26. Carol

26

Carol

She couldn't get the metal-winged woman out of her head. She'd lingered at the stairs to the basement level, wondering if she should go and try to talk to her again—but her shark senses had told her the woman was still sleeping.

Unconscious. Knocked out. Tranquilized. Lance felt bad about it—everyone did—but Carol couldn't help but feel what it would be like if their roles were reversed.

What if whatever had gone wrong with her own shifter nature had given her a shark's jaws and tongue, not just teeth?

What if she was the one in the cage, with everyone looking at her like a broken, dangerous thing?

She shook herself. What if I'd tried to rip apart an airplane while people were still in it? I'd BE a monster then. Not just look like one.

The house was too full for thoughts like that. Someone would see her looking worried and ask if she was okay, and it would be a whole thing. Keeley's relief and joy at seeing her safe had punched a hole through her chest. She didn't know what to do with it. Or anything that was happening.

She walked without noticing where she was going, only making sure she avoided the heartpulses that told her where the others were. The world was changing faster than she could keep up. She hadn't even figured out how to live in the version of the world she thought existed, and now she had to know how to exist around dragons and Soul-Eaters and other monstrous shifters, too?

And Moss.

She stopped.

Her aimless wandering had brought her outside. A sea breeze scudded over the densely packed flaxes and tussock grasses that lined the property, bringing the scent of salt and smoke and him.

Her heart thudded against her ribs. And suddenly she was moving again—not aimlessly this time, not deliberately skimming the edges of other people's awareness, but direct. Purposeful. Silent and sure, her feet pattered over the fine gravel paths with less noise than drops of rain. Past a stand of twisted trees too battered by the wind to work as a windbreak, down steps so steep her stomach swooped at the sight of them, like floating over a blue hole and diving in to discover what was hiding down deep.

The steps zig-zagged down the steep slope. Carol moved fast, but by the time she arrived on the lookout platform with the firepit and lounge chairs, it was empty. Moss must have just left. By another path?

She turned to look back up the hill, and the first thing she saw was him.

The path she'd taken wasn't the only one up the hill. The zig-zag route split and circled back on itself, and Moss was standing almost back at the top. The late afternoon sun was behind him, kissing his brown skin with golden light.

A shadow whispered around him, as though in response to her gaze. She wanted to wrap herself in it. In him.

Her mate.

It should have been another complication, but when she looked at him, all she felt was how right it was. Like floating in a sunbeam.

They'd been alone together before—but here, now, in the midst of everything else, only a few dozen yards from her teammates, was the first time she felt like there was a piece of the world that was for them alone.

"I was coming up to find you," he said when he stepped back onto the lookout. "Almost missed you."

There was an echo of regret in his voice. * You could have called,* she said silently, not trusting her own voice to come out steady.

* And risk being overheard by a dragon?* His psychic voice washed over and around her like the tide filling a pool. * It's been an honor, caring for baby Maggie, but I wanted this to be for us alone. And you know what she's like when it comes to other people's food.*

He gestured at the table. Two plates. Two gleaming wine glasses. Covered platters that let out little ribbons of steam and smelled divine.

"It's not on a distant summit," Moss said gruffly, stuffing his hands into his pockets. "But it's the best I could do at no notice."

"You know you already won me over with the mussels on the beach?"

"I know." The corners of his eyes crinkled in a smile, but tension still held tight at the edges of his mouth. "Don't get me wrong. This is all for me. I've cooked a fancy feast so you can praise me and let me feel good about myself. And then—"

"And then what?"

His gaze flickered. "Let's eat first."

He held her chair for her and then sat down opposite her. The canopy over the table kept the worst of the wind off, but enough of a breeze seeped through to tug at stray locks of his hair. She touched her own braid absently.

Moss's eyes tracked the movement. "Enjoying being back in the world of hot showers?"

"And clean clothes, and toothbrushes, and chairs. I didn't know how much I appreciated chairs before my only option was a rock or another rock."

"And your friends are safe."

"They're all safe," she echoed. Moss started to serve the meal, and she kept talking without thinking about it, the words coming out to fill the space. "Even after Maggie told us that Keeley and Lance were alive, I don't think I really believed it until I saw them myself. I just… stopped myself from thinking it through until I knew for sure." She looked down at her hands. "Not very action hero of me."

"You say that like action heroes are known for thinking things through."

"Not very secret agent spy of me, then."

"There's something to be said for denial as a survival mechanism." His voice had an edge to it. She could have put it down to him being distracted as he poured the wine, but—no. That wasn't it.

She leaned forward as he passed her wineglass. "You say that like you know all about it."

"I'm learning."

"Moss…" She waited until he met her eyes. Whatever he saw in her face, she recognized what was in his. "Whatever it is you're putting off talking about, I don't think we should wait to talk about it."

His lips curved into a half smile. "I can't even bask in your praise for my cooking for a bit first?"

"You already know it's going to be delicious."

"I want to watch you find out for yourself."

And put off whatever you're not telling me for another hour. Another minute. Another few seconds—anything, not to have to turn your fears into words and make them real. A lump formed in her throat. She knew how that felt, too well.

She nodded. "All right. You'll have to tell me what I'm eating, though. So I can properly appreciate it."

"You're treating me to hearing the sound of my own voice?" He smiled, long and lazy, and despite the tension still obvious on his face, the smile was genuine. "You'll spoil me. All right. To start, we have scallops seared in brown butter, served on a bed of pea puree and topped with an exquisite hat of preserved lemon, confit cherry tomato and toasted hazelnuts."

"A hat?"

"That's the technical term. It's all part of chef's code. Exquisite means I carefully eased them into place with a pair of tweezers."

Carol's eyebrows jerked up as she looked down at the scallop she'd just speared on the end of her fork, destroying its careful "hat" in the process. "Uh—"

"It's meant to be eaten, Carol. I'm a chef, not a sculptor."

She lifted the fork to her mouth. Flavor burst across her tongue—not the simple sweet-salt-and-smoke of their meals on the island, but a symphony, the brightness of the lemon and tomato a perfect complement to the sweet, buttery shellfish. The hazelnut gave each bite an earthy crunch, crisp against the tender meat.

* This is the best thing I've ever tasted.*

Smugness radiated from Moss. "You haven't tried the main course yet."

Every bite was better than the last. She could have eaten a full meal of the scallops alone, but part of chef training must be giving people just enough of something delicious to make them want more, and then blowing their mind with the next thing.

The entrée—what Moss called the main—was steak with a side salad of grilled eggplant and rocket topped with crumbled goat feta. The stewed tomatoes made another appearance, cutting through the fatty deliciousness of everything else on her plate.

"I might have gone a bit overboard having access to butter again," he admitted.

"You cooked all this since we arrived? No—since after our meeting with Mr. MacInnis and the others?"

"Are you impressed?"

"Very," she said firmly, and he didn't even try to hide his smirk.

"It's not a big deal. Whoever runs this place knows how to stock a kitchen. Those tomatoes—I wouldn't have had time to get those ready if they weren't already prepared."

"Oh, the tomatoes weren't you? That changes everything."

"I didn't churn the butter myself."

"You're a fraud. I feel cheated. Next you'll tell me you didn't even pick the grapes for this wine with your own hands."

"Or stomp them with my own feet." He sighed deeply.

"Uh—don't they have machines for that these days?"

His eyes glittered, and he raised one eyebrow. "You don't appreciate the personal touch?"

"Not when the touch is someone's toes. Sorry." She looked suspiciously at her wine. "This isn't…?"

"I can neither confirm nor deny. But if I had to guess, I'd say no toes were involved in this one."

She grimaced, caught his expression of mock-shock, and giggled. "Apart from the mention of feet, this has all been incredible. I feel…"

She hesitated. Moss was worried about something—something he didn't want to talk about, so presumably something other than the obvious potential-end-of-the-world and we're-all-going-to-die. Something he'd been forcing himself to stay in denial about rather than face up to.

And here she was, about to say—

"I feel so lucky," she whispered guiltily. "That's awful, isn't it? With everything that's happening. People are in danger, and you—you lost your octopus. You gained a new inner animal, and all the history around it, but you lost something that's been a part of you for years. That's something that shouldn't happen. And—and now we're here, and you've cooked this amazing meal and—I'm not thinking about any of that. Only how lucky I am to have you. Even when I—"

When I've been lying to you. The words almost came out, but the sentence fractured before they could. There were too many other things she felt guilty about. Lying to him about her part-shifted face. Worrying about her own problems when his life had been shattered.

Letting herself float with him down this happy river of denial, as though stealing a taste of happiness would make the horror less real.

She swallowed down a lump of bitterness. "I'm sorry," she choked out.

"Don't." Moss rose like a thundering wave and knelt by her side, his hands gentle as seafoam on her face. "Don't be sorry. I set this all up, remember? This romantic evening. The meal. Don't feel like shit on my behalf. Please." He hesitated. "Everything's shit. I know that. But if I can make it good for you just for one evening, it's worth it. And the fact that you feel lucky to be with me, with what I am… that's more than I could ever have dreamed possible."

But I'm just me, she wanted to say. Just Carol. Just one woman, with a face that gave people nightmares and an inner shark who pretended not to know her. How could he feel that way about her?

He gazed up at her, the briefest sea-glass shimmer glossing over his dark brown eyes. "You think you're the lucky one?" he asked, his voice rough. "On the worst day of my life, the woman of my dreams fell out of the sky right into my arms."

His voice wound through her mind, a whisper carried on shadows like the night sky reflected in still waters. As though Moss wasn't actively speaking to her; his thoughts were carried on the shadows that gathered around him like wings.

"And now you know what that means," he continued. "I lied to you about being an octopus shifter."

"You were an octopus shifter."

"Not by the time I met you." His smile was wan. "I was the kraken. You should be screaming in terror right now, you know?"

"I've done such a bad job of screaming in terror so far. It doesn't seem worth it to start now." She spoke quietly, as though she was using her words to push attention away from herself. The way she used to. He frowned, hearing her tone before he heard her words, and it took him a heartbeat to realize she was joking. When he did—

She would give the rest of her life to make him smile like that.

"So much for my dark secrets." He put down his knife and fork. "Is that your shark's perspective, too?"

"I wouldn't know." Shit. She shouldn't have said that.

"What do you mean?"

"It's… not a talker." She fretted her fingers together, glad that the evening was drawing in and hoping the dancing flames from the fire wouldn't betray her expression.

"The sneaky type, huh? My octopus—" He cleared his throat, and then his face cleared. "It was more the sort to wait until your back was turned and unscrew all your furniture than share its thoughts on the state of the world. Sometimes it didn't even wait. I'd look down and find myself unravelling my own woolen jersey, and not know I was doing it, just because the bloody thing got bored."

"Not like that, either." Damn it. She was going to tell him. She was already not telling him so much—she owed him something of herself other than lies.

And maybe, maybe , if she got to the end of this story… she would tell him the truth. That was where the story ended up, after all.

She sipped her wine to moisten her throat. "My shark doesn't—interact, much. At all. It's always there , but I have to go and find it, most of the time. If I want to shift, or if I want to use its abilities. Sometimes it'll come and, and sort of loom up behind me… in my own head… but that's it."

She waited, barely breathing, for his response.

In the firelight, his eyebrows pulled down. "You get people who're like that. Quieter than quiet. I guess it makes sense some animals would be, too."

Here we go. "Not everyone had to almost die before their inner animal turned up, though."

" What ?"

"It's meant to be this magical moment, and I didn't even know it was happening until I stopped drowning."

Moss swore and gathered her into his arms. "Tell me—no. You don't have to tell me what happened." He cursed under his breath. "When you fell into the water and couldn't risk shifting—god, Carol. You told Maggie she wasn't the only one to be afraid of the ocean, but I never thought—"

"That a shark shifter could be scared of the water?" She sighed and stared into the flames. "I know. We're meant to be the scary thing in the water, not the one who's scared."

"Everyone's scared of something. And the ocean's a powerful thing. There are worse things to be afraid of."

"Worse things than the place I'm meant to feel most at home in all the world?" Saying the words out loud stung. And this next bit was going to hurt even more. She braced herself. "It was a long time ago. Only—not that long, really. I was eighteen. First year of college. My parents were starting to worry that I wouldn't turn out to be a shifter at all. Not that they said so where I could hear, but… some things you don't need to hear out loud, even if you haven't developed your magical mind-reading shifter powers yet. Especially then. Going away to college was a relief. And then I met other people like me, people from shifter families who'd shifted late or still hadn't. And other shifters."

"I remember leaving home for the first time and seeing how shifters lived in big cities where everyone didn't already know everyone else's business," he said softly. "It's not the same, but…"

"Suddenly it was an adventure. I wasn't Carol Zhang, can't even shift anymore, I was part of a secret club. It didn't matter that I couldn't shift. Even just knowing magic existed became something special, not something to be… to be stressed about." Ashamed of , she added silently. "This one girl was the ringleader. She figured us all out and brought us all together. I never stopped to think why."

"She made you feel special. Part of a secret group."

"Told us no one else understood us, not other shifters, not non-shifters. But she did. Yeah. Classic cult shit." She wrapped her arms around herself. "That night, it was me and a guy. Caleb. She invited us to a party on her boat, with all her closest friends, and when we were too far away to swim to shore, she pushed Caleb in."

Moss swore. She nestled against him. His horror was strangely comforting. It was… good, to remind herself that everything that had happened around her first shift was legitimately horrifying.

"And it worked. He was terrified, he thought he was going to die, and his magic finally caught up with him. He shifted into a terrier—one of those small dogs? Eloise got us to fish him out with a net."

"That's psychotic."

"He was happier than I ever saw him. He'd shifted. Found his inner animal. Who wouldn't be happy? And it wasn't like Elly would have really let him drown. He wasn't really in any danger. It was just—a trick. A game."

"Sure. Did you jump in, or did they push you, too?" Doubt shadowed his words—and a deep, simmering rage.

She swallowed. "Push."

He didn't say anything. The silence sucked at her.

"I'd jumped off boats before. I'd been thrown off boats before. Of course I had. Seven brothers, remember? And I'd—and I'd been night swimming. I'd done all the dumb stuff you do when you grow up thinking the ocean's your territory. But this… it was colder than I expected. I'd dressed up. I didn't want to lose my shoes. My shoes! I mean, she'd just pushed me in, and I was worried about my shoes. "

She dared a glimpse at Moss, half-hoping he would be smiling, sharing in the joke, whatever the joke was, because she sure didn't know, but it would be easier if it was a joke, right?

He was glaring at the flames like he wanted to murder someone.

And that was… better.

A huge weight lifted from her heart.

"I tried to climb back aboard. Eloise got a boathook and told the others to push me back down. Every time I got close to the boat, they pushed me under again. I thought—it was—"

"They tried to kill you."

"They almost managed it. By the time my shark took over, I was sure I was already dying. I didn't know what was happening. There was this other creature in my mind with me. My inner shark. I should have been over the moon. Instead, I was terrified out of my mind, so maybe… maybe that's why we never really connected. And when I finally washed up on shore in human form, all The Little Mermaid , I…"

She'd never connected to her shark. And never let it go, either. She'd told Moss her shark was quiet, but explaining how they felt like strangers sharing a soul when he'd been so in tune with his own octopus…

Even after everything they'd been through, she was still afraid of him finding out there was something wrong with her.

The memories bubbled in her mind. All those hours in an alien body, finally washing up on shore, fumbling her way back into human form, finding someone to ask to borrow their phone—and seeing the horror on their face at what she'd become.

And that was still her. Not human enough, and not shifter enough.

She swallowed. "I—"

"They're lucky it's the end of the world."

Carol stopped. Moss's face was dark; the kraken loomed in the depths of his eyes, and that opalescent shimmer was back. "Wh-what?"

"Because if there was anything except the apocalypse in front of us, I'd hunt them down for what they did to you." His words were fierce, but his heart thrummed beneath them, hurting for her. Hurting for everything she'd been through. "I swear I won't let anything like that happen to you again."

"It—it wasn't…"

"That bad?" His mouth jerked, a humorless smile, and his eyes searched hers. "This—is why you hide away, isn't it? You don't put yourself out there. Because whenever you did, your friends hurt you. These college assholes. That fucker who shot you." He reached for her face, touching her gently. "You deserve so much better than that."

And he believed it. His anger and love and belief that she was worth more than the way the world had treated her washed over her through their psychic connection.

Then she was in his arms. She kissed him, tentatively, desperately, her fingers digging into his scalp with all the ferocity she didn't dare allow her lips. He tasted like wine and burned butter and every balanced flavor he'd concocted for this evening together above the crashing waves, and her teeth skidded against the soft edges of his lips. Too close. Too risky.

She tried to pull away, and he groaned deep in his throat and dragged her back to himself.

And she was lost.

He was right. She was afraid. Not of him. Of what the world would do if she didn't make herself so small. She made herself not want things, even when it exploded out of her, like when she'd bitten him by accident.

She'd told herself that denying what she felt for Moss—what she wanted from him, wanted with him—was sensible. Practical. Appropriate.

But this—this was right. As their kiss deepened, something unfurled in her heart. A ribbon of pure starlight. A connection.

A bond.

Was this what she'd been missing? That the mate bond did have to be chosen, after all?

If she had a choice—

Moss put his hand around her waist. His touch sent sensation racing like wildfire over her skin, as though the layers of clothing between them were burning away. Desire coiled and struck inside her, a whip of need.

From the way Moss groaned, his fingers tightening on her waist, she wasn't the only one who felt it.

*This isn't the way I saw this evening going,* he admitted.

Her confusion ricocheted along their mental connection. She didn't even try to stop the emotional overflow. She wanted to be close to him, and hiding anything like that from him would separate the humming, electric connection between them.

* Really? What were you expecting out of a romantic seaside dinner?*

Regret tasted bitter at the back of her throat. Not her own regret—his. They were so close, it felt like the same thing. And that fact alone was too much. She didn't dig any deeper into why he felt regret.

Not when his big hands were picking her up, holding her close against his chest.

* I should have set up dinner inside,* he growled. It seemed perfectly natural that they were communicating mind to mind; their lips were busy, tasting, teasing, exploring.

And the touch of his mind to hers, their emotions overflowing back and forth between them, was like breathing fresh air for the first time.

* Follow my lead,* she told him, and slipped her hand into his. Her senses flooded out. The wild peninsula transformed, a constellation of lives overlaying the encroaching shadows of dusk. * I'll get us back to our rooms without bumping into anyone.*

He hesitated. * Shit. If my cousins catch us—*

She bit back a giggle. * They won't. Keeping out of sight? I'm good at this. Trust me.*

Her brothers were going to throw seven great white-sized fits. They'd waited her whole life to intimidate the first boyfriend she brought home. Now here she was, on the other side of the world, stealing her soulmate away into her room with no one the wiser.

Was it only an hour or so earlier that she'd hunted Moss down to the lookout over the rocks? And now he was here with her. She was returning home with her prey.

Except sharks didn't do that, did they?

Did octopuses? Did krakens? Was she the one who'd been lured in and carried off, while she thought she was the hunter?

She looked back at Moss and met his eyes. Something moved behind his gaze—darker than lust, more eternal than the sea.

Oh, yeah. She was the prey, all right.

The house was quiet. The evening had drawn in while they ate and talked, and most people were in their own rooms. There was rapid movement from the wing where Keeley and Lance were staying—the rest of the house might be exhausted, but Maggie's energy for exasperating her foster parents was endless. Below the house, the captive metal bird shifter's heartbeat was slow and steady. There was a cluster of life in the kitchen, and someone on a slow prowl in the grounds outside. Mathis, checking the perimeter.

She slipped past his guard and felt a stab of guilt that lasted until they reached the wing where her suite was located, and he tugged her the other way down the corridor.

* My room's this way,* she told him.

* And mine is down here.*

She narrowed her eyes. * Who's sneaking who into the house, again?*

*That would be me,* he told her, his psychic voice a sensuous rumble that reverberated along her ribs. * Luring you in with delicious bait and stealing you back to my lair.*

A thrill darted through her, leaving a trail of heat.

Moss's rooms looked out over the ocean, but the first thing he did after shutting the door behind them was close the curtains. A single standing lamp filled the space with a warm glow. The light filtered through decorative dried floral displays, casting shadows that reminded her of seaweed trailing long fingers towards the surface.

Something fluttered in her heart. Her love for the ocean had been so twisted with fear and guilt since she got her shark that she'd forgotten how big a part of herself that love was. Her childhood, her family, all her most cherished memories—they were all flavored with the taste of salt. And now, with Moss, she'd been able to take her first step—splash—into returning to the waters she loved and feared so much.

For the first time since that first shift, she didn't feel ashamed of her shifter magic. She felt hopeful.

Like maybe things would finally start to go right for her.

"Are you sure this is what you want?" Moss asked, his eyes dark.

She nodded, unable to stop smiling. But Moss didn't shy away. He closed the space between them in two long strides and cupped her face in one hand. He was so big, he filled her vision.

And when he ran his thumb along her bared teeth, her knees almost gave out.

"Good," he said, his eyes dark pools she would happily, helplessly lose herself in. "Because I don't think I can stand another moment not touching you."

He leaned down and kissed her. When his tongue slipped between her lips, she let out a surprised gasp. "I don't want to hurt you—"

"Don't worry about that."

She let out a hiccup of laughter. "I never stop worrying about that. About—them. My teeth. All of it."

She tensed. This was the closest she'd gotten to telling him the truth. And she should tell him now, shouldn't she, before anything else happened?

Moss kissed her lips, her jaw, the sensitive skin behind her ear. His fingers tangled in her hair. "Then I guess it's my job to distract you."

"I—"

He stopped her words with his lips and tongue. * Don't make me wait any longer,* he begged. * We don't know what will happen tomorrow. Let's not waste tonight.*

Tomorrow seemed a world away, but he was right. One day to recover before they went after the Soul-Eater was already an unthinkable luxury.

One day. And one night.

She buried her face in his shoulder, inhaling his scent. * I don't want to waste a minute.*

And then they were on the bed. The fresh smell of the sheets surrounded her for a single breath, and then Moss was towering over her, and her senses didn't have room for anything else.