I have missed him.

I move to face him, and that’s when the pain reminds me that I’ve recently been stabbed. I bury my face in the pillow, but it doesn’t quite muffle my yelp.

“Emma?” Galen says groggily. I feel his hand in my hair, stroking the length of it. “Don’t move, angelfish. Stay on your stomach. I’ll go tell Rachel you’re ready for more pain medicine.”

Immediately I disobey and turn my face up to him. He shakes his head. “I’ve recently learned where your stubbornness comes from.”

I grimace/smile. “My mom?”

“Worse. King Antonis. The resemblance is uncanny.” He leans down and presses his lips to mine and all too quickly springs back up. “Now, be a good little deviant and stay put while I go get more pain meds.”

“Galen,” I say.

“Hmmm?”

“How bad am I hurt?”

He caresses the outline of my cheek. His touch could disintegrate me. “Hurt at all is bad enough for me.”

“Yeah, but you’ve always been a baby about this stuff.” I grin at his faux offense.

“Your mother says it’s only a flesh wound. She’s been treating it.”

“Mom is here?”

“She’s downstairs. Uh … You should know that Grom is here, too.”

Grom left the tribunal and headed for land? Did that mean it all ended badly? Well, even worse than my getting impaled? An urgent need to know everything about everything shimmies through me. “Whoa. Sit. Talk. Now.”

He laughs. “I will, I promise. But I want to make you comfortable first.”

“Well, then, you need to come over here and switch places with the bed.” A blush fills my cheeks, but I don’t care. I need him. All of him. It feels like forever since we’ve talked like this, just me and him. But talking usually doesn’t last long. Lips were made for other things, too. And Galen is especially good at the other things.

He walks back and squats by the bed. “You have no idea how tempting that is.” It seems like the violet of his eyes gets darker. It’s the color they get when he has to pull away from me, when we’re about to violate a bunch of Syrena laws if we don’t stop. “But you’re not well enough to…” He runs a hand through his hair. “I’ll go get Rachel. Then we can talk.”

I’m a little surprised that his argument didn’t begin with “But the law…” That is what has stopped us in the past. Now the only thing that appears to be stopping us is my stabby condition.

What’s changed?

And why am I not excited about it? I used to get so frustrated when he would pull away. But a small part of me loved that about him, his respect for the law and for the tradition of his people. His respect for me. Respect is a hard thing to come by when picking from among human boys. Is that respect gone?

And is it my fault?

After a few minutes both Mom and Rachel come to my aid. They give me pain medication and water. Then Mom announces that it’s time for a shower and fresh pajamas. She helps me to the bathroom, helps me wash, then helps me put a gazillion tangles in my hair while she shampoos it. And she actually thinks we’re going to leave it that way.

“I’m not going downstairs looking like a hobo,” I tell her. “We have to comb it.”

“That thick mess will break this flimsy comb. Can’t you just run your fingers through it?”

It’s weird to be arguing about my hair when we still haven’t discussed my wound, how I got it, and how I came to be snoring in Galen’s bed. We both seem to appreciate the bizarreness at the same time. Mom raises a brow. “Don’t think you get special treatment just because you can make a whale do the tango. I’m still your mother.”

We both laugh so hard I think I feel a tiny rip in my newly dressed wound. Without warning, Mom throws her arms around me, careful to avoid touching it. “I’m so proud of you, Emma. And I know your father would be, too. Your grandfather can’t stop talking about it. You were amazing.”

Ah, the bonding power of tangled hair and dancing whales.

She releases me the second before it gets awkward. “Let’s get you dressed. We have a lot to discuss. And I bet you’re starving. Rachel made you … uh … Upchuck Eggs.”

“She gets an A for effort.”

Mom hands me my clothes.

* * *

We find Galen and Grom sitting in the formal dining room, talking quietly to each other across the gigantic mahogany table. Steam billows up from several pots spread across it, polluting the air with the smell of seafood. Out of the sixteen glossy high-back chairs, I take the one next to Galen.

He stops his conversation with Grom and leans over to kiss my forehead. “How do you feel?”

“Hungry.”

Rachel sets a plate full of eggs, jalapeños, bacon, cheese, and a bunch of other ingredients that a less-famished person might care about. I don’t even blow on it before I spoon it into my mouth. As soon as I do, of course, Grom says, “Good morning, Emma.”

I nod politely. “Goo monig,” I tell him around my food.

Galen winks at me, then takes a bite of his own breakfast, which looks like a crab cake the size of his face. Also, it smells like dirty socks and sauerkraut.

“Emma, we were just discussing our plans,” Grom continues. “I’m glad you could join us.”

I take a sip of orange juice. “Plans for what?”