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“I agree. Not nearly enough.”
“Not at all,” I snap, though my pulse betrays me with every frantic beat.
“I am the Demon Lord of Water,” he says, leaning closer, his voice a tide I can’t block out. “I sit on the throne of Castletide. I am the King of Currents, the Master of the Tide—do you not fear my wrath, Lady Phoebe?”
I should.
God, I should.
He looks every inch the storm he claims to command, all carved muscle, and glowing runes, spiraling horns, and sea storm eyes that could drown me in one look.
But fear isn’t the thing licking at the base of my spine.
“Fear yourwrath?” I say, holding his gaze even as my throat goes dry. “No.”
Your kiss? Maybe,I add silently, because the memory of his mouth on mine—oxygen and salt and sin—still burns hotter than his threats.
Something flickers across his face, dangerous and beautiful, like lightning caught between clouds.
I sit back, heart pounding, clutching silence like a shield, because if I say one more word, I might not be able to pretend I don’t want him.
We continue to eat in charged silence, and I’m so distracted I don’t even pretend to eat less than I normally do.
What would be the point in that?
When we are finished, Kael doesn’t ask if he can walk me back to my rooms.
He simply rises, offers me his hand, and waits until I take it—like the decision is mine, even though we both know I don’t have many of those left.
His shadow looms behind him, longer than anyone else’s in the kitchen.
I don’t know if that’s because he’s the Demon Lord of whatever, or simply because he’s so big. He must be nearly seven feet tall, but his movements are graceful and fluid—like an athlete or a ballet dancer.
Like the water.
“I can find my own way back,” I murmur, looking anywhere but at him.
“No,” he says, calm but final. “You’ll walk with me.”
It isn’t a request.
And to my complete disgust, my stomach does that swoop thing—like when the roller coaster drops and you don’t know if you’re screaming from terror or delight.
Fine. Let him play tour guide. I can roll with it.
We step into one of those endless corridors lined with sea-glass windows, the air warm and carrying that briny, storm-kissed scent that clings to him.
His stride is purposeful, long. Mine is more stubborn. Slow. Designed to make him wait—for me.
“So, what’s the deal?” I ask, my voice sharper than it needs to be, just to prove I still have teeth. “Do you always abduct women mid-shift at aquariums, or am I just lucky number one?”
The corner of his mouth twitches, like he might actually laugh.
“The sea doesn’t choose often, Phoebe.”
“Oh, great. So, I’m a lottery ticket.”
He glances at me. His eyes are stormy-dark and too damn intense.
