Zykanth isn’t boiling in my chest, slithering, alert, and tapping at my ribs. Not even at the sight of four walls carved from the stuff he’s feeble for, roughly hewn in a way that makes my aching heart flutter. That would usually have him losing his fuckingmind. What’s more, I’m laid out on a soft nest in the corner with thick, white pelts covering mylegs.
My weakness.
Wild fear coils up my spine, frighteningly aware that every moment I’m severed from Zyke weakens our connection.
Weakenshim—something too many of us learned the hard way.
‘Where are you?’
Nothing. Like he’s burrowed so deep inside my chest I can’t catch even a glimpse of his silver scales.
But he’s there. I can feel his dull and distant beat.
Faint ...
Why is it so faint?
A memory strikes, and I’m sucked into its churning fury.
Zykanth growing sick of following the ship from a safe, comfortable distance. His desperation to take over the reins. He just wanted to catch a glimpse, see her for himself. Confirm she was okay.
And thenhewasn’t.
I remember the deadly thud of pain—too close to Zyke’s heart. Remember his savage surge of pulverizing violence.
The boat tipped. Screams silenced in increments as sharks tore and thrashed and chewed.
Drifting into the deep, dark hollows, leaving a plume of blood in our wake. I shovedhiminside my chest so I could cradle him close. Protect him. Heal him.
He didn’t even fight.
The sight of the bolt straight through my chest.
The encompassing blackness a never-ending unknown as pain overrode my ability to function.
Giving myself to the sea’s pull.
A guttural sound rips up my throat, and I grip a fistful of furs, tugging them down.
My breath catches.
There’s a large scale stamped over my pectoral, concealing the wound I can feel gored right through me.
It’s bronze and shimmery.
Not mine.
I pick at the edge. Try to peel it up—
There’s a sharp hiss, some hasty shuffling, and then my hand is slapped.
A dainty, ethereal face eclipses my view of ...everything.Long, wayward hair littered with twigs floats around a fresh, unfamiliar face like a scribble of whitewash. I look into wide, sunshine-yellow eyes framed by alabaster lashes that brush snowy brows as she scans me up and down.
She’s half my size but assessing me like it’s the other way around. A brown shirt almost swallows her whole, hanging to her knees and rolled to her elbows, concealing most of her shape bar spots where the material’s torn or frayed—small windows that reveal hints of filthy, sun-brushed skin.
“Who areyou?”
I don’t recognize the croak of my voice.
