Page 10 of Sea of Evil and Desire (The Deep Saga #1)

8

Finn

I ’ m getting sloppy.

I brushed my hair back from my face and stretched out on the couch, scanning the room, but the girl had gone.

How late had I slept? The sun had long risen, the ocean glistening like quicksilver under its caress as I reached the kitchen counter and pressed my palms into it.

The storm had passed, but the gentle waves simpering at the horizon sent a sharp pang of guilt through me. I was no closer to understanding why the storms had been growing more frequent—or whether they were connected to him.

I padded back to the couch, opening my laptop on the coffee table. It was still paused on the movie’s closing credits, and my mind wandered back to the girl. Morgana. I should be questioning why my gifts hadn’t worked on her, wondering what I would tell my father. But all I could think about was how she’d looked up at me from under her lashes as she reached around to unhook the back of her bra.

Rolling my shoulders, I shook away the thoughts. I had failed, and my father would never let me forget it. I’d never failed a task for him before, but now, it seemed I was failing two.

I was a professional. The jobs never got to me, never unsettled me, no matter how much they screamed, begged, or pleaded. I was impervious. My father had made sure of it.

What was it about this girl?

Interrogation was usually easy with my particular skill set, yet it hadn’t worked on her. This intrigued me. She was pretty, too, but it was more than that. I’d been with beautiful women before—lots of them. A smirk curled my lips at the memories. But no, there was something beguiling about this girl that drew me in the same way the moon pulled upon the tides.

A fucking human of all things, and she’d been immune. A nagging feeling in my gut warned me not to tell my father. Not yet, anyway. Still, I had to give him something. I pulled the laptop onto my knees, opening my browser.

What is that site called they all use? I can never remember. Ah yes . . . Instagram.

I didn’t have a personal account, of course—social media is an absurd human plaything. But I did have a fake profile for situations like this.

I typed her name into the search bar. My heart quickened as a page appeared, and I gritted my teeth against the feeling.

Thankfully, her account wasn’t private, but she hadn’t updated it in years. She didn’t have many pictures of herself, mostly posting moments of mundane beauty. I scrolled through the feed. A streetlight glowing against the evening sky, a rose holding a drop of dew, and a few shots of beautiful bookstores appeared. I paused at these. The girl liked to read. I thought about my family library, rows of books stacked as high as the eye could see above a polished stone floor. She would probably have to catch her breath at the sight of it.

One photo showed her in a black bodice dress, her long red hair draped over one shoulder. The caption said, “Prom night.”

My cock pressed against the denim of my jeans as blood surged to it when I took in her plush lips, painted bright red. Who had escorted her to that prom? Did another man get to hold her close, slow dance with his face pressed to her cheek, feel her heaving chest as he gazed into her ocean eyes?

A muscle ticked in my jaw, and I slapped the laptop shut. Why should I care?

A normal girl, likes books, nothing unusual, but we should continue with the observations. That should satisfy the old man.

Inegar had accused me of dragging out the observation. I didn’t want to admit it to myself, but he’d been right.

This should have been simple—I despised humans. They’d created the sickness that plagued my people.

But my gifts had failed on her. When they didn’t take hold in the store or among the shipping containers, I brushed it off as a fluke. I never intended to watch a movie—though I do enjoy this human form of storytelling. The plan had been to get her alone, away from any distractions. But no.

I rubbed a hand down my face.

From the moment I’d met her to when she offered herself to me, her eyes had been completely clear. There was none of that hazy expression, a side effect of the allure they usually exhibited. Could that mean . . . she genuinely wanted to be around me?

When she had discarded her clothes, every bone in my body wanted her in ways I’d never experienced before. What would it be like, just this once, to be with someone who desired me for who I truly was? But it would have been wrong to take her when I couldn’t make her forget—and the moment my gifts started working again, I would extract all the information I needed and be done with her.

I’d never had much of a conscience—my father ensured that. Why her, and why now?

The door flew open, and my thoughts disintegrated as my cousin, Pisceon, entered the room.

“Your father wants you to return home and provide another report.” He grinned, casting his eyes across the space, looking for evidence of depravity.

“I gave my last report only days ago. Why is he so impatient?”

Pisceon shrugged, retrieving the whisky decanter from the cupboard, and poured two tumblers. He handed me one, and I swirled the amber liquid before sipping. It made me think of her.

“Why do you get all the fun jobs?” Pisceon’s eyes fell upon last night’s empty glasses. He linked his fingers together and stretched his arms, muscles bulging.

I polished off my drink, setting the empty glass back on the sleek benchtop. If only my cousin knew—nothing about my life has ever been fun.