Page 19 of Claimed By the Deep
"I've been heating the water around us. The surrounding ocean is dangerously cold."
The changes are subtle but unmistakable to my enhanced senses—her altered scent, microscopic muscle tremors, the bluish tinge creeping into her lips. We've stayed submerged far longer than safe for a human, regardless of her diving experience.
"I don't even feel cold," she protests, but a visible shiver contradicts her words.
"That's precisely the problem. You've progressed beyond accurate self-assessment." I navigate us toward Deep Pockets, my tentacles supporting her weight while my humanoid arms hold her close. "The hypothermia is already affecting your judgment."
Her lack of argument tells me everything. The Meri I've observed these past months would challenge me, insist she knows her limits better than any creature, terrestrial or otherwise. This quiet compliance is more alarming than her pallor.
I lift her onto the dive platform, rivulets streaming from her naked body in the steel-gray afternoon. Her skin has taken on a marble-like quality, and the shivers have evolved into persistent tremors.
"Cabin," I direct, remaining in the water. "Dry yourself, start the engine, and activate the heating system."
"What about you?" She looks back, concern for me somehow overriding her own deteriorating condition.
"Cold water is my natural environment. I'll be fine."
She nods and makes her way unsteadily toward the cabin. I track her progress, noting her compromised coordination and increasingly erratic movements. When she fumbles with the cabin door, I nearly surge from the water to assist her.
But boarding her vessel creates complications neither of us is prepared to address. My true form is too obviously alien, too large for her small boat. Converting to human shape while she's in danger would be selfish—my comfort isn't worth risking her safety.
The cabin lights flicker on, and Deep Pockets' engine growls to life. The boat's heating system will help, but I need to ensure she's taking proper precautions.
"Meri," I call. "Are you getting dressed?"
"Trying," comes her muffled reply. "My fingers won't cooperate."
Classic hypothermia symptoms. Even mild cases impair fine motor skills and cognitive function. I should have monitored the time, paid attention to her core temperature instead of losing myself in her responses. My negligence endangered her.
"Dry clothes first," I instruct. "Then something hot to drink. Coffee, tea, anything that will warm you from inside."
"I know standard procedure," she says without her usual edge. Just fatigue.
I remain near her boat, monitoring cabin sounds. The shower runs—good, gradual rewarming is safer than sudden temperature change. Yet I'm plagued by an unfamiliar impulse to board her vessel, to wrap myself around her and transfer my body heat directly.
This protective instinct surprises me. My species doesn't typically form attachments so rapidly, but something about Meri has bypassed my normal emotional regulation. The knowledge that she's suffering while I float uselessly outside creates a strange constriction in my chest cavity.
Twenty minutes later, she emerges bundled in layers of clothing, moving with improved stability. Color has returned to her face, though she clutches what appears to be her third cup of something steaming.
"Better?" I ask, raising myself higher to assess her condition.
"Much." She settles onto the stern bench, both hands wrapped around her mug. "Thank you. For looking after me."
"I should have been more attentive. What happened was my fault."
"We were equally distracted." A flush spreads across her cheeks, and I catch the echo of our shared pleasure resonating between us.
But reality reasserts itself with the storm's growing intensity. She needs to return to harbor before conditions worsen. She has a business, obligations, a life that existed long before I entered it.
"You should head back," I say, the words scraping my throat like coral. "The weather is deteriorating, and you need proper shelter."
She nods but makes no move to prepare for departure. Instead, she studies me with those keen eyes that seem to cut through water and flesh alike.
"What happens now?" she asks softly.
The question I've been dreading. What does happen now? I've observed human courtship rituals for decades but never participated in them. I understand the mechanics but not the aftermath.
"I don't know," I admit. "This is uncharted territory for me."
