Torun opened his eyes.

He was dry and in some kind of wood box. A loud rumble masked his surroundings, coating his awareness in a thick layer of impenetrable algae. High-pitched buzzing lights washed out the interior room. Air wafted across his skin.

Where was he?

He jerked upright. His head bashed the low ceiling with a resounding gong. He fell back. The gong reverberated in his skull, and a second thunk sounded below the bunk.

As he lay there, sense returned.

The mer would never transport him through the air. He must have been captured by humans.

How lucky.

He rose more carefully and rested his human feet on the floor. He was on a boat, wrapped in some sort of cloth. Perhaps he was in one of their wooden sleeping places. What was it called? A bunk?

A woman appeared in the doorway.

Praise the Life Tree.

She was soft and sweet, with dark eyes the color of wood, hair a similar color, and large breasts swelling beneath a thin, white dress. Her body looked delectably round and squeezable. Pink algae colored her toe and fingernails. No, not algae. What had he researched? Yes, a colored lacquer called “nail polish.”

He had seen many such women swimming the shore of Cancun, all tempting and beautiful. What made her different was the light shining in her chest. A small star burned bright, blinding him with knowledge.

She was the one.

And then the star faded, and only the curvy woman remained.

Oh. What trick was this? The light of his destined mate should not fade.

The woman’s pink lips pursed. “Are you okay?”

Her voice was quiet and musical, like all humans, with an alluring movement of her lips in concert with her tongue. The words traveled through the air, and he heard them with his ears. So different from his normal method of communication.

But it was one he had trained for his entire life.

She spoke his weakest language. He had grown up with the language of the sacred island, Xichotlan, and more recently taught himself Spanish, and now, English. Good thing he had stolen away so frequently to the shores, over the restrictions of his Council, and learned it.

“Yes,” he said.

She relaxed. “Welcome back to life. I just dragged you out of the ocean.”

“I am today’s catch.”

She blinked. “Ha! I guess you are.” She stepped into the small room. “How’s your throat?”

He touched his neck. The vibration of sound when he spoke tickled his fingers strangely. “It is raw.”

“You took in a lot of seawater.” She moved another step closer, placing herself within arm’s reach, and pointed to his new scars. “Something chewed you up badly.”

Yes, his warriors had done him proud. He scratched one of the nearly healed gashes; the slight ridge of tissue itched. All those practice sessions sparring meant he had barely escaped with his life.

The woman’s wide-eyed gaze inspected his body thoroughly. “Huh? That’s funny. I thought your injuries were worse.”

“I heal,” he said simply, and focused. “May I have the honor of your name?”

“Honor?” Her cheeks pinked. She placed her palm on her chest. The light pulsed bright again. “Lucy. Lucy Shaw Edwards is—” The light dipped. “Uh, I mean, forget the last one. Just Lucy Shaw.”

Hmm. Aside from her flickering light, she was perfect. Perhaps her brightness would solidify once she became his.

“I have a lot of questions,” she said.

“Me as well.” The Council said a modern woman could not be a bride because she would fear the water. He reached out and took the hand loose at her side. “Lucy. You are not afraid of the water?”

She looked at their joined hands. Her cheeks heated. “Only when it comes pouring in from a crack in the hull.”

“But you would be unafraid to live beneath the sea.”

“Oh, yeah, if I could score a spot as a submersible pilot, like for one of the oceanographic institutes, I’d be set. That’s living the dream.”

With this skin contact, he could hear her heartbeat, hot and steady. She removed the hand from her chest and traced his honor markings on the back of his hand. “These tattoos are amazing.”

Her silken touch caressed his hard knuckles. Heat pulsed into his cock, twitching to life. She stroked his sensitive thumb.

“Lucy.” He captured her wandering fingers.

Her heartbeat kicked. She riveted on him.

“Are you seeking a male to join with?”

Her pupils dilated. Her cheeks flushed darker and her lips parted. “Uh…” Her gaze moved up his arms to his chest and down his waist to the blanket covering his hardening cock. She licked her lips. “Join with?”

“Together. Here. For the purpose of making young fry.”

Her brows drew together very slightly. “Young fry?”

“A son.” He brought her fingers to his mouth. They tasted sweet and savory, feminine and cool.

She closed her eyes and sucked in a breath. “Mm.”

The quiet moan was more than enough answer. Hunger pounded in her heartbeat, in the hands grasping his, in the hitch of her breath. She needed a male.

He drew her arms around his shoulders and growled. “On behalf of the mer of Sireno, I claim you for my bride.”

Her eyelashes fluttered. “What?”

He sought her lips.

She was hot and sweet. Candy of a flavor he had never known, but which curled deep in his belly and gave him a hard tug. He tilted her head to more fully mesh. She resisted and then melted. Her soft breath teased his taut cheek. She moaned.

His.

He pressed forward, urging the seam of her lips to part, to yield a deeper taste. With a soft, feminine moan, she gave in.

He almost groaned.

She tasted too good. Gentle, thoughtful, true. His tongue delved into her mouth, discovering her shape and matching it to his new ideal of female. At his insistent stroking, her tongue moved forth tentatively. He encouraged her. She slowly entangled him, heating his mouth to lava.

He stamped her as his bride. No other warrior would ever kiss her mouth. He demanded her acquiescence.

The brilliant glow in her chest flared even brighter. She sank into his domination.

Lucy was his.

He curved an arm around her generous hips and tugged her onto the bunk. He would claim his bride!