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I start to put on a t-shirt with my boxers to sleep in, but Aleks stops me. “No shirt,” he says softly, like it is a question.
I indulge him.
Up in the loft, I crawl to the right side of the bed, adjusting the pillow before laying back and watching Aleks. He is naked, and his skin almost glows in the silver moonlight slicing through the window.
Aleks sleeps curled up in a ball on his side, long limbs wrapped around himself. His back is pressed to my side, and I exhale, exhaustion and relief rendering me spent.
I press a slow kiss to the back of Aleks’ shaved head. He smells like sweat on skin after a day at the beach, the hint of salt there behind the warmth of sun-baked skin.
My breaths, rather than slowing, pick up slightly in pace.
Mine. Mi sireno. Mine.
Chapter 9
Reassuring and Romantic Things
Aleks
“Where are we going?”
Javier walks ahead of me down the path between the stadium that houses the track and field events and the tennis courts. He’s in a pair of practical khaki shorts, a button-up linen shirt with a bright floral pattern, and a pair of sandals, reminding me of a Lowlander dad on vacation who is supervising his kids playing in the river.
He’s hot as fuck, and I still can’t believe he gave me a blowjob last night. And then falling asleep with his steady, soft body behind me—I don’t think I’ve ever slept so well.
This morning, I woke up to the familiar smell of chorizo, and the spicy pork, potato and egg tacos Javier made for breakfast were infinitely better than the food from the dining hall.
“Shouldn’t we be training?” I ask.
Javier turns back to look at me. A piece of his salt and pepper hair has escaped his low ponytail, and is fluttering against his face in the breeze. “Patience, boy.”
I sigh, annoyed, but also relieved I don’t have to worry. Not yet.
When we reach the huge, open-air practice pool, Javier leads us up into the stands. Once we sit, I turn my attention to the water.
Merpeople are practicing. There are two of them working on a duet, moving through a routine with the kind of precision you’d expect this close to a competition.
For a moment, I’m fucking jealous. It’s easy to see their strength from afar, the power imbued into every movement. And when they jump, perfectly executing a synchronized, mid-air twist, I let out a heavy breath.
I don’t have a fucking chance against athletes like this.
“Watch them.”
I let out a bitter laugh. “Oh, I am.”
Javier looks at me sharply. “What is that supposed to mean?”
I wave my hand in the direction of the two men moving through the water with their tails lifted at an exact, ninety-degree angle above the surface. “Look at them, Javier! I can’t do that.”
His expression softens. “Yes, you can. You were raised to dance in a very particular way. You were taught to dance in the water like a flower petal slowly sinking to the bottom, twirling, a thing of delicate beauty. Sirens are taught to slip through the water like you have no substance.”
I remember how my mother had praised the girls with slender bodies, how lean muscle had always been the goal, but never at the expense of the visual appeal.
“But you have substance,” Javier says, placing a hand on my bare thigh where my athletic shorts have slid up my leg. “You are strong, Aleks. Dance like it.”
Reluctantly, I listen to Javier as he points out the way merpeople swim, the way they wield the strength in their tails to get more lift on their jumps, or how they create beautiful wave patterns on the surface of the pool using their bodies to move the water.
I learned to dance in a way that avoided making waves. Like divers, we tried to slip below the surface without a splash. Our tails sliced, fingers trailed delicate lines, bodies sliding through the water on the path of least resistance.
