Page 27 of Guarded By the Vodnik

“I would tell them that they have a right to hurt. That whatever they went through, it was unfair and they didn’t deserve it. That they deserved to be loved and protected then, and they deserve it now. And I’d also say that they are bigger than whatever bad shit happened to them in the past. You might feel smaller and like it controls you, but there are ways to take control back. There are ways to make the shit so small, you barely know it’s there.”

He stared at me, the intensity of his gaze making me squirm. I’d had a glimpse into his soul, but I didn’t know if I was right, and he didn’t confirm it. His face was utterly blank, and I had no idea what he was thinking.

“Thank you for this conversation,” he finally said, courteous and reserved. “I’d like to establish a boundary now. I don’t feel comfortable touching you anymore unless it’s necessary, but I am open to talk.”

My mouth grew slack, disappointment stabbing my gut. Ridiculously, I felt rejected, even though there was nothing to reject. But how could he hate the hug I gave him when to me, it was such a gorgeous experience?

Though maybe I was just starved for touch, and that was why it felt so good. Just like food tasted so much better when I was hungry. Yeah, that made sense and also made me feel slightly better.

But not much.

“Of course,” I said, trying to recover. “Yeah. You got it.”

I shuffled away, feeling awkward as Vodyan watched me, his expression still neutral and cold. Unable to keep looking at him when I felt hot tears prick my eyes—ridiculous, idiotic—I turned away, heading to my room.

“So, uh, if you need me, just holler,” I said, already slipping through my door.

In my bed, I hugged a pillow, trying to wrestle myself under control. I shouldn’t have cried about this. I shouldn’t have felt much of anything, so I spent a good while suppressing all the stuff that shouldn’t be there before I remembered how pointless it was.

The feelings were there, for better or worse, and if I wanted them gone, I had to let them flow. No matter how painful, uncomfortable, and humiliating they were.

So I cried into my pillow, feeling like an idiot, but at least it brought me relief. I felt almost normal after I was done, so I washed my face and came out to find Vodyan doing pull-ups using the bar in the living room.

“Holy shit,” I murmured under my breath, watching as the muscles in his arms bunched, his teeth bared.

All his tentacles lifted off the floor as he came up with a sharp exhale, his entire torso rippling from the effort. I stared at the muscles in his back, each chiseled and defined under the shimmering scales. He looked like a sculpture.

I didn’t know how much exactly a vodnik weighed, but it was obvious it had to be a few hundred pounds, at least. And he was able to lift all that using his arms alone. It was beyond impressive, and my fingers spasmed with the urge to trace the beautiful, symmetrical shape of him.

Uh-uh. Bad Zoe.

“So that’s how you train?” I asked when Vodyan let go of the bar and turned to me. I expected to see sweat, but of course, vodniks didn’t have sweat glands. They regulated their temperature in other ways.

“A well-rounded routine includes surface stuff, yes,” he said, a small shadow crossing his face. “Though I do most of my exercise in the pool here.”

I rubbed one socked foot over the other, feeling strangely self-conscious. I was never big on fitness, and I suddenly felt inadequate compared to him.

“I should probably move more, too, since we’re stuck here and I don’t walk around as much as usual. I feel so squishy,” I said with a self-deprecating laugh, running my hand down my stomach.

Vodyan stilled, his tentacles freezing halfway through a movement. His eyes were glued to where my hand was at my hip, and I clenched it instinctively into a fist. His eyes dropped away. He swallowed, his throat working.

“Squishy,” he muttered under his breath. He seemed angry, though I had no idea why.

“What?” I asked, folding my arms on my chest.

“Nothing,” he bit out. “That word just surprised me.”

He disappeared in the kitchen, and I went to the bookshelf to get the dictionary, afraid I’d used the word incorrectly. It happened more often than I cared to admit, especially when I was nervous or spent a long day surrounded by kids. They were masters of using language in creative ways.

The dictionary didn’t reveal anything strange, though.

squishy, adj. of a soft, yielding, and wet quality.

I blinked a few times at the definition, finding nothing wrong with the word. I was soft and yielding. Maybe not exactly wet, though if someone squished me hard enough, I was pretty sure wet stuff would come out, so it was accurate.

Great. And now I thought about someone squeezing my guts out of me. If Matthias Carver employed people as big as Vodyan, with muscles that bulged massively and could lift a 600-pound weight, then it was definitely a possibility.

Could Vodyan squeeze me until my body yielded? Hot and warm tingles bloomed across my nape at the image, shockingly not unpleasant. I shivered and shook my head. Yeah, it was time to end that line of thinking.

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