Page 10 of Claimed By the Deep
"We should return you to your vessel," he says, voice steady once more. "The tide's turning. The weather is worsening."
Only now do I notice the sounds filtering through the cave system—wind and waves growing stronger, the storm that threatened during my dive now arriving in force.
"How do we get back through this weather?" I ask, masking disappointment at his retreat.
"These passages connect to calmer waters on the headland's lee side. We can reach your boat without facing the worst of the storm."
"Through underwater passages?"
"For some segments, yes."
The prospect should terrify me after nearly drowning, but with Cyreus guiding me, I don’t feel scared at all. This feels like an adventure rather than a deadly risk.
"What should I do?"
"Hold your breath when I indicate. Trust my navigation through submerged sections. And—" He turns back, expression unreadable in the shifting light. "Don't let go of my hand."
His final instruction sends unexpected warmth through me. Whatever lies ahead, I won't face it alone.
"I won't," I promise, meaning far more than the immediate journey.
He nods, seeming to grasp my deeper meaning. "We should move. The passages grow more difficult as the tide shifts."
I gather my mesh bag with its mysterious treasures and stand, surprised by my steadiness.
"I need my wetsuit," I say, scanning the cave. "Where is it?"
"Drying over there." He points to a ledge where my neoprene suit hangs against phosphorescent stone.
His practical knowledge makes sense, but doesn't reduce the awkwardness of the situation. I'm wearing only his blanket, and donning a wetsuit requires a level of undressing impossible to do modestly in this space. Only then I realized he must have undressed me, too.
"Would you turn around?" Heat creeps into my face.
"Of course." He pivots toward the wall immediately, hands clasped behind his back with formal restraint.
I drop the blanket and grab my wetsuit, intensely aware of his presence despite his turned back. The cave air brushes against bare skin as his breathing creates a soft rhythm against the stone.
The wetsuit fights me, still damp and reluctant. I wrestle the neoprene up my legs, struggling to pull it over my hips and torso.
"Everything all right?" His voice maintains neutrality, but carries an undertone suggesting he's working to keep it that way.
"Fine," I lie, battling with the stubborn material. The proximity of this compelling stranger while I'm half-dressed creates a tension I hadn't anticipated.
I work my arms into the sleeves and reach for the zipper, finding it caught somewhere I can't reach. I twist and stretch, unable to free it from its stuck position.
"I might need help with the zipper," I admit reluctantly.
He turns slowly. His gaze takes in my predicament—cold wetsuit half-on, hair tumbled around my shoulders, zipper caught at an impossible angle.
"May I help?”
I nod and turn, presenting my back. His fingers brush my neck as he works the zipper free, the contact sending an electric current down my vertebrae.
"There," he murmurs, but doesn't immediately complete the task. His hands rest lightly on my shoulders, his body close enough that I feel his presence rather than his touch.
We remain frozen in this moment of connection and restraint. I fight the urge to lean back against him, to discover if those careful hands could explore with the same precision they've shown in every other task.
"The zipper," I remind him.
