Page 11 of Making Out With Mermaids (Haven Ever After #6)

CHAPTER ELEVEN

BETMAL

A matheia’s eyes light up as we near the portal. I keep one hand around her waist, my fingers digging into her soft skin, not that she seems to notice. At the portal, she pauses and stares in apparent wonder.

“I’ve never seen ours,” she says softly. “It seemed a waste to walk all the way here just to see it, knowing I couldn’t step through.”

Spinning in place, I tickle her side. “Perhaps you simply needed someone to accompany you, a travel partner, as it were.”

She smiles. “Perhaps. Now that you’ve opened this door, maybe I’ll never be content to stay in one place again. Actually, I’m certain I would be that way if I had the money to disappear all the time.” Her smile grows viciously broad. “Well, I suppose when you pay me a million dollars, I’ll be able to go anywhere I want.”

Little does she know we are going to address that topic ASAP. I resist the urge to offer to extend our trip. Gods know, I’d love to. I grin at her playful quip.

Instead of spoiling a surprise, I return her happy look. “Ma siréne, if this idea is successful, a little bit of travel is probably in our future, assuming you’re willing to continue this journey with me.”

I didn’t think her eyes could light up any more, but I can see the idea take root in her mind. She looks positively delighted.

“Let’s go,” she chirps, clapping her hands together. Like every time she’s excited, the wavy tips of her ears bend and twitch.

After guiding her up a few steps, we push through the portal’s chilly green surface and into a long tunnel that leads to the new Grand Portal Station inside an old building at Hearth HQ. Amatheia stares around as we walk through, and when we emerge on the other side, she gasps aloud, spinning in place with her hands clasped to her chest.

“Gods, Betmal. Look at that! A gargoyle just above the door! That’s exactly how I pictured it!” She turns before I can answer. “And yes! That’s how I imagined the portals to be, all around the edge. But, oh, Thalassa below, I forgot Higher Grounds had a second location here. Look at it, it’s just beautiful .”

I can’t pull my eyes from her as she absorbs the Grand Portal Station. Architecturally speaking, it’s stunning with the green portals placed around the edges of a long, well-lit oval. Above us, the faux sky sparks and sputters with thunder and lightning, even though rays of sun peek through to shine into the station itself. The weather’s different all the time. Gargoyle guardians stand quietly at their stations, there in case of any sort of attack on the portal.

“So,” I begin, “the mate of Pietro and Alessandro from Higher Grounds, Alessandra, designed and pitched this station to Evenia. It only exists because she took a chance. The entire station actually sits within a small haven encased inside this building. At any moment, if there were a security incident, they could redirect this haven to Belcastle Prison and keep Hearth HQ safe.”

Amatheia listens with rapt attention as I guide her across the black-and-white-checkered floor toward the center.

“Listen,” I stop us both and move my hand to her waist, “would you like to sit here and draw for a while before we go to Arcadia?”

She nips her lip and looks around, eyes wide as she takes in the bustling portal station. Turning to me, she nods, looking thrilled. “I’d love that, actually. Just for a few moments, if it’s alright?”

“Of course.” I curl my fingers into her skin, rubbing soft circles as I stare into depthless, beautiful wide eyes. “Pick any seat you like. I’ll grab us coffee and a little treat, and I’ll find you in a minute.”

She beams at me. “Alright, Betmal.”

Leaving her to find a spot, I head to Higher Grounds’ newest location and order a Type A latte for myself and a pumpkin cinnamon latte for her. After picking out a few baked treats that I’ve learned she likes, I pay and return to the center of the portal station.

Amatheia sits at a chunky wooden table with four chairs, legs crossed as she sketches in her notebook. I set our luggage down and slip into the seat next to hers, handing her the coffee. I place the muffins and scones in the center of the table, then reach into my sling bag to withdraw my notebook and pencils.

She reaches for a scone and takes a bite, watching me. When I sip my drink and begin to draw a beautifully potted money tree situated between several of the tables, she looks over with interest.

“I keep forgetting you’re an artist too.” She leans closer, watching as I sketch the base shapes of the tree first, then begin to layer on the more intricate details. “Thalassa below, you’re good. Why aren’t you doing the art for the book yourself?”

I smile. “I’ll likely include a piece or two, but I want your work to be the highlight.” I gesture at the troll female she started sketching in her notebook. “You capture emotion in your sketches. I want to bottle that sentiment up and imbue it into the welcome books. I don’t draw in the same way.”

She takes a sip of her latte and lets out a happy moan. “This is so good. Thank you, Betmal.”

Unbidden, the mental image of her on her knees before me, thanking me for feeding her my cock, takes over rational thought. I grit my teeth to avoid turning and sinking my fangs into her throat. Emotion rampages through me, and I focus on allowing it to simply be. That need, that want, that intense desire to bite and fuck and claim.

It means something, something I’ve wondered about since the moment I first scented her and was so drawn to introduce myself. Something that’s clear to me now.

She’s my mate.

My partner.

Mine in every possible way.

And I know that because I was never like this—obsessive, possessive, inflamed—by Evenia or Aberen. It was all intense sexual promise with them, and as a younger male, I admired their ambition. I had it too, and we were so powerful together.

But Amatheia unleashes something in me that I barely keep restrained. It’s as if my entire world focus shifted to her, and I will not be happy until I spend all day every day putting a blissful smile on her face.

She takes another sip, a happy hum leaving her plump lips as she begins drawing again, focused on the troll female seated at the table across from ours.

A smile tips my lips upward, joy coursing through me at realizing so completely what she is to me. I stare at her, watching the tips of her ears twitch happily as she sketches. She moves the pencil across the paper with confident, practiced slashes.

And I cannot stop staring.

She’s beautiful inside and out, and I have the rest of my life to learn every intricate, intimate detail of her.

Mine.

Mine.

Mine.

I don’t bother to hide the fact that I’m looking, and she says nothing, simply drawing and sketching as I watch. Eventually, she finishes the troll woman’s likeness and turns to me. When she notices how I stare, she blushes but smiles.

“Everything okay, Betmal? Are you ready to go? I got lost in the drawing.”

I sip my latte. “Okay, ma siréne? No. I am fascinated . It is absolutely delightful to watch you work.” I lean closer, slinging an arm over the back of her chair. This near to her, the scent of her blood fills my senses, white hot swirls of heat building deep inside me.

I gaze at her work, admiring every gorgeous detail. After a few moments, I look at her, my mouth close to hers. “Your likeness of her is stunning. Well done, darling.”

“Thank you,” she whispers, eyes roaming my face as her heart rate kicks up.

I drop my focus to her lips, admiring how perfectly bow-shaped they are. Bringing my gaze back up, I lean a little closer, close enough that we’re almost touching.

“Are you ready, my sweet?”

She seems to search my face for something, eyes flickering from my mouth upward and back down. Her chest heaves softly, blood rushing through her veins as her body reacts to mine.

“Mmm, ma siréne, you tempt me.” I reach out and drag my knuckles along her angular jawline. “What an enchanting creature you are.”

She leans into my touch, mouth dropped slightly open as she stares at my fangs.

I hold the moment for a second, then two, then three, enjoying the sight of my woman.

My woman.

At long last.

I’m going to tell her what she is to me on this trip. Now that I’m absolutely certain, I need her to know.

Leaning away from her, I stand and offer her my hand with a teasing smile.

“Shall we go, darling?”

She pauses for a moment, staring up at me, then takes my hand and allows me to pull her upright. When she rises, she steps forward enough to press her body to mine, glancing up with a deadpan look, though I can see she’s holding back a smile.

“You’re such a good business partner, ma vampíre. So…attentive.”

I roar out a laugh at the new moniker and she slaps my chest, grabbing my shirt and pulling me toward the wall of portals. I grab our things and guide her carefully through the throng of monsters toward Arcadia’s portal door.

She turns to me before we step through. “I looked up the French word in a book at the historical society. French does feel nice on the tongue.”

I resist the urge to comment about other things that feel nice on one’s tongue.

She seems to understand because she blushes and tucks her hair behind her wavy ears. “You said Arcadia’s different from Ever, right?”

I nod. “It’s a kink-based haven. It’s very common to see public sex on the street and in any of the restaurants and businesses. It’s also a place of healers—troll healers, to be specific.”

She snaps her fingers in apparent recognition. “Oh, I’ve read about that…” her voice trails off. “I learned you can come here to spend a week or two with a troll, engaging in, well, you know.”

Uncharacteristic jealousy burns bright in my chest at the idea of her here, engaging in I-know -exactly- what .

“Ultimately,” she says with a sigh, “I decided there was no use in fixing my pain if I had to put on the same prosthetic, so I never explored that path. Maybe I should have.”

Gods, it takes every ounce of strength I have not to pull her to me and say no, I don’t want a troll touching you. I don’t want anyone touching you. Only me. We will heal this together, but the only hands on your body will be mine.

Instead, I focus on getting her through the portal and out the other side. The Arcadia portal station is beautiful, showcasing the mountains off in the distance. It’s snowy and thundery here, and she seems to love that. Just as I thought, she’s shocked when we leave the portal station to see trolls and giants leading one another around on leashes.

I enjoy her running commentary as we walk slowly through town, until we reach our street. “Come, ma siréne,” I encourage, tugging her with me into a shadowy stone alleyway.

Her blue eyes go wide, but she nods and tucks her body closer to mine.

Sixty feet from the main road, I open a door. The sign above simply says Martin’s.

Amatheia looks up at it, then hobbles carefully through the door and into the dimly lit shop. Inside, boxes are stacked to the ceiling, and dusty books cover every surface. Martin’s never appears to be well organized, but he knows precisely where everything is.

On cue, a handsome vampire emerges from a back room with a hammer in one hand and a rag slung over his shoulder. Long black hair is pulled into a bun on top of his head, pieces of it framing a square face. As always, he wears a V-necked tee that exposes his family tattoos. He’s been the black sheep of his house for centuries, and I think he loves showing off the family crest to prove he doesn’t give a fuck what anyone thinks, least of all his purebred-loving vampire grandparents.

“Greetings, Betmal,” he croons, slipping across the store toward us with a sensual grin.

When he winks into view right in front of Amatheia, she sinks against me. If he notices the move, he says nothing but smirks and glances at me as if to ask if she’s mine.

The moment stretches long, as I shoot him a look. Eventually, he sighs. “Come to the back, beautiful one. Let’s take a look at what you need.”

Amatheia looks up at me.

“I’ll be there the whole time, if you’d like,” I confirm.

When she nods, I follow them to the back.

“Right there.” Martin points to a chair. “Take your leg off and set it aside, please.”

I help Amatheia into the chair as Martin sits on a spinning stool and wheels himself over to us. He looks up at her. “I’m going to handle your knee and leg. Please tell me honestly if anything hurts. My goal is to understand what’s wrong with your prosthetic now, so I can craft one that fits you and your lifestyle.”

For the next half hour, he examines every inch of her knee and what remains of her leg. He questions her about her level of activity and desired level, and what challenges she’s experienced. Hearing her talk about her leg and how it’s held her back crushes my soul. It’s hard to remind myself that we’re here to buy back the freedom to do what she wants, when she wants.

Examination concluded, Martin looks between us. “I can do this, but it’ll take several weeks.”

That won’t do.

Summoning a power I possess but almost never use, I focus deeply on Martin’s ruby eyes. “You can have it ready within a day, actually. That’s what you told me before, remember?”

Amatheia watches the exchange with her head cocked to the side.

My power of influence isn’t very obvious to anyone not under its sway. But from the outside looking in, I expect it appears…strange. I haven’t needed to use it in hundreds of years. But this? This calls for an encouraging .

“I…suppose I could,” Martin hedges, his eyelid twitching. “But I really?—”

“Must complete this quickly,” I remind him, pushing my influencer power into his mind, reworking his priorities so Amatheia fits at the very top of his to-do list. “It is imperative you complete your work for her within a day’s time. You’ll do that, Martin.”

“Of course,” he reassures us, looking somewhat stoned and confused. “Right away, of course.”

I call my power back. I don’t like to use it if the circumstances aren’t dire. But I consider these to be so.

Amatheia says nothing, watching in silence as Martin confirms the details of where we’re staying. She’s equally quiet as we thank Martin and take our leave, heading toward the elegant hotel I booked for us.

As we near it, I realize she hasn’t said a word. Glancing down, I scratch at her side. “What is it, ma siréne?”

She halts and looks up at me, dark aqua brows bunched together. “Did you do something to him?”

Surprised she noticed, I run a hand through my hair and straighten my shoulders. I won’t lie to her, so I nod. “Yes, darling. I have the very rare power of influence. I can make anyone do anything I want, a shocking power, really. One I use infrequently, as you might imagine.”

“But you did it right now, to get him to help us first. Didn’t you?” She plants both hands on her hips.

Uncharacteristic nerves bubble my stomach. “I did.”

“Why?”

“Because I’d do anything to fix this for you as quickly as possible, and he is always booked out far ahead of time.”

“With monsters equally deserving of a pain-free life,” she states, lifting her hands to cross her arms. “It’s not right.”

“It’s not,” I admit. “But I would give anything to spare you another moment of pain, even if it means putting everyone else after you on my list of priorities.”

This is going mightily sideways, but when I reach for her, she steps back. Immediately, she hits a pile of boxes and is thrown off-balance. Before I can catch her, she falls to one side, landing on a pile of building supplies. I grab her, but not before a piece of metal gashes her thigh, opening a wound several inches long.

She gasps and yips as I hold her tightly. Blood drips from the wound down her thigh. The scent of it is a battering ram to my senses, smashing its way through rational thought as my fangs descend to poke my lower lip.

She watches, eyes going wide as a needy growl rumbles from my throat. I drop to a knee, focused on the blood. Forcing myself to remember that she’s in pain, I look up from my spot at her feet.

“We need to get this cleaned up. I’m going to carry you to our rooms, and we’ll talk when we get there.”

A clipped nod is her only answer. In front of my face, blood drips from the wound. One lick is all it would take to close that gash up, but she won’t understand if I don’t explain more fully. And I have a lot of explaining to do, it turns out.

Standing, I pull her into my arms and slip through the streets until we reach Hotel Asara, a vampire property I’ve stayed at many times. I sail through the grand entryway, passing the check-in. I’ve been here so many times, I have my own key. The difference is that, this time, I’ve booked adjoining rooms and ensured that Evenia and Aberen no longer have access.

Moving swiftly to the top floor, I slide my key into the lock and swing the door open. I cross the room and deposit her at the foot of the bed, careful not to jostle her injured leg. Dropping her bag to the floor, I focus on her injury and not throwing myself on top of her like a madman to lap at the delicacy flowing from her thigh.

“Do you use that power on me?”

Her question catches me off guard, and I halt my perusal as I shake my head vehemently. “Never, ma siréne. I haven’t used my gift in several hundred years. I don’t use it unless it’s life and death.”

“My leg is not that.”

“I don’t agree.” I point to the gash. “I can close that up and heal it, but it means I’ll need to lick the wound. Would you allow me to do so?”

She narrows her eyes. “Why is everything you do sexual? Is anything ever just…normal? I need a Band-Aid.”

“Normal?” I plant my hands on either side of her, backing her flat onto the bed. “No, ma siréne, I’ve never been accused of anything so boring as normal. Now, will you allow me to heal you?”

She sits up onto her elbows. “How is your tongue going to heal me?”

I slip down her body to her waist, eyeing her even as the blood scent is a near physical caress to my cock. “Trust me for a moment. I’ll show you.” Glancing up at her, I cock my head to the side, breathing over the wound.

She stiffens but nods.

Steeling my resolve, I lean down and bring my tongue flat to her thigh. I drag a slow, steady path along the cut. She hisses, but there’s something else there. As the depthless taste of her caresses my senses, her scent deepens and blooms. She’s ocean spray and swirling waves crashing against my mind. She’s the tide, drowning me in pleasure as I lap at the wound, depositing my saliva. Her hips rock slowly, a soft moan pulling my focus to her.

When our eyes meet, she blushes and runs a hand through her hair, looking away from me.

“I’m sorry,” she sputters, but I?—”

Growling, I lick a harder path over her thigh, pulling a second needy moan from her.

“Goddess,” she grits out. “Give me a second, Betmal.”

When I lick again, an equally needy moan erupting from my throat, she shoves at my head. “Stop, please. Goddess, please, Betmal!”

Panting, I shift upright, her blood dripping from my fangs and down my chin. Need and lust and worry for her war within me, even though I know, when I look down, the wound will be closed. Amatheia lies beneath me on the bed, skin flushed, chest heaving as her thighs tremble.

It takes every ounce of control I have not to slip her miniskirt up and part her thighs.

She stares at me, eyes wide, mouth still open. Then, she glances down at her healed leg. Her mouth drops wide open at finding the wound gone. She stares at me.

“How? Why? I’ve never heard of this. I thought you were kidding!”

Now is the time for honesty.

“Because, ma siréne,” I murmur, keeping my eyes locked to hers. “You are mine, my mate, and, so for you alone, the gods have blessed me with this gift.”