Page 18 of Ocean's Whisper

A sharp knock at the door sent her pulse racing. Nereus. He had come back.

She smoothed her still-damp hair and straightened her rumpled clothes before crossing to the door. She pulled it open with more eagerness than she intended, only to find herself face-to-face with a young woman in uniform carrying a silver tray.

"Your evening meal, miss," the attendant said with a polite smile.

Disappointment crashed through Isolde with embarrassing intensity. "Oh. Thank you."

The woman placed the covered tray on a small table by the window. "His Highness suggested you might prefer seafood. I hope seared scallops and lobster risotto are to your liking?"

Isolde nodded, battling the ridiculous wave of longing that followed the mere mention of him. "That's very thoughtful."

"His Highness is always attentive to his guests' needs," the woman replied, a hint of curiosity in her eyes as she studied Isolde. "Especially important ones."

"I'm not—" Isolde began, then stopped. What exactly was she to him?Lunahe had called her. Whatever that meant.

After the attendant left, Isolde lifted the silver dome from the tray. The aroma of perfectly seasoned seafood filled the room, reminding her that she hadn't eaten since coming home after work which now felt like it had happened in another lifetime. Despite her exhaustion, she managed a few bites, savoring the buttery scallops that melted on her tongue.

"He even knows what I like to eat," she murmured, wondering if it was coincidence or if he had somehow sensed her preferences. Nothing would surprise her anymore.

As she ate, her eyelids grew heavier. The events of the night had drained her completely. She barely managed to get to the bed before collapsing fully clothed onto the plush mattress.

As sleep claimed her, piercing eyes haunted the edges of her consciousness. That half-smile that always caused her heart to race. The commanding way he moved through space as if the world reshaped itself to accommodate him. The possessive heat of his hand on her lower back when he had kissed her.

"Nereus," she whispered as dreams took her, waves of sleep washing over her mind like the tide coming in—gentle but unstoppable, pulling her under into deep waters where a wolf with turquoise eyes waited, patient and hungry, ready to claim what was his.

EIGHT

NEREUS

As Nereus stalked down the corridor away from Isolde's room, his muscles were coiled tight with restraint. The taste of her lips lingered on his—a heady mixture of salt and sweetness that threatened to pull him back to her door. When she had looked at him wide-eyed with those sea-blue eyes, something primitive had awakened in him, something far more ancient than even his centuries-old wolf.

"Damn it all," he muttered, running a hand through his hair as he entered his study.

The large room reflected his dual nature—part refined royal, part untamed predator. Floor-to-ceiling windows faced the ocean. Bookcases lined the walls, filled with ancient texts on shifter lore and territory management. His massive oak desk dominated the center, carved with intricate patterns of wolves and waves.

Nereus rolled up his sleeves as he began pacing the length of the room. The tall windows revealed his domain—miles of private beach with the ocean now placid and gleaming under moonlight. No hint remained of the chaos from earlier. The contradiction of the ocean mirrored his own state—outwardly composed yet inwardly turbulent.

"Three hundred years waiting for her, and now I can barely keep my hands to myself for three minutes," he growled to himself.

He grabbed his phone and fired off texts to Xavier and Damien. His beta and his royal advisor would be grumpy about the pre-dawn summons, but this couldn't wait. His Luna had arrived—a human Luna with untapped water powers that had already destroyed a public building. The implications were staggering to say the least.

Nereus moved to the sidebar and poured himself a glass of whiskey. He knocked it back in one swallow, the burn nothing compared to the fire Isolde had ignited within him. The mating pull was stronger than he had expected—not just desire, but a bone-deep need to claim her, protect her, and teach her.

"She has no idea what she's capable of," he murmured, pouring another drink and carrying it to the window. The ocean reflected the full moon, its surface rippling slightly. Was that Isolde's influence even in sleep? The connection between them was already forming, stronger than he had anticipated.

He pressed his forehead against the cool glass, wrestling with the wolf inside him that wanted to return to her room, wake her with kisses, and complete the mate bond. The rational prince won out—barely. She needed time. Understanding. Patience.

Patience had never been his strong suit.

"Your Highness?"

He turned to see Mrs. Carlisle, his housekeeper, standing in the doorway in her robe, her gray hair in a neat bun despite the hour.

"Is everything all right? I saw the lights on."

"Fine, Edith. Just expecting Damien and Xavier shortly. And our guest?—"

"The guest suite was prepared with everything a young lady might need. Fresh clothes in the closet and toiletries in the bathroom."

---