My startled cry never hits the air, only the water as he bulldozes me off the boat. The water is clear, more clear than any part of the ocean I’ve been in. Even through my thick skin, I register the drop in temperature from Tennessee summer day to Tennessee summer creek.

Reed grins so big his dimples look almost like holes punctured in his face. “You realize you had that coming.”

“I didn’t figure you’d take it lying down.” I laugh. In fact, I sound delighted under the circumstances.

“With you, I’ll take it any way I can get it.”

Awk-ward. Also, ew. “Reed—”

“Too much too soon?”

“Too much anytime. I’m with Galen. We’re going to be mated.” But I recognize the trace of doubt in my declaration.

He makes a show of looking around. “Really? I’m not seeing Galen anywhere. As far as I can tell, it’s me and you here.”

“That was a low blow.” I turn away from him, intent on swimming back to the boat. Within seconds, I feel his pulse grow stronger, and I know the exact moment he’s about to grab my wrist. I swirl around. “Don’t touch me, Reed.”

His face is all remorse. Genuine anguish. “I’m so sorry, Emma. I know he’ll come back. Heck, he’s probably on his way right now. If you want, I’ll take you to the hotel so you can wait for him.”

I don’t like how pitiful that sounds. So you can wait for him. My emotions engage in a tiny skirmish. On the one hand, I left my phone in my room, telling myself that taking it fishing would be asking the universe to throw it in the water. On the other hand, I didn’t take it because I already doubted Galen would call, and I’m sick of checking my phone every thirty seconds to see if he has at least texted me.

My phone and Galen’s empty hotel room are anchors weighing me down. Things will work out with him, I just know it. But for now, I have to let it go. Yes, Reed is morphing into a scandalous flirt. But once he realizes I won’t budge, he’ll give up.

All I really know is that I can’t stay locked away in my room waiting for a phone call that may not come for days. I have to live life. I have to have my own identity outside of Galen. It’s only fair.

“Why don’t you take me cave diving?” I say finally. “If Galen does come back and finds me gone, he’ll know that I’m exploring Neptune. He knows that’s why I wanted to stay a few more days.”

Reeds nods. “Are you sure? I’m so sorry, Emma. That was mean, what I said.”

“I’m positive. Stop groveling. It doesn’t suit you.”

He grins. “Well, then. The nearest cave is quite a swim away and against the current. You up for it?”

I eye the boat behind him. “I want to cave dive. Not exhaust myself getting there.”

“Come on, princess,” he laughs. He tries to put an arm around me, but I slither away from him. He takes it in stride. “We’ll take the boat until we have to make a swim for it.”

And that’s when I discover that getting into a boat from the water is like trying to catch a fish with my mouth. Not gonna happen.

16

GALEN WON’T look up at his captor, which forces him to look down at his now-shredded shirt hanging like a loose net from his body. There are still small cuts on his side and on his back where Tyrden missed the fabric and connected with skin. Every time Galen adjusts in his chair, the shallow slices burn in protest, reminding him that they’re still there.

Tyrden had used the blade quickly, in quick chopping motions, stripping Galen’s shirt from his body piece by piece, sometimes forcing him to suck in or lean away to avoid getting deep gashes in his skin. Every time Galen gave an evasive answer—which was most of the time—Tyrden took to swiping the blade erratically, not caring if he hit or missed. Galen maneuvered away as best he could. Sometimes it worked. Sometimes it didn’t. The scratches were mostly grazes, but some nicks here and there were just large enough to cause Galen some discomfort.

He wonders what Tyrden will use the blade for once the clothing is gone. He has come to learn that the older Syrena is very good at the art of anticipation. It would help if I could figure out his motives. At least then he could give him passable—though untrue—answers while also avoiding the lacerations he’d earned by being impassive.

But so far, Tyrden has asked such random questions that Galen can get no sense of what his purpose is, which is probably the point. Questions like, How many Syrena are loyal to the kingdoms? Have they started any new traditions? How far can your Trackers sense? What do the ocean dwellers do for fun? Do they still use lionfish venom for their spears? How many come ashore nowadays? What is the ratio of males to females?

All Galen knows is that Tyrden has an insatiable curiosity about the makeup of the kingdoms—and that he’s designed at least one weapon that easily cuts through Syrena skin. Not a good sign.

The sound of the heavy boots walking back toward him makes his stomach simmer. This could be much worse, Galen tells himself. He thinks of Rachel and what she’d told him about methods the Mafia used for torture. This isn’t torture, not compared with that. This is … intimidation.

Suddenly, the air is saturated with the smell of cooked fish and Galen can’t help but look up this time. Tyrden takes a seat in front of Galen and crosses his legs, careful not to spill the steaming plate of food in his hand. Galen hates his stomach for growling so loudly.

Tyrden chuckles. “Nothing like a big pile of fish to keep you going, huh, boy?” He scoots the chair closer to where Galen sits, so that their feet almost touch. Then he waves the food inches from his face, making sure the white steam undulates right into Galen’s nose. Galen’s stomach groans ferociously. Traitor.