Page 81 of The Hunted

Literally singing.

No, this wouldn’t be easy at all.

Then again, nothing ever was.

EIGHTEEN

Eryx

IT WAS CLOSER to midday by the time Eryx was able to sit down for breakfast. He was sure the food had been cooked and ready to serve for a good hour or more, but not a single servant of the house spoke about it one way or another, and the spread was still hot when the platters were brought to the table.

“Duck eggs, my lord, your favorite,” said the woman who kept the large kitchen running at this particular estate. “And of course, the assortment of cooked fish, bread still warm and crisped the way you like, milk fresh from this morning, and—”

“It’s wonderful,” Eryx interjected, giving the woman a smile. The way she looked his way with wide eyes but a hesitant smile, told him the servants had likely been talking amongst themselves about him once again. Not that anything they said was a lie. All his difficultness, the arrogance and abrasive nature … it was all true. They didn’t expect or wait for compliments from him; he should try that more often, maybe. “Amalia, is it?”

She nodded before stopping near the other end of the table to drop into a curtsey. He’d never cared much for those, but as the royals do … “That is my name.”

“We’ll be here a while. I will attempt to remember it. Have them bring her in, please.”

“Absolutely, Prince.”

Eryx could have asked for a handful of servants to remain in the dining hall to serve the food and remove whatever they finished with as they were done with it, but he preferred to take his breakfast alone.

With Arelle.

The two women who helped to carry in the food followed Amalia when she exited the room. Eryx had already placed a linen napkin across his lap and was reaching for his favorite item on the table—the boiled duck eggs—when soft footsteps echoed just outside the dining hall. He glanced up in just enough time to see Arelle come to stand in the arched, stone doorway of the hall.

Now, he was fully able to appreciate how the soft fabric of the gown he’d chosen for her to wear today fell over her curves. A material so thin and almost translucent in the light that when she walked past the window, he could see the shadow of her body moving beneath the gown. Dropped modestly in the bust, tied in the back at the waist, and just breathable enough to move easily when she walked, it fit her well.

Perfectly, really.

If not for those scales at her temples and the gills—now flattened—at her throat, one wouldn’t know she was what she was.

A single strip of the gauzy dress was tied at her throat. Like a pretty little bow for him to unwrap, maybe.

Her face had been cleaned. Those wild red curls of hers seemed slightly more tamed, but a part of him was grateful no one had attempted to tie them back.

All those things came secondary as Arelle’s stare landed on him at the table, and she headed his way without a second thought. Perhaps it was because the woman was waterborne or hell, it could have just been the fact that she was … so entirely unique and dangerous for him, but there was something about the way she walked. Something in the sway of her hips and the delicate lines of her shapely legs that had him watching her every step.

There was a strength to her walk.

A confidence.

And it made his mouth water.

Eryx did his best to hide it. He didn’t need to be seen panting after a merwoman like a dog in heat, but he couldn’t help but notice. It was hard not to.

She had nearly reached the table when the two guards tasked with watching her made their appearance in the doorway. He had a good mind to shoo them away. What could this merwoman really do to him like this with no weapon at her disposal?

But he didn’t.

The image of bloodied men was enough for him to keep them right where they stood.

For now.

“When did you learn to walk?” he asked her.

She came to a stop at the other end of the table, and her hand came up to toy with a ribbon of red curls that had fallen over her shoulder. “I can’t remember the last time my hair was dry.”