possibly close to passing out. His knot was slowly shrinking, reducing Rory’s ecstatic delirium to a mere lustful haze.
Rory looked about for the fish that had distracted him. He caught sight of something fluttering, a translucent crimson sail. A fin sprouting from his own forearm.
Rory wasn’t sure how long he stared at it. Certainly long enough for Fionn to recover and join him in staring.
‘What is that?’ Fionn asked. Something like fear tiptoed in his voice.
‘I was hoping you’d tell me.’
Feeling a touch delicate, Rory slipped his body away from Fionn’s. He released a breath as the merman’s cock came free, experiencing a certain relief at the absence of pressure.
The fluttering thing on his left arm seemed like a fish fin. Extremely thin, flexible spines held the membrane together. When Rory flexed his arm the fin straightened, became slightly rigid. There was a matching one on his right arm.
‘Turn around,’ Fionn said.
As Rory did, he discovered new resistance as he tried to move through the water. There were two more of these sail-like fins, one running down the outer-length of each leg. And something protruding from his back. He twisted to get a better look—
‘Spines,’ Fionn said dully. A light had gone out of his eyes. ‘You have red fins and spines.’
Rory clocked the blood glistening on Fionn’s bottom lip and instinctively ran his tongue over his teeth. They seemed much sharper than they should be.
For some reason, the wordscrooked spineflashed through his head. Rory glanced down at his hands.
There was a band of translucent, faintly reddish skin between each of his fingers.
Don’t panic. I’m already a merman. This isn’t a reason to panic.
But even as Rory tried to convince himself, the emotions flowing through the bond from Fionn told him otherwise.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Fionn felt too hollow to panic.
‘It’s all a lie,’ he said numbly.
Rory was busy twisting in the water like a shark chasing its own tail fin, trying to get a better view of the long, skinny spikes protruding from his back. They appeared to be made of bone and followed the curve of Rory’s spine. One from each vertebra.
Rory’s DeepSong became wobbly and hard to understand. ‘This isn’t… bad, right? Not like… some merman… disease or… something?’
Fionn could see it was taking Rory some effort to keep his composure. He gleaned from their bond that it wasn’t so much the physical transformation that was spooking Rory, as Fionn’s own inner turmoil in response to it. This thought sank his mood further. Their bond. Their false, empty, worthless bond.
‘What’s wrong?’ Rory asked, the distress now clear in his song. Fionn realised the water was turning bitter, poisoned by both of them.
‘You are Redfolk.’ The words were heavy in his mouth. ‘Or your lineage is, at least. No Bluefolk have these traits.’
‘Why do you sound like that?’ Rory’s song was like a whisper. It held fear. He’d discerned the emptiness to Fionn’s DeepSong: it had lost its deeper cadences and now entered the current as toneless voids of noise.
‘I am broken-hearted and a fool.’ Fionn knew he owed Rory some explanation, despite how much it pained him to put into words. ‘I tried to tell you yesterday. I am cursed, Rory. Cursed to be bonded to the first Redfolk that I lay eyes on. That Redfolk just happened to be you.’
‘I don’t understand.’
What was there to not understand? Couldn’t Rory grasp the futility of it all?
Fionn placed a hand over his chest, where he felt Rory’s emotions churn with his. ‘This is no fated soul bond. We are not soul mates. It is a trick. A lie. A manipulation based on centuries of tradition and political scheming. You and I are not meant to be, Rory Douglas.’
