“Can you feel it yet?” Her voice is a thirsty plea, her shoulder moving faster,faster—
Can you feel that, my pretty, pretty boy? That’s fucking love, that is.
“Yes,” I say.
Lie.
She groans, grabs my hand, and drags me toward the bed.
Caped in my heavy cloak and a fresh layer of determination, I move through the gloomy jungle alight with chirping crickets, the air so thick and warm it clings to my skin.
Guided by boastful shards of moonlight, I ease through the thick foliage, finding the trail Cainon took me down when he led me to the Unseelie burrow.
Emerging onto the exposed shore, silence greets me, the ocean a stretch of silver that looks smooth enough to tiptoe across—all the way to the shadowed island crouching in the distance.
I sigh.
If only it were that easy.
“Please be there,” I murmur, plucking my path around the cove, making out the sharpest peaks by the way moonlight hits their jagged faces. “Pleasebe there …”
Seeing the small boat nestled amongst the rocks, my shoulders slump with relief.
I make short work of the knot tethering it to a large stone, then dump my cloak in the hull, roll my pants, and drag the boat along the rocks toward the glassy bay, wincing at the shrill, grating sounds that score the silence.
Not exactly the quiet getaway I was hoping for, but there’s no turning back now.
Wading thigh-deep into the cool water, I ease the vessel off the shore and glide it across the surface, then half leap, half tumble into the hull, limbs flailing as the boat rocks. Scrambling up, I find my center of balance and settle onto the seat, slide the oars down the rowlocks, then roll them forward andpull.
The paddles skim the water, carving across the still.
I don’t move an inch.
Frowning, I glance over my shoulder at the island in the distance …
This might take a while.
With a groan, I roll them so far forward I grate my knuckles on the rim, then dig the paddles deep into the water, andheave.The boat jerks a few feet, and a gleeful sound bursts out of me, swiftly smothered.
Suck stones, Cainon. Look who can row her own boat.
I throw the oars forward and dig them deep again, again,again—shoulders burning, arms straining, gaining slow but steady traction toward my destination. I push free of the small bay and into the open ocean, the water a mirror beneath me, throwing back a perfect reflection of the moon and sprinkled stars. It’s almost heartbreaking to rip a line straight through the middle.
Cutting a glance across my surroundings, my feet tingle, the sensation spearing up my legs and into my guts. I pause, suddenly aware of the vastness beneath me …
I release a snarl and plunge my oars into the water.
Don’t think.
Just do.
* * *
Blisters bulge on my palms, agitating my still-raw wound, a lather of sweat slicked down my spine by the time the boat scrapes along some shallow rocks that threaten to tear a hole in its hull. Glancing behind me, I see the shore no more than fifty feet away.
A relieved sighwhooshesout of me.
Pulling the oars back through the rowlocks, I lay them in the hull, stretch the ache from my burning muscles, and grip the side before easing off the seat, slow and cautious.
