Page 9 of Currents of Desire

Jack blinks. He looks at my mouth, then my eyes. He seems surprised that I can speak at all. Slowly, his knees popping, he stands, then nods once, a silent acknowledgment of the predator’s need.

He leaves the room.

I am alone in the white shell.

I listen to his heavy footsteps retreating down the hall. Panic flares, a cold, sharp spike in my gut. If he leaves me here, in this small box of stagnant water, I will die. The oxygen in this basin is finite.

I cannot move.

I am trapped.

I try to shift my tail, but the porcelain is slippery, and the space is too small. My fluke hits the metal tap with a clang that rings in my ears, and I hiss. I am vulnerable here. Exposed. If he returns with a weapon, with a spear or a net, I have nowhere to go. I am a queen of the ocean reduced to a curiosity in a jar.

I examine the wound in my side. The water is clouding slightly with my blood, a teal-black swirl against the white tub. The wood is gone, but the hole remains. It will heal, given time and food.

Mostly food.

The footsteps return.

He appears in the doorway, holding a plate. On it lies the flesh of the reef. Raw, pink, and white filets, glistening in the harsh artificial light. Snapper. I can smell the salt on them. I can smell the fear the fish felt when it died.

The man inches toward the basin's edge. A pale strip of flesh dangles from his trembling fingers. Fear rolls off him in waves—a smart reaction when offering food to something that views his hand as just another meal.

Water explodes as an arm breaks the surface. Claws scrape across the soft, radiating heat of his palm, snatching the prize before he can even blink. He recoils with a sharp gasp at the freezing contact, but the prize is already gone.

The meat slides down the throat in one ragged, unchewed lump. Cold. Sweet. It hits the bottom of a hollow gut like a lead weight, finally dulling the agonizing cramps. Torn muscle and tissue immediately scream for the raw protein, desperate to knit back together.

Bloody water drips from a heavy jaw. Across the room, the man refuses to step any closer. Instead, the next chunk sails through the air.

Jaws snap shut around it mid-flight.

A third piece follows. Then a fourth. The pristine tiles around the basin are quickly painted with splashed water and shredded sinew. There is no grace in survival. Starvation leaves no room for anything but teeth, blood, and the desperate, violent urge to live.

When the plate is empty, I lick the grease from my fingers. The webbing between them is sensitive, picking up the storm’s vibrations and the man’s rapid pulse in front of me.

The man remains rooted to the floor, knuckles white around the empty plate. Revulsion twists his features at the slaughtered, bloody mess of the feeding, yet his gaze doesn't waver. Wide, dark pupils track every movement. A frantic pulse beats against the thin skin of his throat—terrified, but completely anchored to the spot.

Across the room, a fresh crimson stain spreads through the white cloth wrapped around his forearm. With the immediate starvation finally dulled, the sharp, copper scent of human blood cuts through the damp air. It hangs there, thick and heavy.

Down in the dark water, a torn vein means something. An unreturned strike changes the hierarchy. He took the claws, let his blood spill, and didn't fight back. That makes him part of the trench now. Claimed.

A dripping hand extends toward him.

His shoulders flinch, muscles locking tight, but his boots stay planted. A single, wet fingertip presses against the soaked bandage. The searing heat of his wound bleeds instantly onto freezing, pale skin.

Above the ruined arm, his gray eyes are wide and locked on the contact. The terror is still there, sharp and bright, but he doesn't pull away. He doesn't strike. He just lets it happen.

“You bleed,” I say, my dual-voice vibrating against the tiles, filling the small space with a resonance that rattles the mirror.

I press my finger into the wound, just hard enough to make him hiss. A fresh well of crimson seeps through the fabric, coating my fingertip.

“My mark.”

I speak the words like a tether snapping taut.

Jack stares at me, forgetting to exhale. To him, this is just an injury, and I am just a beast acknowledging the blood. He has no idea what he has triggered.

I bring my finger to my lips and lick it clean. The taste is startling, heavy, warm, and metallic.