At first, nothing appears but the pathetic bobbing of warning knots. Disappointment lands like a sharp, physical kick in my chest. It's for the best. I should turn back to the cold.
Then, a ripple.
A ribbon of movement catching the faint light filtering down from the moon.
He is there.
He's even more vibrant in the moonlight. The silver rays from the surface catch the cream of his tail, turning it to polished ivory. He is doing exactly what he did before. Lingering. He touches the warning knots, his long fingers trailing over the fibrous kelp with restless energy.
As I watch him, that same irritation rises in my throat. He is so visible. So exposed. A rogue hunter would have teeth in his throat before he could even gasp.
I should stay hidden. Watch him for a moment, satisfy this strange hunger for color, and then return to my grates.
But then, the sea decides to be honest.
A sudden surge, a leftover ripple from a previous tide, slams into the reef. It is not a large wave, but it is sharp. It hits the weakened section of the stone with a sickening, grinding thud. The vibration rattles my jaw before the sound reaches my ears.
The stone cracks.
The betta-mer jolts. He reaches for the reef, but the current is treacherous, spiraling inward as the hollow stone collapses. It pulls him. Not out to sea, but down into a newly opened fissure in the basalt.
A hungry mouth.
He thrashes. It is the most undignified thing I've ever seen.
His long, beautiful fins become a liability, tangling in the swirling silt, catching the edges of the jagged rock. He is drowning in his own finery.
I don't think.
Thinking is for those with time for useless ceremony. My body is an engine of instinct, built for the exact moment the water turns violent.
I push off the sand. My tail snaps with enough force to send a cloud of silt into the fans.
I cut through the water like a spear.
I reach him as the current tries to shove him into the jagged throat of the fissure.
I don't grab him gently. I lack the hands for it.
I slam into him.
My mass pins him against the solid part of the reef. I spin him as we hit, forcing his back against the stone so my body takes the brunt of the current. My broad, scarred chest crushes against his own, hard as iron. My rough skin scrapes against the rigid scales of his torso, the friction sending a shock of heat through the cold water.
He lets out a sharp, muffled cry. A burst of bubbles rises between us, brushing my neck.
I lock my arm around his waist, anchoring us both.
He isn't small. His shoulders are broad, his muscles lean and wiry beneath my grip, but he lacks density. There is no heavy weight to him. Against the dense, granite solidity of my own chest, his ribs feel stark and rigid. He is built for the drift. I am built for the crush.
The water roars past my back, frustrated, as the stone settles with a final, heavy groan. For one heartbeat, the only sound is the frantic thud of his heart hammering directly against my chest.
It beats too fast. A frantic, driving rhythm.
I pull back enough to look at him. Up close, the red of his hair is blinding. His gold eyes are wide, filled with a terror so pure it turns my own blood cold. He looks at me, truly looks at me, and I witness the exact moment he realizes what I am.
Shark. Predator.
"You need to breathe," I growl. It's the first time I've spoken to anyone outside my family in years, and my voice sounds like grinding gravel. "And stop flailing. You'll shred your fins."
