She had never dreamed of anything like this. Moisture beaded her eyelashes. She tasted brine on her lips, like tears or
spray. Saltwater, the source of life.
The whale fell back into the sea in a flourish of foam.
“Oh.” She cried out in loss. In longing.
As if he heard her call, the sleek black shape surged and circled. She watched him speed toward the boat, deep and fast.
She trembled, clutching the sides as the whale slid beneath the bow.
The water boiled. Burst.
And Morgan emerged from the sea on the other side.
She met his eyes, golden eyes, animal eyes, with wide black centers and no expression. Her heart threatened to beat its way
out of her chest, everything she‟d believed, everything she thought she understood, suddenly upended.
His large hands gripped the sheer line. Between his fingers, something shimmered, sheer and shining as insect wings. She
blinked as it faded away. His powerful shoulders flexed. In a rush of water, a blur of movement, he surged into the boat.
Her mouth opened and closed silently. Like a fish , she thought, and shivered. Bad analogy.
Morgan folded himself on the bench opposite hers, his big, square knees jutting into her space. Rivulets of water ran down
his smooth skin. “You are all right.”
A question? An observation? Or a command?
“Fine. How . . .” She stared, riveted at his feet, ankles, arches, toes. His toes . Between his joints, a faint webbing stretched,
iridescent as scales. Oh, God. She forced her gaze to his face. Cleared her throat. “How are you?”
“I am well. Usually, I do not change forms so quickly. The danger of losing concentration is too great. But today I felt
anchored. You anchored me.”
She swallowed. “Is that good?”
“Yes.”
“Then I‟m glad.”
He studied her face. “You are a remarkable woman.”
“And you are . . .” Impossible. Unthinkable. Unreal.
“Remarkable, too.”
She itched to touch him, ached for the reassurance of his solid flesh. His human flesh. She clasped her hands together
tightly in her lap. “I thought you‟d have a tail,” she blurted.
“I beg your pardon.”
“You said finfolk. Merfolk. And in Copenhagen, at the statue, you said . . .” She could no longer remember exactly what
he‟d said at the statue of the Little Mermaid all those years ago. “Anyway, I thought . . .” She gestured toward his legs,
encased in wet black denim. Avoided looking at his feet.
“Ah. No. One chooses to be one or the other, a man on land or a creature of the sea,” he explained patiently. “To be both at
the same time denotes a lack of control. I chose the forms most likely to be acceptable to you.”
“Flipper,” she said, only a trace of bitterness in her tone.
His eyes narrowed. “The muc marra and whaleyn were land mammals once. The closest to human of the creatures of the
sea.”
She turned his words over in her mind like a child with a shape puzzle, struggling to make things fit. “What?”
“Eons ago, they gave up the land for the ocean. I thought it might help you to know that. To see their choice as right and
natural.”
Her focus sharpened. Her maternal instincts woke. She straightened on the narrow seat. “Zack isn‟t a dolphin. He‟s a
fifteen-year-old boy.”
“Already past his first Change.”
“You can‟t know that.”
Everything in her rejected what he was saying. They were talking about her baby, her firstborn.
But the pieces fit.
“I saw it. I saw him last night. Elizabeth.” Compassion deepened his voice. “Where do you think he got the lobsters?”
Oh, God.