“Absolutely not.”
His expression falters, and fuck, he looks wounded.
I sigh. “Fine.” The second I grab it, I regret everything. It’s so much heavier than it looks, and before I can brace myself, my knees buckle. “Shit!”
I go down hard, hitting the damp earth with anoofas the weight of the thing completely overpowers me. For a moment, there’s silence.
Then Kael laughs. Not just a chuckle. A full, chest-rumbling, unrestrained laugh.
“Oh, fuck you,” I wheeze from the ground.
He hovers between laughter and concern, like he wants to keep enjoying my suffering but also maybe realises I’ve actually taken a hit.
Then my amusement fades. A sharp sting flares up my back. I wince.
Kael’s laughter dies immediately. The shift in his demeanour is so fast, it’s jarring. One second, he’s amused. The next, his eyes flash, and a visible tremor runs beneath his skin.
“You’re hurt.” His voice is low. Rough. Like the words physically pain him.
I push myself up, rolling my shoulders as I leave the fish-thing to flop uselessly beside me. “I’m fine. Just a cut.” I hope. It hurts, but I can’t see it—not without twisting in ways that I definitely was not built for. The pain is above the waistband of my pants, a sharp sting that’s already making my skin prickle uncomfortably.
Kael’s gaze is locked on me. His nostrils flare again. His bioluminescent markings pulse.
I shift under his scrutiny, suddenly very aware that something about this has rattled him. “Kael?”
No response. Just intensity. The air between us changes, something charged settling in his stance. And I have no idea why.
Then he moves.
Not just moves—stalks.
Every step is measured, predatory, his luminous eyes focused on me with an intensity that should have me backing up, telling him to calm the hell down. Instead, my breath catches, my skin burns, and holy shit, is it hot out here, or is it just me?
My fingers twitch at my sides, my pulse a chaotic drumline in my ears. I swear my throat’s gone dry, but it’s nothing compared to the heat coiling low in my stomach. His movements shouldn’t be this hypnotic, shouldn’t send a thrill down my spine, shouldn’t make my body react.
And yet.
“Turn around,” he rumbles, voice like the start of a storm, “and take off your shirt.”
I blink. “What?”
His eyes flash. “Spin. Now.”
I roll my eyes because fuck that tone, but before I can tell him he’s being dramatic, he lets out a low, guttural growl.
My skin pebbles.
My dick? Hardens.
Oh holy shit.
This is wrong. So wrong. I think I might actually come in my pants from the sound of his voice, which means something is fundamentally broken in me.
But I also do as he asks.
The second my shirt is off, I feel him close. So close. And yet he doesn’t touch me. There’s a moment of absolute silence before a noise rips from his throat—low, raw, pained. It jolts through me, a shock to my already-fried system, and I go to turn towards him.
I don’t get the chance. His three-fingered hand lands hot and solid against my bare waist, stopping me in my tracks.
