Children of the Sea 02 - Sea Fever

Arranging her against him, he flipped the covers over them both. Her heart stood still. She froze in sheer surprise, her head on his hard shoulder, glued to his side by sweat and sex and exertion.
     
    “Are you . . . cuddling with me?”
     
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    A snort. Or maybe that was a snore.
     
    Regina bit her lip. “That’s so . . . romantic,” she said, needling him.
     
    “It would be.” He sounded annoyed. “If you’d shut up.”
     
    She grinned and snuggled into his side. Warmed, comforted, she drifted into sleep, lulled by the rise and fall of his chest and the slow beat of his heart.
     
    *
     
    “What is this?” Surprise rippled through Margred’s low voice. Her small, warm hand explored him under the covers.
     
    Caleb set his jaw, torn between the pleasure of that exploring hand and the challenge posed by her question. “It’s a condom.”
     
    “I know what it is. I want to know why you wear it.”
     
    “To protect you,” Caleb said tightly.
     
    “From what?”
     
    “Pregnancy.”
     
    She eased away from him, all that softness, all that warmth, retreating. “But . . . I want to get pregnant. We want to have children. We talked about it.”
     
    Caleb winced, her bewilderment cutting him more deeply than her indignation had. “That was before.”
     
    “Before what?”
     
    He was silent.
     
    “The prophecy.” She answered her own question. “You are afraid that if we have a daughter, she will be in danger.”
     
    “Or you will.”
     
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    “That is a risk I am willing to take.”
     
    He had always admired her courage. But he could not, would not, risk her life. Her safety.
     
    “I just think with what happened to Regina . . . Until we know . . .
    It’s not a good idea right now.”
     
    “But I want a baby.”
     
    Fear for her made him sharp. “You can’t have everything you want, Maggie.”
     
    His words echoed like a slap in the darkness of their bedroom.
     
    “Yes,” she said quietly. “I know.”
     
    Ah, shit. Caleb closed his eyes. She had given up everything to be with him, her life in the sea and immortality. All she had ever asked from him in return was his love and a family.
     
    If he denied her the second, would the first be enough for her?
     
    *
     
    Regina woke to a dented pillow and an empty mattress. Alone again.
     
    That much of her life was back to normal.
     
    She rubbed her face with her hand, wincing from the splinters of sensation in her cracked fingertips, the shard at her heart. Damn. She eased to a sitting position, ignoringthe morning chorus of birds outside her window and the hit parade of pain from her various scrapes and bruises. Some of them were turning very interesting colors. Her toes, for instance. She hobbled to the mirror. Her throat.
     
    She stared at her pale, hollow-eyed, battered reflection, blinking away the easy tears that welled in her eyes. She looked like crap. No wonder Dylan hadn’t stuck around. Just like a man, she thought, fishing her sweatpants from the floor. Got what he wanted and . . .
     
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    But that wasn’t fair. Last night was on her. Unlike some people, she knew how to face up to her actions, how to take responsibility. Thinking of the way she’d thrown herself at him, the things they had done in the dark, she blushed. At least she didn’t have to worry about making eye contact this morning. This way was easier on everyone. On her. Nick would be getting up soon. Just because Dylan had managed to explain away his presence in their apartment last night didn’t mean she was up to explaining his presence in her bed this morning.
     
    She dragged the sweatpants over her hips. It was already after seven o’clock. On a regular morning, she’d have been up two hours ago. She’d just sneak down to the kitchen and—
    Her bedroom door cracked open.
     
    She turned and gaped at Dylan standing in the doorway with a steaming mug in his hands.
     
    “I thought you could use this.”
     
    “What . . .”
     
    “Tea with honey.” He set it on the dresser, avoiding her eyes. “My mother used to make it when one of us had a sore throat.”
     
    Her heart slammed in her chest. Her head whirled. He’d made her tea, was all she could think. Like his mother used to make. She could smell it, lemon, honey, and a hint of spice.
     
    His gaze narrowed as she continued to gawk at him. “Are you all right?”
     
    “Fine.” She forced the word from her tightened throat.
     
    But she wasn’t. She was in