Chapter 28
Phoebe
Castletide
The entire ocean seems to move like a living thing, pushing Kael and me back towards the keep.
My limbs feel hollowed out and full at once—hollow from what I nearly lost, full with something fierce and mounting that has no name but his.
He moves with that quiet command he always has, every motion a claim, his whole being pulsing with possession and a need to care for me that makes my knees weak.
When we reach Castletide, he doesn’t slow. His merman body reduces, tentacles becoming legs once more.
A wave lifts us onto the dock, and he moves without skipping a beat. Simply carries me straight through the pearlescent halls, past lanterns that throw soft green light over his skin, until we reach our chambers.
“Kael—”
“Not yet,” he growls and walks us straight into the bathroom.
It smells of steam and crushed mint and something floral that reminds me of home.
He sets me down by the great tub and looks at me with an intensity that makes my breath stutter.
Without a word, he lays a hand on my shoulder, and the world blurs—his magic again, gentle this time.
My ruined clothes peel away in a warm shimmer.
I feel the wet fabric lift from my skin like a tide pulling back. He is already nude, I feel my mouth open as I take in his muscled form.
He’s perfect. Beautiful. Unlike anything I’ve ever seen.
And all those old doubts I used to have about myself, my body? They don’t even register.
“Never doubt yourself, Telya. Every inch of you is perfect. I adore every freckle and dimple. All of you, Telya. I cherish all of you.”
My breath catches. My gaze locked on him.
“But if you keep looking at me like that, I’ll fuck you on this sea stone floor. Hard. I won’t be able to be gentle. I can’t be right now. And all I want is to take care of you.”
I think he means it as some sort of admonishment.
But really, I feel fine if not a little shaken.
And more than a little interested—because really, the idea of fucking my fine as hell mate anywhere is enough to leave me wet and wanting.
Still, he is careful, reverent, as if even the cloth between us were sacred.
When he steps back, I watch him, every scar and curve made holy by the fight he’s just survived.
Then he moves back a step, entering the tub first, and the water rushes around him in a warm, glowing whirlpool that murmurs like the sea itself.
“Come,” he says, voice low.
There’s exhaustion and relief and something like prayer braided into it.
I take his hand, and he pulls me into the water.
Heat floods me—muscles unclench, aches soften, the chill of terror melts away.
