His eyes fluttered open, his pupils blown, highlighted by the tiniest sliver of emerald green. “I haven’t done this before.”
“This?” I echoed.
Cormac hissed and waved a hand towards our hips. “This.”
Crude, crass, sexual Cormac Illfinn. The Mer-King with dreams of being surrounded by beautiful women in a harem—dreams I had personally seen when I’d saved his life—
Was a virgin?
I watched him as if I’d discovered an entirely brand new species of animal.
“...You?”
“Yes, me.” He bit out.
“But you always—”
“I know.” Cormac snarled.
“But...” I choked on my tongue. “Why?”
“I was waiting.”
“For who?” I asked. “Or what?”
Cormac closed his eyes again. “My Shíorghrá.”
I knew that word. How did I know that word?
I sounded it out through numb lips.
“Shíorghrá?”
Cormac eyed me as if I were mad. “Mer do not have Shíorghrá as the Undine or the Kelpies do, with markings that glow unseen. We don’t have skins to gift. Or brands, like the Nymphs.”
“How do the Mer find their mates?” I asked, sinking lower into my own self-loathing every moment.
Was Cormac saving himself? Had I pushed, demanding intimacy, when it wasn’t wanted?
“Mer do not have fated mates. Not as the other creeds do.” His chest puffed up proudly. “We forge our bonds. When a female accepts the bond, her scales begin to change until they match their partner.” He told me. “My scales are red.”
An image flashed in front of my eyes. Of the pinkish hue of my scales, in the water. Once opalescent, changing to a subdued rose quartz.
My breath locked in my chest.
“I don’t hate you, Maeve Cruinn,” Cormac told me. “You’re my Shíorghrá.”
Chapter Seven
Rainn Shallows
Smoke turned the night sky to a wash of grey, so thick that Rainn struggled to see more than a foot in front of his nose. Every breath burned, a thousand prickles down to his lungs. The smoke was more painful than anything he had encountered in his life.
The fire was not a usual fire. It held none of the tang of a campfire or the familiar scent of the trees native to that part of the Night Court. It was acidic. Rancid.
Despite every part of his body warning him against pressing forward, Rainn and Shay Mac Eoin made their way through the forest, squinting against the smoke. Seawater-soaked rags tied to their faces, to form a barrier against the smoke—not that it did much of anything.
They moved in silence, falling back to the patterns of war and ambush.
