Page 9 of Making Out With Mermaids (Haven Ever After #6)

CHAPTER NINE

BETMAL

T urquoise lashes flutter against aqua-dusted cheeks as she brings her focus to my mouth. For just a moment, she seems lost in staring at it. Then, she looks up into my eyes and waves a hand at me as the corners of her lips twitch.

“Coming back to your earlier comment, perhaps this just seems charming because I don’t get out much.”

I hold back the laughter that threatens to roar out of me at her dry humor. Instead, I take a step closer, close enough to slot myself between her thighs. Placing one hand on the counter and the other at her waist, I lean down until my mouth nearly brushes the shell of her frilled ear.

“This is a professional business meeting amount of charm, ma siréne,” I whisper. “Imagine if I were courting you. It’s unfathomable how much charm I can muster when the occasion calls for it.”

Her scent melts at the edges, taking on that burnt caramel hint again. Straightening, I bring my gaze to hers, nipping my lower lip as I wait for her to say something.

If she’s ruffled by my teasing, she doesn’t show it other than a hint of dark aqua color on her cheeks.

She rises, taking a step closer to me, so close her breasts nearly brush against my chest. Her gaze wanders again, down to my waist and then back up until her focus is fully on mine.

“What a shame I won’t see that extra charm, then, given we are here in a strictly professional capacity. You did offer me a job. That would be quite the power imbalance, don’t you think?”

Oh, we are dancing on dangerous turf. She’s being playful, but there’s an undercurrent of true worry to the way she phrased that comment. Given that she just told me she wishes to escape the lake, and needs money to do it, that’s not surprising.

I remove my hand from her waist and take a step backward. Grabbing the tray of snacks in one hand, I offer her my other arm. “Absolutely nothing is coming between me and this art, ma siréne, I can promise you that.”

She takes my arm with a soft smile, silent as I guide her around the island. Silence reigns as we cross the backyard, but when we enter the first floor of the workshop, she gasps aloud. Dropping her hold on my arm, she spins in a slow circle, mouth dropped open as she takes in the changes.

“We’ve been hard at work these last few days.” I point toward the front corner, which gets the most sunlight. “Stacks of canvases are there, any size you like. Paint wherever you want to. I can move the canvas stand around per your instructions.”

As if on cue, the cottage shimmies the walls, and the pile of canvases shakes and rattles, making itself known. The cottage is so proud to be ready to use, and I love that.

I walk across the open-concept room, past plush twin sofas to deposit the snacks on a small kitchenette island. When I return to her, Amatheia is still staring at the entire room like it’s a dream come true.

“What do you think?” I drum my fingers on her side, recalling her attention.

“It’s beautiful,” she murmurs.

“You sound shocked,” I tease.

“I couldn’t quite see your vision a few days ago.” She smiles up at me. “But you and the cottage created something truly unique. It’s the perfect workspace. But…” Her voice trails off, and she looks up at me in apparent worry. “How will I keep it clean? Painting is inherently messy, and this place is picture-perfect.”

“Oh, I bought a cleaning spell for that,” I say with a laugh. “But in all reality, I suspect she’d like to get a little mussed with paints. While we’re lovers of beautiful surroundings, we want them to be and feel lived in.”

“Perfect,” Amatheia murmurs, clasping her hands as her gaze roves over the area where I stacked the canvases. She glances up at me. “I was thinking of painting Town Hall first. What do you think?”

I hand her a notebook with all the ideas I’ve been doodling over the last week or so. “My ideas, ma siréne. Take from it what you will. Use or don’t use it as you please.”

She takes the leatherbound notebook and clutches it to her chest. “Done.”

I point toward a black leather cabinet next to the paint stand. “Inside that tall chest are all the paints and brushes I have, but please let me know if you require anything else.”

With a big smile, she walks over to the chest cabinet and opens it. Immediately, her face lights up as she examines each big jar of paint and the variety of brushes I purchased.

The moment stretches long and silent between us. I don’t force it. I let the tension build, knowing she’ll say something first. Knowing when to remain quiet is a skill I developed at a very young age.

On cue, she runs a hand through her long dark hair. “I’ll get started now, I guess. Are you going to watch, or…”

I shake my head, jerking a thumb toward the open staircase leading upstairs. “No, darling. I’ll be upstairs working on designing the typography and interior formatting. I can do nearly all of that without the art, but I’m here if you need anything.”

When she nods, I reach out and rub my hand up the back of her arm.

“Shout for me if you require anything, anything at all. Even snacks, ma siréne.”

She laughs. “I’m not calling you down here for snacks, Betmal.”

Oh, sweet girl, I think to myself. One day you will.

* * *

A week. It’s been a blissful week of Amatheia coming to the house to paint. In that time, she’s managed to come three days and completed a painting of Town Hall and another of Downtown Ever’s Main Street. They’re whimsical but elegant, exactly what I wanted for the welcome book. She works at a near feverish pace, to the point of me wondering just how desperate she is to leave the lake.

I’ve already photographed the art and begun to combine it with everything else, printed out and laid out on the kitchenette island for now. I don’t want her to have to come up to my office to see the book starting to take shape.

I scan a few pages of typography for the welcome letter as I head to the main house—Ama needs more snacks. When I reach the fridge and grab the handle, the front doors swing open, and Morgan’s voice floats to me from the front of the house. “Betmal? Can I come in? I brought you some dinner!”

Smiling, I head for the entryway. My daughter-in-law walks down the long hallway toward me, her auburn hair piled into a bun high up on her head.

When we meet, she leans in with a feral grin. “Is she here right now?”

“Yes, darling.” I take the casserole dish from her and gesture to the kitchen. “Shall we put this in the oven to stay warm and go say hello?”

“Oh, I’d love that.” She claps her hands excitedly. “You don’t think she’ll mind being interrupted, do you?”

I head for the kitchen, where I put the casserole into the oven and turn it on low.

“No, darling, I don’t think so.” I stand and plant both palms on the island. “If I’ve learned anything this week about Amatheia, it’s that she’s happy to talk about the process and her work. I’m sure she’d love to show it to you.”

Morgan smiles and leans over the island, looking at a printed copy of the typography page I’d been holding. After a quiet moment, she looks up at me. “This is looking really beautiful, Betmal. You have quite the eye for design.”

I cross my arms and lean against the oven. “Where do you think Abemet gets it from?”

“Noted,” she says with a laugh, glancing out the back window toward the garden cottage. “Gods, that’s cute as hell. You built that cottage pretty fast.”

The kitchen windows open and shut in rapid succession, the house happy our guest noticed the new addition.

“We were highly motivated.” I gesture toward the lush backyard garden. “Shall we find Amatheia?”

Morgan follows me across the simple backyard. Amatheia’s outlined in the window, sunlight illuminating her dark hair as she bends over the canvas, lost to her work.

When Morgan and I enter, Amatheia looks up, a paintbrush in her mouth and another in her hand. She removes it and puts them both in a jar of water on the window ledge. The cottage rumbles happily beneath our feet.

Morgan waves. “Hey, I don’t know if you remember me. I’m Morgan, Abe’s mate.”

“Of course,” Amatheia says with a tender smile. “You were there when I was injured. You tried to heal me, Doc Slade said.” She blushes. “I know it turned out to be complicated, but thank you for giving it a whirl.”

“That’s right.” Morgan frowns. “Pissed me right off that I couldn’t help. Turns out black magic can’t heal everything. Revenants and very old wounds are nearly impossible. I’m sorry for that, and what you went through.”

Amatheia shrugs, glancing between us. We haven’t talked about the attack. I only know because of Catherine, but perhaps she assumes I’ve already learned about it.

My intuitive sense pings, suggesting the girls could use a few moments alone. I love that Morgan’s here and that she and Amatheia can have time together.

“Alright, my darlings,” I point toward my second-story office, “I’m going to head upstairs for a bit, but shout once you’re hungry, and we’ll eat.”

Morgan winks at Amatheia. “I brought casserole.”

Leaving them in the front room, I head up the elegant open staircase to my loft office. It takes up nearly the entire second floor, with a railing on one side that opens into the space below. Sighing, I drop into my new, bloodred leather chair, rolling to the expansive desk where I’ve been working all day. Loose sheets of paper litter the top of it, dozens of sketches from this morning and the coffee shop earlier this week. I set down the sheets I’d carried to the main house while I was lost in thought.

I’ve got so very many ideas for the book’s interior. That’s what I’d like to focus on today. But as Amatheia talks to Morgan about her in progress paintings, I lose my ability to focus on my work.

I quietly roll my chair to the edge of the second floor, just far enough that I can see them down below. Amatheia sits on a tall stool, sketching on a large canvas. It’s fascinating, watching her work. She hums and speaks quietly to herself. Does she know she does that? Morgan asks questions about the process, and Amatheia answers with gusto.

Her ears flex, stretch and flare while she traces the outline of Higher Grounds onto the canvas. Even upstairs, I hear every move she makes. Her sultry scent drifts up to me, washing against my senses like a cool morning tide.

She’s intoxicating.

Having her in my home, watching her with my daughter-in-law, it feels right. Seeing the beginnings of a potential friendship between them makes my long-cold heart warm. I was never like this with Evenia and Aberen, never obsessed with watching over them. We were pure physical attraction in the beginning, and then I stayed to have political power and help others, namely Abemet. My mates were ruthless to the point of insanity. Still are, which is one of the many reasons I couldn’t stay any longer. Some of the things they’ve done…eesh.

And so I allow myself to watch in utter silence as Ama paints with Morgan looking on. First she splashes a bright, cheerful red over the entire canvas. Then she goes back over it, filling the major shapes of her outline. I set up a fan to help the paint dry quickly, if she wanted it. She mixes paint colors together as she hums.

Fascinated, I watch as she begins to paint over the larger shapes, laying in extra detail until Higher Grounds begins to take form. It takes her half an hour to get the base layer done. She hums and twitches her ears the whole time, painting broad strokes. The afternoon’s fading light plays over her hair, casting warm tones through navy, turquoise, sky, and every other shade of her beautiful locks.

Morgan sits on a chair in the living area, watching as Amatheia paints. Now and again, ma siréne explains what she plans to do next. She looks happy, lost in her element, her blood singing with pleasure as it courses through her body.

I lick my lips, fangs throbbing as I stare at the beautiful mermaid below me. I should be working too. Gods know I have plenty to do, but somehow I can’t pull my focus from her as she paints. If I stare long enough, will that niggling sensation travel down her neck and let her know I’m here? What would happen if she turned around to find me observing her?

But she doesn’t. Not for hours. Not even when Morgan asks if she’s hungry and wants to take a break. Yet it’s clear she’s lost to the art. Morgan takes the hint and comes upstairs to kiss me on the cheek and say she’s returning home. I walk her out, and then it’s back to the office to pretend I’m working but stare at Amatheia instead.

It’s not until twilight fades to the black of night that she slows down at all. She sets the brush down and glances out the window, seeming to just now notice how dark it’s gotten outside. The tips of her ears twitch as she makes a concerned-sounding noise in the back of her throat.

“Everything all right, darling?” I rise and place both hands on the banister, curling my fingers over the edge as I look at her.

She spins slowly in place and smiles up at me, although it looks pained. “Just thinking I should probably head home—I’ve got some things to take care of. I got a lot done, though. Would you like to see?”

Beaming, I head for the stairs and descend quickly. Halfway down, I hear a crash and a shout. Breaking into a sprint, I rush down the rest of the stairs and across the living room.

Amatheia’s on the ground with the canvas in one hand, sitting up with a dismayed expression.

She blushes when I drop to both knees to examine her. “I’m fine, I’m fine! Depths, that’s embarrassing. I was just grabbing the canvas to show you, but I lost my balance for a second.” Her brows scrunch together, and she turns to me, looking horrified. “I ruined it. All that work and look at the canvas!”

I’m far more worried for her, but I look dutifully to see the tip of a paintbrush has pierced the canvas completely, and is hanging out of the back side.

I give her a stern look. “We fix you first. The canvas comes later. Agreed?”

She nods, dark lashes fluttering against cool blue cheeks. “You’re going to try to carry me again, aren’t you?”

“Of course.” I grab the canvas and set it back on the stand. Then, I swoop her into my arms and carry her out of the cottage and across the yard, entering the back of the main house. I carefully deposit her on the kitchen island and grab a first aid kit I put together yesterday.

She plants both hands on the counter’s edge and slumps, as if she can take my attention off her leg.

I straighten, rolling my shoulders. “Show me, darling.”

She scrunches her nose. “You don’t need to fix this, Betmal. I just lost my footing.”

“Show me.”

After a moment, then two, where we stand off and I think she might refuse my command, she acquiesces. Straightening her leg, she points to the prosthetic, which is attached to her knee with a series of ill-fitting straps. Her knee is swollen and puffy, and her muscles quiver as they flex.

I step closer. “May I remove your prosthetic for a moment?”

She blushes. “Why?”

“I’d like to examine your leg. I’ve got several ointments meant for pain relief. I knew you might be standing quite a bit for this project, and I wanted to be sure to have them handy.”

Her mouth drops open as she searches my face with bright, wide eyes. After a moment, she nods.

Looking down at the medley of straps, I see they’re intricately woven together to create a cap that fits around her knee. But this design is old. No one has made prosthetics like this in a very long time.

“How long have you had this?” I reach down and undo the largest of the straps.

She hisses and grabs at my arm. “Sorry, it’s just a little sore. Umm, since just after the accident?”

I resist the urge to fly to the lake and shake her uncle by the braids. She was ten years old. And now, as a grown woman, she has the same prosthetic leg. I’m not going to help her by becoming visibly angry, though, so I file that bit of information away.

There’s a reason she hasn’t chosen to fix this herself beyond her uncle’s resistance. Anyone in Ever would have offered help, but I suspect she has turned it down…for some reason. I simply need to gain her trust to find out why that is. Knowing what I do about her accident, I’d guess it’s related. Quietly, I undo the rest of the straps and slide the leather piece off her knee.

Her entire knee is swollen, lines crisscrossing aqua skin from where the straps dug in. Beneath her knee, the leg stops abruptly. She has maybe a few inches of her lower leg, but that’s all that remains.

Grabbing the ointments I purchased, I look through them quickly. Several of them can be used in conjunction with one another. Glancing up at her, I show her the tins.

“One of these is a coolant, something to ease swelling. The other is topical pain relief. I’d like to apply them, if you’re okay with it?”

I suspect she’ll tell me she wants to do it herself, but it shocks me when she nods, nipping at her plump lower lip as she stares at me. Does some part of her sense that I’m drawn to care for her? Does some small part of her simply trust me, even though her cousin said she shouldn’t?

Satisfaction swirls with the concern in my chest. Grabbing the first tin, I spin the cap off and set it aside. Inside, a smelly yellow goop fills it to the very top. Dipping my fingers into it, I gather a glop and reach down. As I smooth the gel onto her knee, I watch her face for signs of discomfort. The lid above her right eye twitches as I massage the cool gel into her skin. She grips the countertop harder, her knuckles turning pale blue.

“This hurts?” I continue slow, gentle circles over her puffy knee.

She bites her lip and nods, glancing over at me. “Yeah, but the coolness feels nice. It reminds me of the lake water.”

When I gather more gel and place it on the front of her stump, she yips and grabs my arm, trembling. I immediately pause and wait, but she lets out a hard breath.

“You can keep going. It’s just so tender.”

“I don’t like hurting you,” I murmur, “but I want you to feel relief.”

The wavy, elegant tips of her ears twitch and flex as she stares at me, allowing me to rub the ointment over her entire leg. When I’m done, she lets out a breath and glances at her knee. Cheeks flushed, she flexes her leg. The swelling’s already going down. This ointment is expensive, from an amazing healer at HQ, but I’d pay hand over fist for Amatheia not to endure a second of pain.

“That’s remarkable,” she whispers. “The swelling’s actually going down. I’m almost terrified to put my prosthetic back on.”

And here’s where I’m going to overstep. Because taking charge of her medical care is not my job. But I can’t sit back and watch her when there’s an easy fix.

“I know someone who can craft you a prosthetic that will fit and not hurt.” I stare at her as I open the second tin and begin slathering the pain relief cream on her knee. I keep my gaze locked to hers so she can see how serious I am. “He doesn’t travel to see patients, so I’d need to take you there. But he works quickly. He could make you something new within a week.”

She stares deeply into my eyes. “Why are you doing this, Betmal? I’m not a medical mystery for you to solve. This is not your problem.”

I glop more of the cream onto her leg and continue rubbing gentle, repetitive circles.

“You’re a friend in pain. Morgan would help, too, if black magic worked on this sort of old injury. Anyone who could help, would.” I lock eyes with her. “I want to help you because I can, and because you deserve a prosthetic that doesn’t hurt. Care to explain to me why you’ve never gotten one?”

When she says nothing but grits her jaw, I worry that even offering feels like an overstep to her. So, I stay silent and wait to see how this plays out.

Eventually, she lifts her chin and looks into my eyes. “My uncle would hate this.”

It’s a struggle not to visibly bristle. This, meaning my offer? This, meaning everything she and I are doing together?

I shrug. “And so? You said he doesn’t even come ashore. Why should you live in pain to soothe his emotions? You’re his niece and the heir to his kingdom, right? You deserve better. I want to take you to my friend as soon as you’ll let me.” I place a finger beneath her chin, holding her brilliant gaze. “You’d get to see Grand Portal Station and another haven.”

Her eyes seem to light from within. She nips at her lip. “To be very blunt with you, part of me thinks I deserve this pain for the pain I’ve brought others. Not to mention, Caralorn just told me he’s arranged a suitor for me. He won’t want me doing anything that makes it seem like I’m leaving.” She shakes her head and looks away from me for a moment, her expression stricken. When she returns her focus to mine, her jaw muscles flex tensely. “I’m desperate not to be trapped in another clan, far from my cousin. So, I’m motivated to get the depths out of the lake. My leg pain seems secondary to that, to be honest.”

She just unloaded so much information on me, I scarcely know where to start.

I want to start at the suitor bit, but that’s not what’s most important.

“Ama,” I say, “there is no reason in this entire world for you to be in pain; you’re right about that. Fuck your uncle and whatever archaic notions he has that would allow him to see you suffer, no matter the reason.” I put my finger under her chin and lift so she’s forced to look into my eyes. “I’m taking you unless you absolutely refuse to go.”

She bites at her lip again, drawing my eyes to her mouth.

I smile, forcing my focus to the navy depths of her gaze. “Ma siréne, I will bind you to me and drag you through that portal if I must, but we are fixing this. Together, okay?”

She laughs, but it sounds nervous. “We’d have to be careful, Betmal, and let me know the cost, because I’ll bring my?—”

“Absolutely not.” I brace my hands on either side of her hips, standing closer than any friend should. Our mouths are close, too, close enough that it would be easy to lean in and give her a kiss. But it’s too soon, and during this conversation is not the time. “I can tell you’re anxious over this. If any of your people see you and cause trouble, tell me, darling, and I will handle it.”

She smirks. “Are you going to knock heads together for me, Betmal? That’s awfully kind of my business partner.”

Shifting forward until my lips hover over hers, I drop my eyes to her mouth, taking in the plump curve of her lower lip. Her upper lip is thinner, with a tiny scar on one side.

“I can, and I will. What happened there?” I reach up and brush a finger over the scar.

She shudders, chest rising and falling quickly as blood thrums through her veins. It calls me, stoking my lustful nature until the flames of need roar through my mind, demanding I do something, anything with that fucking blood of hers.

“The attack. But, Betmal…” Her voice is soft, a plea. She knows she wants…something.

I bring my eyes back to hers. “Yes, Amatheia?” Even to my ears, my voice has gone growly and predatory, roughshod and hungry.

I’ve never waited this long to taste someone I wanted.

“Are all vampires this sensual?”

For a moment, I’m shocked that she called me sensual to my face. It’s unexpectedly delightful. Taking a step back, I laugh. “Yes, darling, I suppose we are. It’s in our nature.”

Navy lashes flutter against her cheeks. “I thought so. It’s…overwhelming.”

Good.

But I want to play.

Leaning into her space again, I hover my mouth over hers until our lips barely touch. “Is this overwhelming too?”

She shoots me an offended look. “You’re teasing me.”

I brush my mouth over hers, nipping playfully at her mouth. “Am I?”

Her lips part, and a soft moan tumbles out. Immediately, she blushes, and I know she’ll say something or try to scramble away.

“Show me your neck.”

My command hits her, and she gasps, but on cue, she leans back onto her hands and cocks her head slowly to the side, exposing her throat to me. “What are we doing?” she whispers, watching as I lean forward.

“Being friendly,” I murmur, dragging the tip of my nose along her collarbone. Her blood sings in her veins, screaming for my attention as her chest heaves. When I bring my focus to her neck, nuzzling my way up it, she squirms on the countertop. “You smell delicious. Want a little bite?”

She huffs out a laugh. “Wouldn’t that hurt? Or are you just trying to tell me you’re hungry? We should have eaten hours ago.”

I hold back a groan because I am hungry. For her, and I’ll tell her soon. I want her to want it. Because when she gets me for the first time, we’ll shatter worlds together.

I bring my mouth just below her ear and bite softly. “I’m always hungry, ma siréne. Beneath my very polished exterior, I’m still a predator.” Mouth pressed to her skin, I whisper, “You haven’t answered my question. Would you like a little bite?”

I’m pushing, perhaps harder than I should. There’s still a power imbalance between us—technically—but I’ll go out on a limb that she doesn't feel that way. She feels comfortable and drawn to me because there’s an obvious connection between us. A week together has been plenty of time for me to figure that out.

“No.” She sits up and stares me straight in the eyes. “I’ve read enough about vampires to know how being bitten is supposed to make you feel. And I’m woman enough to admit I’m not sure I’d be able to control myself, and I don’t want to jeopardize this”—she glances at me with a wry look—“friendship.”

Licking my lips, I take a step back and smile, slipping both hands into my pockets. “You’re a smart woman, darling. It’s true, if I bit you, you’d feel intense pleasure. Perhaps it’s better that I don’t make a sopping mess of you on the countertop right now.”

Her prior blush roars into a full-on blue, and the scent of her blood buckles my knees. Fangs descended, I stare at the needy little female before me.

She lifts her chin. “You might be the most presumptuous male I’ve ever met.”

I smirk. “Guilty as charged, darling.” I jerk my head toward her leg. “How’s it feeling?”

She straightens her leg several times. “Depths, it’s…honestly, it feels fine. There’s no pain. That cream is amazing.”

I remove my hands from my pockets and grab both tins, tucking them into her bag on the counter behind her. “Take them. I don’t think they’ll work underwater, but any time you leave the lake, you can use these.”

She leans into me when I straighten. Does she even realize she did that? That she’s staring up at me with wondrous blue eyes filled with interest?

“Tell me when we can visit my friend.” I resist the urge to drag my knuckles along her jawline. “What’s the soonest you can get away?”

When she looks torn, I wait. I’d love to remind her that this is her life, her happiness, her decision. I’ve learned through the centuries that you can’t force someone to change something about their life. They have to be ready. They have to want it.

Eventually, she straightens her shoulders. “I don’t know, I mean, this is such a generous offer but?—”

“How about tomorrow?”

She blinks rapidly, mouth dropping open. “So soon?”

I lift my chin. “Why not?”

“Well…” Her voice trails off as she looks around, presumably for a reason to put off my suggestion. She surprises me when she turns with a tentative smile. “Okay. How long do you think it’ll take?”

This is momentous. She agreed.

“Overnight, darling. Maybe even two nights. You’ll need to pack a bag. But I can have you back within two days, if you’ve got things to do.”

She nips at her lower lip. “Two days, gosh. Depths, I…if you think you can have me back the next afternoon, I’ll figure it out. The suitor’s coming soon, and I need to figure out how to extricate myself from that.”

“I promise I can, if that’s what you need.” I keep my tone light. I’m a little shocked she agreed to this so easily. And dismayed that she’s even got to consider this suitor bullshit. I don’t know who the male is, but he’s not going to lay a hand on Amatheia.

She looks around at the papers covering the island’s top. “I don’t want to set us behind. You’ve made so much progress on the interior pages, and I have another few paintings to do still. Plus, we need to revisit a reasonable amount for you to pay me. I don’t like talking about money, but if we can make sure it’s enough for me to leave, then?—”

Reaching out, I lightly grip her upper arms, pulling myself close to her. “A million per haven works for me. A night away won’t set us back, ma siréne, and you need this. Allow me to help, please? I’ll bring work with me, if it makes you feel better.” When she still looks worried, I grab her prosthetic. “Shall we put this back on and see how it feels?”

She sighs and takes the leg from me with a baleful look. “You don’t take no for an answer, do you?

I slip my hands into my pockets. “What do you think, darling?”

She sighs but rolls her eyes playfully. “Let’s put this Thalassa-damned thing back on; otherwise, you’ll have to carry me the whole way home.”

Calling my shadow wings, I flare them wide. Open like this, they span the entire length of the kitchen island. I’m old, very old, and my wings are very, very powerful. “I’m ready for that. Excited, even.”

She slaps me playfully on the chest. “You can’t carry me everywhere. I need to take myself sometimes, you know.”

“Actually, I don’t know that. I’d be perfectly content delivering you right to the deep end of the lake so you could avoid a single moment on this ill-fitting prosthetic.”

She blanches but laughs a little anyhow. “You’re a true gentleman, Betmal. I didn’t foresee this, but I’m deeply appreciative.” She smiles at me as she straps the prosthetic over her knee. I don’t miss the lines of pain around the corners of her eyes when she tightens the straps.

Oh, I’m not having that. “I’m carrying you,” I demand. “Right to the lake. Grab your things, ma siréne.”

She lets out another sigh. “Depths, don’t let me get used to this, or I’ll be totally depressed when this project is over.”

No, I want to say. You won’t. Because there won’t ever be a time when I’m not there for you. And this project will never, ever be finished.