Page 2 of The Merman’s Betrothal (Outcast Hearts #2)

F ionn was floating aimlessly on the current when Iomhar found him. The older Minchman was near invisible as he crept up on the unwary prince.

Tattoos covered every inch of Iomhar’s blue skin, concealing him even more effectively in the deep.

He lurked underneath Fionn, watching the young prince’s drifting silhouette suspended just under the surface of the waves.

Fionn’s silver hair had been loosed from its braid and formed a flowing halo about his head that appeared to glow under the sunlight above.

The prince was so very peaceful—and vulnerable .

Iomhar struck. He snatched a fistful of Fionn’s hair and dragged him down until the prince’s flailing feet were kicking at the waves above.

‘ Sleeping on duty, little sprat? ’ Iomhar rumbled in DeepSong. ‘ What would your father say if he knew you were shirking your patrol? ’

Fionn twisted in Iomhar’s grip, yanking his hair away. He righted himself before meeting Iomhar’s placid gaze with a ferocious glare.

‘ I am not shirking anything! ’ Fionn’s song was more melodic than Iomhar’s and lacked the righteous impact he was aiming for. ‘ I finished my patrol hours ago. ’

‘ Then why have you not returned to the palace? ’

‘ Leave me alone, old man. Can’t I enjoy some time to myself? ’

Fionn kicked away. He latched onto the current and bade it carry him. The ocean obliged, sending him speeding away from Iomhar like a torpedo. But the old Minchman was quick to react and easily caught up to Fionn in the flow. He seized hold of Fionn’s arm, slowing him—and the current—down.

‘ Your Highness, you know you are not allowed to wander. It is a miracle I was permitted to assign you this patrol. ’

Fionn’s spine prickled with indignation. All he had wanted was a few hours to himself: to feel like he had a scrap of control over his own life for a while.

He wrenched his arm out of Iomhar’s grip. ‘ I shouldn’t need permission to patrol my own waters. I should be out here every day, protecting our territory. ’

Iomhar stared pointedly at a strip of plastic mesh hanging from Fionn’s kilt. ‘ I hope you have not been bothering the human fishermen again. ’

Fionn rolled out of the current into slower water so he could face Iomhar properly. Iomhar followed and they both drifted to a floating halt.

Fionn held his head high, already anticipating the script for this well-trod argument. ‘ They have no right to leave their foul traps here. We should be driving them from our waters. ’

‘ It is their territory as much as ours— ’

‘ They have above. We have below. The two should not cross! ’

Iomhar shook his head, sending his braid swaying out behind him. ‘ It has not been that way since well before your time, Fionn. And even longer before that, Bluefolk and humans once mixed freely. ’

‘ I know our history. ’ Fionn huffed a stream of bubbles from his gills.

He pointed at a line of tattoos on Iomhar’s left forearm.

Every mark recorded noteworthy deeds from the old warrior’s life and here was written one of his many brushes with death.

‘ Is this not the time you were trapped under the fallen cargo from a shipping vessel? This is the reality of our relationship with humans now. ’

Fionn thought it would have been a horribly unfitting end for someone like Iomhar to be taken out by a threat so mundane as a steel shipping container.

As it was, Iomhar had been evacuating the homes of Minchmen that lay in its shadow on the seabed before it came hurtling down upon him.

Fionn had not been allowed to join the rescue party; he was left behind to worry over the fate of his mentor, feeling nothing but useless.

‘ I do not deny the challenges of our circumstances, ’ Iomhar replied sagely. ‘ But I suspect this is not the true root of your argumentative mood. I presume you were given the news of your wedding this morning? ’

Fionn stiffened. ‘ I am told to expect the ceremony around the next full moon. ’

‘ Yes. ’ Unexpectedly, Iomhar’s stoic expression softened. ‘ Your duty extends beyond mere territory, little sprat. I know you don’t care for your unique purpose, but diplomacy is at the heart of it—and that is a great skill for a prince. ’

‘ Certainly, a great skill, ’ Fionn replied bitterly, ‘ to become some Redfolk’s obedient fucktoy. ’

Iomhar went deathly silent. The lines on his face deepened, framing his dark eyes with tension. ‘ I did not say that duty is always enjoyable, ’ he eventually rumbled. ‘ And nor do I say that you must accept everything that is asked of you. ’

Fionn squinted at him. ‘ I do not have a choice though, do I? I’ve got to marry whoever they pick for me, whether I like it or not. And if I don’t keep my mate happy, the Redfolk will claim we’ve caused some great offence to their kingdom. ’

Iomhar clasped Fionn’s elbow, this time a warm gesture filled with concern. For a brief, deluded second, Fionn thought Iomhar was about to tell him he could walk away from all of it if he wanted. But it wasn’t so.

‘ Marry? Yes. Consummate? I’m afraid so. But everything after that? It is up to you, Fionn, how you handle that realm of diplomacy. ’

Fionn slumped, feeling more defeated than ever. Iomhar had always leant a sympathetic ear to his sorrows before, but now that the date of the wedding grew near he’d become ever more matter-of-fact about Fionn’s situation.

It wasn’t that Fionn expected Iomhar to contest ancient tradition—what was there to contest, after all, with Fionn’s fate being written so deeply in soul bond magic?

—but he’d hoped for perhaps a little more commiseration.

For Iomhar to at least give voice to the unfairness of his duty where Fionn’s own father, the Blue King himself, would not.

Because it was unfair. Fionn felt it in his soul. He desperately longed for the freedom to make his own choices instead of having them all wrapped up in an arranged marriage with a rival clan he had never even laid eyes upon.

But Iomhar was a warrior. For him, duty was the unpleasant business you carried out to keep your kingdom safe.

Orders were his way of life. And Fionn’s predicament was merely another mission, fraught with emotional peril but outwardly no threat to life or limb.

So long as Fionn didn’t fuck up the whole marriage thing, of course.

‘ Up to me, ’ Fionn echoed in a hollow voice.

His resentment bubbled back to the surface.

‘ It is easy for you to say, old man, with all your accolades already emblazoned on your skin. What chances have I been given to prove myself? Why should I believe it will be any different once I am married off? ’

Iomhar nodded to the set of tattoos that trailed across Fionn’s torso down to his hip. ‘ You have won every palace sparring tournament for the last five years. Is that not a good enough accolade for you? And you are allowed to patrol. ’ He winced. ‘ On occasion. ’

‘ Tournaments. Patrols. Safe and organised pursuits. ’ Fionn scoffed and spread his arms. ‘ I am like a hatchling held tight in the jaws of a mouthbrooding fish. Kept close for fear that swimming should break my legs. ’

Fionn turned toward the current again but Iomhar tugged him back. ‘ Wait, little sprat. ’

There was some quarrel playing out in the old Minchman’s gaze, a rueful expression that Fionn associated with Iomhar talking himself into loosening the prince’s leash a little.

Rueful, because it often went wrong—like the time Fionn was allowed to inspect a nursery in the far northern reaches, only to be ambushed by hungry orcas on the way.

Iomhar had received a stern warning from the king for putting the First Prince in harm’s way.

Fionn, on the other hand, was delighted with his new tattoo commemorating the incident.

Iomhar’s internal argument seemed to reach a conclusion. ‘ I know you wish for more freedom. Would you take an opportunity to seize some, to enjoy the last of this time among your kinsmen before you meet your betrothed? ’

Fionn inclined his head, intrigued. ‘ Surely, old man. ’

‘ You won’t like this idea. ’

‘ I’ll hear it anyway. ’

Iomhar swept an arm to the surface, stretching for the light. ‘ A group of young warriors and foragers are taking reprieve in a human town tonight. There will be drinking and music and merrymaking. You should join them. ’

Fionn immediately recoiled. ‘ You’re right, I don’t like it. ’

‘ You’ve hardly spent any time on land at all. Why not take a chance on it tonight? Broaden your horizons a little. ’ Iomhar gave him a sidelong glance. ‘ I will not tell your father. After all, it is only a harmless social activity and you will be safe among friends. ’

Oh, friends. That’s what Iomhar was really getting at, and it was the part that deterred Fionn almost as much as the prospect of mixing with humans.

He’d never had a great deal of luck befriending other Minchmen, despite his desire to serve them well as First Prince.

Perhaps it was because his efforts were always coloured by the knowledge that his value to them as a prince, and as a person, was as an object to be eventually traded for continued peace with the Redfolk.

‘ I hear Neacel will be attending this evening, ’ Iomhar added with a hopeful inflection. ‘ He would welcome your company. ’

‘ Which one’s Neacel, again? ’ Fionn’s brow creased while Iomhar’s whole expression fell.

‘ You were assigned to forage for oysters with him last week. ’

‘ Oh. No. I spent the day on spear drill instead. ’

Iomhar exploded. ‘ You did what? You ask me for more freedom and different duties yet you snub the opportunities I give you! ’

‘ It was not a snub, ’ Fionn said, a little hurt. From his point of view, he’d been presented with the opportunity to make a choice for himself, and had done so. ‘ Are my skills really put to best use by foraging? ’