Page 37 of 'Til All the Seas Run Dry

“I should have told you the truth from the beginning,” Jory said, so softly that she wondered if he’d heard her.

“This is a beginning,” he said carefully, pressing his forehead more firmly against her hair. “Tell me now.”

“In a minute,” she said and closed her eyes.

He huffed what might have been a chuckle and pulled her closer.

“Alright, Jory. In a minute, then.”

15

Callum could hardly believe that she was here. In his arms. In his bed. He buried his nose in her hair and smelled deeply. The salt. The earthiness. The heather. For nearly a thousand years, he’d sifted through rosewater baths and heavy perfumes and those goddamn azaleas that surrounded his club to find this, the smell of her.

If he closed his eyes, he could take them back to that heather-stuffed mattress in the little cottage by the sea, with nothing but the sound of her sleeping breath and a crackling fire, the delicate seashells clinking together in the rafters as the wind shook the house. He squeezed her tighter against his chest and let himself live in that memory, his eyes closed, at home in his mind with her in his arms.

Callum didn’t know how long they lay there. Hours, at least. It was hard for him to grasp time. When a person was immortal, the difference between minutes and hours felt rather insignificant. He wondered, briefly, if it was the same for her. She seemed perfectly content to lie there. Let the night pass into day. Let the sun rise. Let the world crumble to dust around them. He would lie here with her in his arms until the very sun burned out. And then he’d hold her in the dark.

A fierce stab throbbed in the center of his chest as he imagined telling her the truth. She probably wouldn’t let him hold her like this ever again once she knew. He’d be damned if he rushed this then. If he was going to lose her forever, he’d savor every single second of this moment.

But no sooner had that thought crossed his mind, she took a deep breath.

“I wasn’t honest with you. Back then.”

He waited, holding her close and keeping his nose in her hair, his forehead pressed against the back of her skull.

“I didn’t find you on land. I found you from sea.”

That confused him. He’d boarded the enemy ship and lost himself in the battle. He had barely noticed the shallow dagger wounds in his chest, the deep stab beneath his ribs. The slicing of a sword against his back. He took it all, inflicting as much if not more damage on his enemies.

And though a fire had broken out, he’d fought till the bitter end, until he was caught grappling with a man and hurled overboard, dislocating his shoulder on the way down. The impact had nearly knocked him unconscious, the saltwater in his many wounds caused blinding pain. But he’d found a bit of wood, and as the ships sank around him, he’d clawed his way through the water, through the dead, through the flotsam and jetsam, to shore. He’d crawled onto the sand and promptly fainted.

He remembered some of his fitful, feverish state. Unconscious for most of it, but he’dfelther gentleness, her warmth, her care. And then he’d opened his eyes and seen her. The waves of her wild, dark hair had been speckled with sand and tangled from the relentless wind. Her bright green eyes had seemed so otherworldly, so beautiful. Like an emerald he’d once seen against a fine lady’s throat. The sun warming her naked skin made him wonder if she was an angel come to save him.

He remembered her bathing him, spooning fresh water into his parched mouth, shading him with her cloak. She lay down next to him every night, warming him with her own heat when the tremors racked his body.

“What do you mean?” Callum asked. Of course she had found him on land. There had been no women on either ship.

“I am not…” She paused, and Callum could imagine her chewing on her bottom lip, the way she did when she was thinking. “As you might have guessed, I am not human.”

“Not anymore.”

“Not ever.”

He tried to turn her to face him, but she tensed and resisted. “No,” she whispered. “Please.”

“Tell me,” he said and then, because she had, he added, “Please.”

“The Norse called us kópakonan. The Irish said merrow.”

He’d grown up with the tales. You didn’t spend time on or near the sea without hearing them. Stories of strikingly beautiful women who could turn into seals, women who could be bound to human men with simple thievery and cleverness. Selkie brides. The old men would tell stories of them. Someone had an uncle or cousin who had caught and married one. All a man needed to do was to steal their—oh, fuckinghell.

“Marjory,” he whispered, dread and regret filling him. But also anger. So much anger. Because she was immortal, andshe always had been. If only he’d known. He would never have…

“Why didnae you tell me you’re a selkie, Marjory?” he bit out finally, after she’d remained silent.

She sighed. “How does one go about telling someone that? ‘Oh, hello. I’m the immortal daughter of an ancient sea god.’ How do you expect that to have gone?”

“I would have believed you.”