Page 40 of The Merman’s Betrothal (Outcast Hearts #2)
A fter the shock of Fionn leaving, Rory was at a loss for what to do. He was suddenly stranded in the middle of Loch Broom by himself, directionless and purposeless.
That bastard. That arrogant know-it-all, prince of fuck, twatting monster merman piece of shite.
How could Fionn leave him like that?
Rory swallowed hard, fighting the idea that he’d been betrayed. Because if he admitted that it felt like a betrayal, then he’d be admitting that he was invested. That he was genuinely prepared to go through with it, to leave his old life behind and start a new one with a blue merman under the sea.
It was easier to be angry. To shout his anger into the water. The current whipped up around him, scaring away a shoal of fish.
Why was it so painful?
This painful longing, that’s what Fionn had been talking about when he called it all a lie. Was this feeling real? How could Rory possibly tell, when he’d never felt it for anyone before in his life?
Rory knew what attraction felt like, sure enough.
And his attraction to Fionn felt outstandingly real from the moment they’d met.
The actual feelings part, the bit Rory wasn’t so familiar with, had come later.
Once he’d learned Fionn wasn’t entirely the prick he seemed.
That even when he was being a prick, it came from a noble sort of place.
What if Rory never saw the noble, arrogant prick again?
He didn’t want to think about it.
It was saying something, that the pain of Fionn leaving him had utterly drowned out Rory’s shock over his latest transformation. Bluefolk or Redfolk, did it really matter which pair of gills he happened to be sporting?
Fionn seemed to think so.
It doesn’t matter because I’m leaving anyway, Rory told himself. I made the decision. I’m following through this time. With or without him.
He made for the surface to get his bearings then began to swim for Ullapool. Its buildings were dark and unwelcoming in the twilight.
As Rory’s mood dropped lower his new spines relaxed and lay flush against his back.
It was a strange sensation to feel them jostling there as he moved through the water.
His fins, too: as he swam, some automatic muscle reflex caused the membrane to stiffen at the perfect moment to push or pull against the current.
Had they always been there, hiding beneath his skin?
Had he always been this person, hiding beneath himself?
Despite trying to push it all from his mind, the questions kept coming.
If it wasn’t Fionn, would some other man have come along to poke his sleeping libido? Would he have dared face the truth of it, if he didn’t have a soul bond and a persistent prince nagging at him day and night to confront what he wanted?
What did he, Rory Douglas, want?
He felt the pull of the ocean behind him as he neared Ullapool’s harbour. A sense of something vast and dark and exciting stretching into the distance. A horizon beyond every horizon he’d ever stared wistfully over.
Fionn was somewhere over that horizon, also pulling at him from the other end of the soul bond. Rory stopped swimming for a moment and concentrated. He felt he could follow that pull if he tried. The bond could lead him to Fionn.
He looked up at the surface. Stars twinkled beyond the waves.
‘ I’ve come too far to back out now, ’ he sang to the tide. ‘ I’ve made my decision and I’m sticking with it. ’
Rory propelled himself to the harbour steps and climbed out of the water. He had a plan. It was a simple one, but it was of his own making and no one else’s.
He was going to say good bye. And then he was going to leave.
And if he could persuade the bastard to see reason, he’d drag Fionn with him.
* * *
Rory snuck aboard the Wandering Star before entering the town.
He grabbed his spare waterproof that hung in the cabin and used it to cover his spines and arms. He’d be a strange sight walking barefoot with his legs out, even without the silky fins fluttering along his calves, but it would have to do.
He ran furtively through the dark streets to his house. Cursed colourfully when he realised he didn’t have keys for the front door. Cursed even more vividly when he discovered he had the strength to break the door from its hinges anyway.
A new set of clothes and boots later, Rory made for his dad’s place. It was only a few doors down. Rory hadn’t managed to get away even when he moved out of the old man’s home.
Tonight, that would change.
He let himself in. The lights were off but the TV blared from the back room.
Rory glanced at the kitchen clock and saw it was around four PM.
The smell of rotten food in the sink told him his dad had at least bothered to eat something in the last twenty-four hours and was probably waiting for him to clear it up.
Sure enough, Hamish Douglas was slumped in his armchair in front of some bland local talk show.
Rory grabbed the remote and turned it off.
‘ Oi. ’ His father grunted, shuffling upright against the cushions. He smelled of whiskey again. ‘Turn it back on ye little shite!’
‘Not right now.’ Rory placed the remote on a shelf, out of reach. ‘We need to talk.’
‘Pah!’ Hamish picked up the near-empty bottle by his chair and gave it a cynical shake. ‘Ain’t nuthin’ I have t’say to you. Nuthin’ . Ye waste o’ skin. Waste’f air. Waste of— of—’
He’s pissed out of his mind, Rory realised, noticing the additional bottles scattered around the carpet.
Something like a sob croaked from the old man’s mouth. ‘Waste o’ space…’
‘I don’t have time for this.’ Rory lifted the bottle from his hand. ‘I’ll write you a note so you can read it back in the morning, but I’m saying it all now.’
Hamish blinked blearily at him, practically half-conscious. Rory leaned down, resting his hands on the arms of the chair and staring straight into his father’s sozzled eyes.
‘Dad. It wasn’t my fault mum died. I was a little kid, and you should have done better. I didn’t deserve the way you made me feel like I was to blame. It was cancer, Dad. You need to face that and move on. Figure out how to live without somebody else propping you up.’
Rory glanced at Nancy Douglas’s photograph.
She looked so young in it; the distorted preservation of a life cut short.
‘I’ve spent my whole life trying to make up for Mum’s death.
Trying to fill the hole in your life. But I can’t be responsible for that any more.
I’m leaving, and I won’t tell you where I’m going.
I don’t owe you anything. I’ve already given you everything I could. ’
He was pretty sure his dad’s mind, as well as his eyes, had glazed over. The old man mumbled something, an echo of Rory’s words. ‘… should’ve done better.’
Rory sighed. ‘I’ll write it down.’
As he looked for a pen, a distinct whimper emanated from the chair. He turned back to find there were tears rolling down the old man’s cheeks. The recent memory of Ol’ Doaty lying face-down on the boat tweaked a pang of empathy in Rory’s heart. ‘I’ll tell the lads to check in on you.’
‘I should’ve done better.’ For a split-second Hamish seemed lucid, staring at Rory with…
what was that expression? Grief? Regret?
Then the next instant his face twisted into its familiar, nasty scowl.
‘Wouldna mattered anyway. I told Doaty. He was s’posed to look after yer.
But y’were always a useless piece of shite.
Probably couldna even swim. Waste o’ my time. ’
He descended into more spiteful, angry mumbling that Rory was glad he couldn’t decipher.
It’s easier to be angry. Recognition flowed through Rory, watching his father’s resentment crystallise in front of him. Easier than facing how you really feel about yourself.
Was it gratifying to think that on some level Hamish understood he’d failed his son? Not really. If anything, his refusal to confront that knowledge made it sting a little harder.
And in his dad’s anger, Rory saw that this was exactly how he’d reacted each time he was spooked by his own feelings for Fionn. Much easier to throw a punch than admit to anything complicated.
But he was ready to admit it now. To embrace it, along with all the parts of him that had kept quiet and small for fear of drawing his father’s disapproving attention.
From the mantel, his mother smiled at him. For the first time, Rory didn’t feel like a ghost in her presence. She would have wanted this, he was sure of it. To see her son find freedom and for her husband to find… well, something else. Hopefully something different to what he wallowed in right now.
Rory quietly folded his farewell letter and laid it on the dresser. How his father reacted to it in the light of a sober day didn’t matter. All that mattered was that Rory was ready to face himself.
He left the voice of his inner Hamish behind as he closed the door. It wouldn’t be able to follow where he was going next.
Rory ran back home. He’d need a few hours at least, and maybe some sleep, to get his affairs in order. There was paperwork he needed to give Graham, some things to secure in the house, and then he could be away from it all.
Swimming towards the horizon.