He stares at me, his mouth parting. He doesn't scream, or make an attempt to pull away. He simply stays there, pinned between my heavy, scarred body and the stone. His sun-kissed hand reaches out, instinctively gripping my shoulder.
His touch is warm. Too warm.
I am a creature of the gray. I am a shadow that clears grates and fixes nets. I am the plain, invisible Kael. I am a rock.
But holding this riot of red and cream in the middle of a collapsing reef, I realize the sea doesn't care. For the first time in my life, I don't want to be invisible.
"You," he whispers. The sound is a shimmering vibration against my skin.
"Me," I say, my grip tightening.
I should let go. I should push him back toward the lights and vanish into the trench before his people find me.
Instead, I hold on.
Because the sun is in my arms, and for once, the dark can wait.
Chapter 3
The Gravity of Kael
Vaelis
Theseadoesn'tcalmso much as loosen its grip.
The pressure eases first in my gills, a slow release that lets water pass through without the frantic, forced rhythm of survival. My breathing steadies. Behind me, the stone still hums, a low vibration traveling up my spine as the reef continues its agonizing settling, but the current has lost its violent intent. It moves now with the weary uncertainty of a storm that has spent its rage, churning the silt into tasteless soup.
The shark-mer feels the shift at the same instant I do.
His body, which had been a rigid shield against the crushing current, softens. He angles his large frame toward the fissure's opening, his attention no longer on me but on the water itself. His dark eyes narrow, listening to frequencies my Vael ears can't. His focus sharpens, transforming from a wall of protective force into something more analytical, more predatory.
It's astonishing how quickly fear can be rewritten into trust.
Moments ago, his presence was the definition of terror. Now, pinned between his scarred chest and the groaning stone, he is the only fixed point in a world that has come undone.
"The surge is breaking," he rumbles. The vibration of his voice travels through the water, humming against my sternum like a distant engine coming to life.
I nod, accepting his assessment without understanding the language of the water he speaks so fluently. My body still thrums with leftover adrenaline, muscles coiled and reactive, but beneath the tremble, something steadier has taken root.
He eases his grip, not releasing me entirely but creating a space between our bodies that feels vast and cold. The loss of his warmth is immediate, a shock that makes me want to lean forward again.
I stop myself, fighting the instinct to seek the solid comfort of his presence.
He notices.
His dark eyes flicker to mine, acknowledging the reaction without comment.
"Stay close," he says instead, his voice a low warning. "The throat of the fissure is still hungry."
I swallow against the raw, metallic taste in my throat. "Which way?"
He glances upward, where silt clouds the water, then toward the deeper shadows of the trench below.
"Not up," he states simply.
I didn't need the warning. Above us, the ceiling of the shelf groans, a sound like a giant's joints cracking, suggesting it hasn't finished its collapse.
Leaving the fissure proves more treacherous than entering it. The stone at its mouth has shifted, edges now jagged as broken glass, creating a labyrinth of sharp obstacles in the still-churning water.
