Page 46 of Kingmakers, Year Four

She dips her chin under, deliberately swallowing a mouthful of water.

“Are you drinking that?”

“I’m thirsty! Anyway, running water’s clean,” she says.

I’m thirsty as hell myself. Trying not to think about dirt or bugs, I swallow a mouthful. It’s cold and clean, with a faint mineral taste.

Nix dives and swims across the pool, her pale figure undulating beneath the dark water, her bright hair floating in a cloud around her.

Russian mermaids are calledrusalki.They’re the malevolent spirits of girls who die near water. Perhaps they leapt in a river to escape an unhappy marriage, or they might have been forcibly drowned by a father who discovered his daughter pregnant with an unwanted child. They haunt waterways, luring young men into the deep where they entangle their prey in their long red hair and drag them down.

It’s said that therusalkican alter their appearance to match the tastes of the men they intend to seduce.

I never believed in such a thing . . . until this moment.

Nix hauls herself up on the rocks, her back arched, her long legs outstretched, her skin slick and glistening.

If ever a figure had been formed to suit my preferences, it would be hers . . .

My cock is raging hard below the water. I press on it with my palm, trying to stifle its stiffness, only succeeding in sending a sickening jolt down my legs.

Nix stretches luxuriously on the moss, pointing her feet all the way down to the tips of her toes, hands clasped over her head. Her nipples jut upward, hard enough to cut glass.

My mouth is watering, my heart pounding.

Tearing my eyes away, I mutter, “Don’t you want to swim anymore?”

“Of course I do!” Nix says, rolling back into the water.

Thank god.

She paddles around, agile as an otter. At home in the water.

I feel a stab of longing, remembering endless summer days in the warm turquoise ocean around Syros. Easier times. Better times.

“I wish all our classes were outside like Marksmanship,” Nix says. “I hate being cooped up indoors.”

“Right now I agree with you,” I say, looking around at the sun-dappled ground and the thick pads of green moss blanketing the rocky pool. “You may change your mind come winter.”

“I grew up in Kyiv,” Nix laughs. “I doubt it will bother me. A walk-in freezer seems balmy by comparison.”

I open my mouth to say that St. Petersburg is nearly as bad, and then I snap it shut again, realizing my idiocy. I haven’t had a near-slip like that in a long time—not since I fought Dean and lost control of myself.

Keeping up the front with Nix is even harder than with my friends.

She’s too blunt, and the flow of the conversation is too rapid. I can’t predict what she’ll say next, so I can’t plan my responses.

I was wrong about her, I can see that already — her candor is no act. She’s not trying to manipulate me, not trying to appear as anything but herself. She embraces what she is, even when it doesn’t align with what her father wants.

She’s more honest than I’ve ever been, even before I had to take on this identity.

“We should head back,” I say. “It’s gonna get dark. I don’t want to have to run all the way back.”

“Sure.” Nix shrugs easily.

She climbs out of the pool, water streaming down her body, flesh paler than ever from the chill. Her soaking wet underwear might as well be painted on—I can see everything. I’m hit with another hot, raw flush of lust, and I grit my teeth, turning away.

Nix dresses quickly, pulling her clothes on without bothering to even shake dry. Her curls are already springing up again in wild, tight corkscrews that point in every direction.

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