Page 9 of Claimed By the Deep
"Who are you?"
"My name is Cyreus." He sits on a stone outcropping across from me, moving like someone completely at ease in his body.The peacoat settles around him as he sits. "You nearly drowned. I brought you here to recover."
Cyreus. The name fits him, though I've never heard it before. At least, not outside of dreams that keep getting harder to write off as fantasy.
"Where ishere, exactly?" I look around the cave. "This air pocket—how is it so stable? Most underwater caves like this collapse or flood with the tides."
"We're in a sea cave system beneath the coastal cliffs, about two miles from where you were diving." He gestures toward the water's edge. "The geology here is unusual—limestone formations creating a network of connected chambers. This particular pocket has been stable for decades."
That checks out. The coast around Tidewash is riddled with caves and underwater passages carved by centuries of tidal action. During Prohibition, rum-runners smuggled liquor through these waters, and the old-timers still tell stories about hidden caves where they'd stash their cargo until the heat died down.
"Is this one of the old rum-running caves?" I run my hand along the smooth stone. "The fishermen always said they were just stories."
"The fishermen know more than they let on." A hint of amusement crosses his face. "This particular cave served that purpose. The stone platform was widened for cargo, and passages lead to other chambers deeper in the system."
That explains the worked stone and unusual dimensions. Prohibition smugglers would have needed good hiding spots to dodge Coast Guard patrols. A cave network with multiple chambers would be perfect.
"Have you found any artifacts from that period? Bottles, crates, anything the smugglers left behind?"
"Some. Most obvious items disappeared long ago, but tides occasionally reveal better-hidden pieces."
"Wait…How did you find me?" I cut to the chase. “How did we get here? How did you save me? You saved me!"
"Yes."
"How?"
For the first time, he hesitates. "I am a strong swimmer."
That's not an answer, and we both know it. I remember sinking, remember equipment failing, but details blur. Oxygen deprivation does that—scrambles your memory, makes everything dream-like.
Silence settles between us, comfortable yet charged. The cave no longer feels spacious as it did when I first woke up. The blue-green light traces the strong angle of his jaw, the shadow beneath his cheekbones, the way his dark hair falls against his forehead.
He possesses a beauty that reveals itself slowly—not the obvious kind that photographs well, but something more compelling that grows with observation. His features hold a certain sharpness, his complexion paler than normal, yet something magnetic pulls my attention back to him whenever I look away.
"Thank you," I offer quietly. "For saving me. For bringing me somewhere safe instead of handing me over to the authorities."
"I couldn't leave you." The words seem to surprise him as much as me. He recovers quickly, amending, "No one deserves to die alone in the water." The deep sadness in his voice hits me unexpectedly.
"Why?"
"Why what?"
"Why couldn't you leave me? You could have drowned yourself."
Silence stretches between us. When he finally answers, each word comes carefully measured.
"I've watched you for months. You return to the water despite danger, despite warnings. You..." He stops, reconsiders. "You challenge my assumptions about human fear of the unknown."
Humans, a weird way to put it. But his tone distracts me.
“Well, thank you.”
My eyes meet his. There’s something otherworldly about them.
His composure fractures, revealing layers beneath—hunger, hope, and fear all battling for dominance. For a heartbeat, I think he might reach for me, and my skin prickles with awareness.
Instead, he stands and moves toward the water.
