Page 107 of Female Fantasy
“No,” Ryke says sharply. “Because of me. Not because of you. I let you go into that situation blind. I put you in danger because I was afraid that if you knew, you would feel obligated to be with me. And I wanted you to choose me of your own accord. To fall…”
I wait for him to finish his sentence.
But all that follows is silence.
I shut my eyes and hear the bloody cries of the siren attack. Think of the sirens whose organs I boiled, their bodies exploding.
It is horrifying, even if they deserved it.
I killed all those creatures because the North Star decided Ryke and I were destined for each other even before I took my first breath.
Everything I have been through.
The suffering of my village.
The abusive hand of my husband…
Oh, tides. My husband.
A man who made my light dim instead of glow.
I married him, not knowing that the Fates were laughing at me.
My head throbs as I fight another wave of nausea.
As if he can read my mind, Ryke cuts in. “Please, my minnow. Allow me to explain. I was so afraid of losing you, of hurting you. Of behaving like…him.”
He does not dare utter my husband’s name.
“You needed to realize your own power. Your own strength. Merriah, you are the only living descendant of Amphitrite,the sea goddess. The ocean bends to your will. The conch calls to you. You even command a dolphin fleet.” He gestures to the battalion behind me. “You are so more than my loch. You are Atlantia’s salvation.”
I cannot bring myself to ask Ryke why he does not believe I can be both.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Nico and I walk out of his mother’s apartment in charged silence. The sun is starting to set, casting a golden haze over the row of brownstones and older tenement buildings. Across the street, an elderly woman pushes a shopping cart while humming a song I don’t recognize. A dog barks in the distance, followed by a loud curse. Nico is holding a plastic bag of Tupperware containers full of about six months’ worth of leftover casserole. I’ve got a rice cooker and a phone charger in my hands. The latter is because I mentioned I needed one. The former? Nico’s mother heard I was cooking rice the old-fashioned Persian way and immediately insisted I take hers off her hands. That’s just the kind of woman she is.
I turn to face Nico. He still looks boyishly disheveled. I resist the urge to touch his hair.
“Why did you lie to me?” I ask quietly.
Nico inspects something fascinating on the concrete sidewalk. “How was your date with Prince Charming?” he deflects. “Please, don’t hold back the gory details. The anticipation is killing me. Did he sweep you off your feet?”
I roll my eyes, studying his profile. A week ago, I would have taken his rude brush-off as an obvious sign of his vehement hatred for me. I would have met his vitriol with a retort of my own, and we would have gotten into a sparring match that would have resulted in us not speaking for three to five business days.
But that was then.
Now that I’ve gotten to know Nico, to really understand him, I can see the obvious layer of hurt nestled beneath his words. The vulnerability he feels talking to me about his mother. He goes on the offensive so he never has to open up.
I can’t believe I ever missed that about him.
Now I want to spend every day making sure he knows he can lower his guard around me.
I want to be the kind of person he feels comfortable talking to.
“He was perfect.” I take a step toward him. “I really think he might be The One.”
Nico lets out a sharp laugh and backs away. “Good. I hope you guys are really, really happy together.”
