Page 98 of Drown Me Gently

Auren flipped him off, still grinning, as the ocean shifted beneath him.

With a sharp chirp, Iska surged from below, lifting him easily onto her sleek, scarred back. She chattered, circling the ship with joyful leaps that sprayed salt into the air.

Auren clung to her, beaming and breathless. “My loyal girl,” he murmured, stroking her side.

Above them, Ulric watched with that storm-swept smile of his—equal parts hunger and awe.

And in the rain, with the sea rolling beneath him and laughter in his chest, Auren had never felt more alive.

And it was here, as Iska spun beneath him and salt kissed his lips, that Auren felt the last echoes of his past self. A self with a different body, belonging to a different world. A world of coral thrones and bioluminescent tides. A boy of the sea, not the sun.

They had first discovered the final dregs of that ancient magic the last time they’d accidentally sailed into a storm. Auren felt it again now, humming beneath his skin, pulsing in his blood as surely as he tasted the sea on his tongue.

It was, perhaps, a mercy from the god of the ocean. A final gift. A whisper of what had been lost.

He closed his eyes and let go.

The transformation was gentle this time. Skin shimmered, then shifted, softening into scales of emerald green. His legs fused, and the aching stretch of muscle gave way to fluid grace. The sea accepted him like an old friend. When he opened his eyes again, the world was brighter, sharper—alive.

He was Mer once more.

But not entirely.

Gills no longer opened at his throat. His chest rose and fell with the sharp rhythm of air, not water. Though his tail gleamed just as it had when he was a prince beneath the waves, it only came during the storms. When sky and sea were at war, and the veil between worlds thinned.

He could not breathe below the surface. That world was still barred to him. Lost.

So Auren surfaced often, like Iska with her blowhole, drawing great gulps of air before diving back down. The rhythm became second nature. Up, down. Breathe, glide. A shared cadence between a merman who had once belonged and a creature who had chosen him anyway.

Together, they raced.

Through the waves, into the storm’s heart, leaping high before crashing back down in twin arcs of silver and black. Auren laughed as they spun, Iska clicking and chirping her joy, their movements seamless with the sea.

For a little while, they were just wild things. Free. Full of salt and speed and the memory of a world that still lived in their bones.

And even if he could never fully return, Auren had this.

Only after Auren was breathless—lungs burning and vision bright around the edges—did their play finally come to an end.

“I can see you eyeing that school of sardines,” Auren panted, brushing water from his face. “Go hunt. I need to catch my breath before you drown me for real.”

He pressed a kiss to Iska’s wide, glistening nose, and she chirped in response, before wheeling around and charging into the school of silver fish.

With a final gasp of sea air, Auren turned and glided toward the ship, curling his hands around the rope ladder that swung against the hull. He paused there, floating for a heartbeat, eyes closed, calling to the sea, coaxing the magic that lived under his skin.

Muscle shifted. Fins dissolved. Skin changed.

When his toes met the bottom rung, he began to climb.

Water streamed from him, a trail of salt and magic, puddling beneath each step as he hauled himself aboard. The sea calmed somewhat, though the wind still tugged at the sails and the sky above churned, like it might crack open again if provoked.

He scanned the deck for Ulric, frowning when he didn’t see him, until he tilted his head up.

And there he was.

Ulric’s Kraken form clung to the rigging like something summoned from a sailor’s nightmare. All nine of his great tentacles moved in seamless coordination, curling through ropes, securing knots, hauling lines that would take six men to move. His two arms moved in sync with the rest. Stormlight glinted off his bare chest, catching on every curve and hollow, while damp curls clung to his jaw. No ink marked the Kraken's skin. No tattoos, no sacred vows, no binding script. Nothing to tie him to the god of the sea.

Auren watched in awe, mesmerized by the eerie elegance of it—how the tentacles didn’t always wait for direction, how they moved as if obeying instinct, or perhaps thought. They worked with purpose.