Forgive My Fins

Every instinct and mer law I’ve been taught since birth commands me to keep our secret from humans at any expense, but I don’t really have a choice. That kiss made this moment inevitable.

If this were Brody, it would be so much easier. I’ve been waiting for three long years to tell him the truth. But Quince? I’m not exactly prepared.

His eyebrows pinch together. He looks like he’s thinking really, really hard. And things are starting to connect in his brain.

“You know,” he says, sounding skeptical, “that salty bath made me feel a world of better last night.”

“It did?”

“And drinking the saltwater didn’t dry me out. In fact”—his eyes narrow—“it made me feel superhydrated.”

Ah-hem. “Good.”

Why do I have the feeling I’m not going to have to figure out how to tell him anything? Maybe the bond is already giving us both some insights.

“Come to think of it,” he adds, “you seem to take long baths pretty regularly.”

“Hey,” I shout, momentarily offended out of my anxiety by embarrassment. “You are such a peeping perv—”

“Lily”—his voice drops to an unusually serious level—“was there something more you wanted to tell me?”

“Well, actually,” I reply, unable to look him in the eye any longer, “there was one thing….”

When I don’t finish, he says, “And that would be…?”

I drop my head and mumble into my chest. For the love of Poseidon, this is harder than I ever imagined.

“What was that?” he asks, cupping my chin and forcing me to meet his questioning gaze. “I didn’t quite catch it, since you were speaking at the sand.”

“I said”—I twist out of his grasp and face him with as much fake boldness as I can muster—“I’m a mermaid.”

His mouth drops open a little. I find myself staring at his lips, the same ones that were kissing me just last night. They are quite nicely formed. I never bothered to look before—since they were usually engaged in finding ways to mortify me—but they are nice and full, without being too soft. Kind of, as Shannen said, Brad Pitt–like. No wonder they felt so good—

Holy crab cakes, what’s wrong with me? Why am I suddenly fanta—No. No, no, no. I am not fantasizing about my archenemy’s lips! I must be totally losing it. I have way more pressing matters to deal with at the moment.

“Huh,” Quince says, like he just saw a monkey riding a dolphin or something. Then he laughs. “That explains your bizarre obsession with fish terminology.”

More laughter. I scowl. There’s nothing amusing about this situation.

“Well, that’s not half of it, buster.” I slam my palms against his chest, sending him toppling back onto the sand. “You’re turning into one, too.”

He starts laughing even harder.

“What’s so funny?”

“Aw, hell, Lil,” he says. “Irony’s a bitch.”

I scowl harder. He is such a lunatic. Maybe I should just leave him here to dehydrate—

“I can’t even swim.”

Great. I jab both hands into my hair and hang my head. Why am I surprised? Nothing about Quince has ever made my life easy. Thalassinia is forty-five nautical miles due east, and the blowfish can’t swim. The sun is already closing in on the western horizon. There’s no time to waste.

“Well, you’re going to have to learn,” I say, leaping to my feet. “And fast.”

“Hold on there, princess.” He stops laughing long enough to stand up. “Water and I are not exactly friends. I prefer transportation with wheels.”

“That doesn’t matter right now,” I say, walking down to the ocean’s edge and kicking off my shoes.

“The hell it doesn’t,” he growls.

“Listen.” I turn to face him, hands on my hips. “We’re working on a tight time schedule here. We don’t want to be caught in open sea after dark.”

When the sun goes down, the ocean turns into a war zone. All the biggest and baddest come out, and some of them have a taste for mermaid. Swimming the night sea without a guarded escort is shark-bait suicide.

He crosses his arms across his chest. “What exactly is going on?”

I can see I’m getting nowhere with him until I explain a few things. “When you kissed me last night, a bond formed and you began to turn mer. Your body started preparing itself for saltwater immersion, raising the saline levels in your skin to compensate—that’s why the salty bath felt so good. Salivary glands near the top of your throat grew into gills so you’ll be able to breathe underwater.”

“Wait a second—”

“The chemistry of your lymphatic system is changing so it can regulate your buoyancy.” I try not to laugh at the thought of Quince floating along on the surface as I drag his sorry self all the way to Thalassinia.

“My buoyancy was just fine—”

“Oh, and the bond?” I add before things go from bad to beyond repair. “Is this kind of chemical-hormonal-emotional connection thing that can kind of muddy your feelings. So don’t go getting all mushy on me. We’re not really falling for each other, even if we start to think we are.”

Good advice for me, too.

I can’t even imagine anything worse than thinking I’m in love with Quince. I’d be too embarrassed to ever leave the sea again.