#There's always a black shadow wrapping my heart tight whenever I notice the animation gets better–

[sskk-manifesto]

Omg I actually enjoyed this episode quite a bit!!!

[rohitkkumar]

WTC Final Virat Kohli shows his Bhangra skills while fielding at slips

The room had the scent of freshness about it, a nice change from the heavier, musty smell of her old apartment. Tara held a cardboard box with all her more intimate belongings – the kinds of things she wouldn't want the movers to find if they 'accidently' took a peek inside the box labeled "PERSONAL" with large black marker.

"That'd give them too much of a thrill," Tara smiled to herself as she surveyed her new surroundings. She found the apartment a few days before, and immediately she knew she had to have it. The hardwood main floor opened up into a spacious living room from which connected a small white kitchen complete with dividing counter-space. A bathroom with shower and bathtub were opposite, and nearby led into her new bedroom – white walls and spacious floor waiting to be filled. Tara stepped into the empty bedroom, the "PERSONAL" box cradled in her arms.

The movers weren't due to arrive for another hour, and in the meantime Tara had little else to do. She had taken the day off of waitressing at the coffee house so she could set up her new apartment, and without her computer to update her blog or even a couch to daydream on she had nothing left except to wait for the rest of her things to come in.

Tara looked down at her box and stroked the edges pensively. "Hmmm, I guess it wouldn't hurt..." she murmured. She glanced around the empty apartment, a grin tugging on the corners of her mouth. "I'll just take a peek till those guys get here..."

She closed the door to her new bedroom and sat down, placed the box between her legs, and opened it. Inside she found a few of her tank tops, tight blue jeans, mid thigh-length skirts, thin socks, and other bits of clothing. Tara wore those kinds of clothes whenever she could – her more-than handfuls of breasts felt so snug in her tight tank tops, and her jeans hugged her ass perfectly. Others definitely noticed as she sauntered along the streets in a short skirt or while she was waitressing, hips swaying and breasts jutting. Their attention always had a way of making her smile.

But that was just a cover for her real treasures. Pawing aside the upper layers of clothes, Tara pulled out a lacy pink thong. The dainty thing wrapped around her fingers like a silky string, and she sighed – She hadn't gotten to wear it for anyone lately. Her work demanded most of her time, and combined with the rigors of being an aspiring author and maintaining an online blog for the masses, she was just too busy to find herself some guy to show off how sexy she looked with a little pink thong on - and nothing else.

"Oh well," Tara thought with a shrug, "I know I'll still enjoy it."

With a catish grin Tara stood up and slipped off her white panties. The change was easy since she wore a short skirt with her tight t-shirt, and when the thong slid up and around her ass she felt a little jolt run through her. She could remember posing in them before for one of her boyfriends – and the pictures of that little photoshoot she still kept in her scrapbook.

Her still-warm panties found a place in the box and were buried again as she sat and dug deeper. She touched the soft leathery corner of her personal scrapbook. "Gotcha!" she pulled out the small tome and set it onto her lap. The plain cover hid the pages and pages of pictures Tara had found in her explorations into the darker side of the internet.

Halfway through she found the high-resolution black-and-white photographs she adored, the ones with a pair of red lips barely touching the head of a stiff cock or a woman pushed down onto a plush bed by a man taking her from behind. Often she had fantasies develop around these pictures, ones she typed down for her blog – ones she brought with her to bed late at night. She looked at a picture of a tall strong man holding a limp and naked girl in his burly arms, his face hidden by the shadow as he held his prize before him. Claimed by him.

Inspired, Tara put the book aside and rummaged around some more in the box. At the very bottom her fingers brushed by something firm and long – just what she was looking for. She pulled out her hidden toy, a rabbit vibrator, squeezing the firm yet yielding gel shaft into her palm and stroking the clit stimulator in slow deliberate circles.

"Hmmm... If only you were real..." Tara mused, stroking her finger down and over the bulbous head. She imagined it belonging to the strong man in the photo, tall and fit, his cock ready to fuck her at just the sight of her shaking her ass in her pink lacy thong.

"Mmmm..." She thought of how he would want her so bad that she would feel it in his gaze, feel it in his grip around her waist, and that he wouldn't hesitate to push her to the floor and take her like an animal. Her panties were getting moist at the thought, and when she lifted up her little skirt she could see the light pink fabric darkening with her juices...

Tara began to move the toy along her wet pussy, a little tease as she imagined the man rubbing his cock up and down her aching slit. "Naughty girl, getting fucked on the bedroom floor..." She pulled her panties aside, imagining her dainty hand was his instead, pulling away the light protection of fabric with rough and powerful fingers that grazed her soft inner thighs. She could see his muscles tensing, readying to thrust inside her hot and ready pussy as she pressed the toy into her tight pus-

*KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK*

Tara shoved the dildo under the clothes in her box along with her scrap book and jumped to her feet in half a second, her heart pounding as she rearranged her panties over her frustrated sex.

"Shit, the movers," Tara thought, "They must have come early!" Carefully, she smoothed her skirt down over herself and brushed at her bedhead hair with her hand before stamping to the door. "God damn, they were supposed to be here in an hour... ughhhh!" Tara gripped the knob and threw open the door, but her glare melted. Three men stood in the doorway, looking down at her.

"Are you Tara Bridges?" The man in front asked.

"Yeah... That's me..."

"Looks like you have some furniture to move in," The man looked down at his clipboard, "Single-piece couch, table, some dining room chairs, queen-sized bed plus headboard, and assorted cardboard boxes – Is that right Miss Bridges?"

"Umm, yes, that's right."

"Alright then," He looked back and motioned to his two partners who disappeared down the steps, "My associates will start moving up your things while you show me where you'll have them."

Tara stared at the man blankly for a moment before starting, "Uh, Sure! Yes, thank you! I, well, let me show you around then!" She quickly turned back around, trying to hide her warming face.

"Oh my God! They are sooo hot!"

Tara gave the foreman a tour of her apartment, glancing back at him constantly. She pointed to one corner of the living room and the other, her eyes scanning over his muscled arms and strong chest whenever he pointed in turn. They were no doubt developed from his job lifting furniture all day, she thought. Then she led him through the kitchen and into the bedroom, ushering him in before her so she could check him out from behind. She rubbed her thighs together when she saw his ass and legs, his body so taut and developed that she could see it through his pale shirt and blue jeans. When he turned to the side to look over the room, her eyes immediately fell down to his crotch, which bulged even then with his manhood.

"Pretty big, isn't it?" He said.

Tara jumped, her face red. "W-what?"

"No problem – we can fit your bed in here just fine," He continued looking around the room as Tara let out a little puff of air that had gotten caught in her chest. "I've got to get myself a boyfriend with a cock like that... God, I'm too horny right now for my own good..." Tara reflected, trying to keep her eyes off the foreman's package. She kept glancing back despite her best efforts.

There was a shuffling in the living room. Tara looked around and saw the other two moving men, quite buff and toned almost as much as the foreman, carrying her large couch in as easily as if it were an empty cardboard box.

"Where'll we put it?" One of them asked.

"Mmm, the places you men could put it..." Snapping out of her lusty daydreams, Tara managed to point, "Um, right there is good for now."

The two men put the couch down and went back downstairs while the foreman stayed with Tara. Her knees were feeling weak just by standing next to the man. She could feel his heat even from a foot away.

"This is a pretty nice apartment you've got," he said, "Excited about moving in?"

"Oh yeah - yeah, I'm pretty excited," Tara replied.

"We're usually having to move refrigerators and cabinets and cat trees for little old ladies that smell like mothballs, so this'll be a nice change of pace for once."

Tara laughed, "Mothballs?"

He smiled, "Yeah – could hear 'em rattling around in everything we were moving. Couldn't get the smell out of my clothes for days."

"Haha, well I don't think you'll have to worry about picking up a bad smell here – no mothballs or cats for me!"

"I'll take your word for it. Seems to smell rather nice in here, actually," he flashed Tara a sidelong glance. She felt herself blush even harder.

"So, uh, what's your name?" Tara suddenly found the need to brush her hair back and study the hardwood floor.

"Name's Roy, Miss Bridges," he said.

"Ah, then you can call me Tara, Roy," she extended her hand politely.

"Well then Tara, it is a pleasure to meet you," he reached forward and took hold of her hand. Tara watched her dainty hand disappear in his firm, electric grasp. They shook, he barely moving yet Tara felt his strength all through her arm. She thought her knees might buckle.

She was relieved to hear the two other moving men enter the living room again. "Roy," said one of them with a box under each arm, "in the time you've spent talking up the pretty lady you could've emptied out half the truck!"

"Yeah," the other grunted as he set down a large box, "bet she's tired of you trying to oogle the goods instead of helping us move 'em!"

Tara really blushed then, but Roy just laughed, "Alright, alright, I'll help you pansies out," he turned back towards Tara and hiked his thumb over his shoulder, "See what I get to work with? They still won't forgive me about those mothballs." Tara smiled, and Roy turned around and disappeared out the door.

Tara felt much better about being interrupted then – this show was better than photos for sure! Tara leaned in the bedroom doorframe with her arms crossed under her breasts, watching the men work. Steadily, the bare apartment filled with her things – lamps, chairs, rolled up carpets, and countless cardboard boxes.

The two other men trudged into the room with her heavy computer desk between them as Roy brought up two large boxes perched on either shoulder. Tara noticed the other men were more heavily built than Roy – they were stockier, their legs and arms knotted with muscles, while Roy's build was more lengthy and toned. Tara couldn't keep her eyes off them, and her thoughts drifted to how they would look without their grey work shirts covering their sweat-slick chests...

Tara was snapped out of her reverie as Roy approached. The other men thumped her refrigerator down behind the kitchen counter, and the rest of the room was filled with her things already.

"So," Roy said, "That seems to be just about everything, Miss Tara Bridges. Just the bed left to move in, but that shouldn't be a problem" His confident voice made Tara melt. It was the kind of voice that Tara imagined whispering in her ear on her many boyfriendless nights...

"Really? I thought I had more things..." "Damn it, I wish I had more!" Tara entertained the idea of taking a hasty trip to the furniture store – she was sure they were on the brink of taking off their shirts for real.

"Nope, though I wouldn't mind if you did have more," He stretched his arms out and rolled his head, "It's not every day we get to work for such a lovely lady as yourself."

"Hehe, thank you. I try to be pretty, ya know?" She felt giddy around Roy – he'd be populating her fantasies for nights to come, she was sure.

"Naw, you don't have to try I'd say," he looked around the freshly moved-in bachelorette's apartment, "I suppose your boyfriend will be bringing over his stuff pretty soon, eh?"

"Boyfriend? Ha! Haven't had one of those for awhile," Tara said, with just a hint of bitterness. Sex was so hard to come by since her last boyfriend, and her fantasies could only go so far to satisfy her. "Maybe you can ask your girlfriend to find me one, hmm?"

Roy laughed, "No girlfriends for me. I like to keep things pretty simple, and not just any girl will do. But you should be having tons of guys falling over themselves trying to get to you!"

Tara shook her head, "Mm-mm. Maybe none of them are brave enough to just come and get me."

"Oh, don't be too sure," Roy said, "I'm sure someone is going to catch you fairly soon, Tara."

Tara smiled – she was hoping he would ask for her number, but she heard the thumping steps in the hallway again.

"Looks like they've got your bed. I should probably go help them – they'll get cranky if I don't." Tara opened her mouth but Roy dashed out the door before she could say anything. "Damn," she huffed, smoothing out her skirt for the second time that night.

The three men entered Tara's apartment carrying her great bed between them and trudged into Tara's bedroom. She followed after, eager to see the burly men working for her again. They grunted and strained, muscles tensing and rippling, all for little Tara's benefit... The thought made her rub her legs together – she stepped behind her large bed sheet box as she felt herself getting hot again.

They positioned the bed with a loud thump. Somehow they were able to bring the large bed all up in one piece, a feat which further impressed Tara. All three men left the room again, Roy giving her a final sidelong glance as he walked out the door. She looked on, not wanting them to be leaving so soon, and pulled her black sheets from the box.

"God..." She breathed, reveling in how those men hoisted her huge bed into her apartment, along with all her other things. Soon her dark sheets were lain out over the bed, as well as her pillows – A soft black island in a pale white room. Tara heard front door close firmly and heavy familiar footsteps thumped through into her living room. They were discussing something in their low voices, Roy's more boyish-tone distinct from the deeper tones of his associates. "Oh, they'll be put to better use than moving my stuff soon enough", she thought, rubbing her legs together, "if only just for me and my little toy..."

She sat at the foot of her bed and her mind wandered. Her mind flashed with short visions of hot and heavy sex, of strong men forcing her against her soft sheets, pressing her face into the pillows as they took their turns fucking her long and hard. Big strong men, like the ones in her living room right then... The movers were surely not helping her get over her horniness, and Tara felt like if she didn't get some relief soon she might very well make her fantasies a reality. Her hand crept up her inner thigh, wishing somehow she would get more than just fantasies tonight...

There was a polite, deep cough at the open bedroom door. Tara jumped to her feet, noticing only now that the movers had stopped talking. They stood inside her bedroom's doorway, Roy in front with arms crossed. They were grinning as she hastily straightened out her skirt, a blush crossing her face.

"All moved in, Tara," Roy announced, and Tara nodded quickly.

"T-thanks guys, you helped me out a lot!" Tara said, wondering if they had seen her hand under her skirt.

"Now, about our payment..." Roy said.

"Oh, right..." Tara said, "Let me just get my checkbook..." She stepped towards the doorway somewhat slowly. She was beginning to think of ways to keep them around – invite them to stay for coffee, or to move in just one more piece of furniture that she hadn't quite bought yet, or -

But Tara didn't have the chance to think. The door slammed shut before she got there.

"Not that kind of payment, Tara."

She stopped. "Um, do... do you guys only take cash then?"

This time they all laughed - strong hearty laughs. "Oh no, we're not going to take money from you, Tara." Roy said, stepping forward, "I discussed it with my boys, and we all agreed that we'll be taking something else tonight..."

Tara felt very small before the wall of muscle-bound men, "W-what will you take then?" She asked, backing up slightly. There was nowhere to go. A knowing chill ran up her spine. Roy grinned.

"You."

The men were on Tara in an instant – their strong hands grabbing her arms, roving up her legs, fondling her breasts. She couldn't even let out a yelp– her lungs were paralyzed around her terror-chilled heart. The men pawed her inner thighs, over her taut belly, down her back, up her neck, around her breasts – petting her whole transfixed body through her clothes.

"Oh god! What are they doing!?" Tara panicked. Their hands were so hot, and they pinched her ass and grabbed her breasts so forcefully, so eagerly. Tara tried to cross her legs, but powerful fingers pried between her tightened thighs anyway.

"Stop!" Tara cried out, "Get off me!"

Her protest fell on deaf ears. They boys had found their new toy. Roy spoke behind her, his chest pressing against her back.

"I told you Tara, I don't settle for just any girl. And it seems like you do want this..." She felt his hand slide up her thigh till it disappeared under her skirt. She jumped as his hot fingers ran across her hot, moist thong.

His chuckle reverberated through Tara's light frame, "I think you want this more than you're ready to admit!" He stroked along her wanting slit, and Tara's knees nearly buckled as she let out an involuntary moan.

"N-no! Get away from me!" Tara began to struggle, to break free from the groping men. But they were too strong for her, and it goaded them on. They lifted Tara's arms up and peeled off her t-shirt. Her skirt slid down her legs and pooled on the floor. Tara stood between them, only her lacy bra and pink thong to protect her. Their rough hands touched bare skin as she vainly tried to cover up and push them away.

Roy's voice played in her ear. "It's been awhile since we had an employer as sexy as you, Tara..." A hand grabbed her bare ass as another grasped one of her laced breasts, "or as ready to get fucked. We're pretty pent up, you know..." With a click, her bra went slack and fell to the ground. Roy cupped her bare tits from behind before she could cover them herself.

"Mmm, that feels so good..." Tara thought, despite her fear. Her alarmed gasp turned into a moan as those rough fingers toyed with her hardening nipples... "NO!" she back-thought, "What am I thinking!? I won't let them rape me!!" Her heart pounded in her chest, but she couldn't tell if it was from terror, or excitement.

"You're not going to fuck me, Roy!" She yelled, her heart jolting at the thought of Roy and the men taking her. She redoubled her struggle, trying to land a kick on the men holding her. They simply pressed closer.

"But of course I am, Tara. We all are..." The foreman replied as more rough fingers slid under her minute throng strings. The fabric clung to her sex before peeling away and dropping to the ground at her kicking feet. The three men felt in turn between her legs. Tara tried to lock her thighs in vain. No doubt they felt how wet she was getting, she knew. Tara felt her thighs loosening to let their pressing touches in despite herself...

[mollymauk-teafleak]

The Seal Lullaby: Chapter 7

Next chapter is up! Its angsty as all hell so, y’know, brace yourselves.

Thanks so much to everyone whose supported me and given me feedback on this and just generally kept me going like my fantastic beta reader @minky-for-short whose just amazing as well as other just general phenomenal individuals like @childofdustandashes @purearcticfire @oversaturated-ocean @lookatvanessasface @brainypaperbullets @arya-durin-51 @kilocurican @hollywoodx4

Usually, while Eliza was at work and Alex was left in charge of Philip, he’d set him down in the little nest of blankets and pillows he’d constructed underneath his writing desk with some snacks and a substantial pile of storybooks, colours, blocks and Legs of course, the most important item, to nap and play and read as much as his little heart desired, knowing his Pops was right there above him if he needed anything. It would always make Alex smile more than a little, to be in the middle of transferring some prose that some academics were starting to worry was drug induced from his brain to the keys of the typewriter the man behind the desk at the antique store had let him have for a steal, seeing as the belt needed realigning. From there, the mechanism and ink would do as it would, beyond Alex’s control, either neatly and succinctly stamping out the scholastically fascinating contents of his brain or emitting a horrible shriek and burp of protest, sticking in any number of ways and usually dribbling ink down onto poor Philip’s little feet, necessitating Alex to take a break from being the postmodern nouveau poet so many literary magazines claimed him to be, instead sitting on the floor with a screwdriver between his teeth, unspooled paper clips in his hair ready for action and ink staining his fingers beyond the reach of less than five thorough showers.

But still he’d smile, whenever he’d be in the midst of it all, tapping some place of himself that had become muffled since he started walking on two legs, mining some deeper reaches of his soul that he was always careful to go anywhere near because the glimmering in its depths could sometimes be diamond and sometimes be broken glass, because even as he sighed and rubbed his aching fingers, he’d feel Philip’s warmth and comforting weight wrap around his legs, settle on his foot.

“Bounce please, Pops,” he’d chirrup happily.

And Alex would smile no matter how hard he’d been working, no matter what angry, brooding memories were making themselves known, he’d rock his leg, bouncing his little boy on his leg, usually with a raspy but cheery murmur of, “Blast off!”

And the slightly musty office, no matter how many times he opened a window, would ring with his bubbling laughter, usually followed by his father’s, a little wearier but no less happy.

Philip would never tell his Pops, it felt like too heavy a thing to just throw into casual conversation and the moment would never really feel right, but from those lazy days of his early childhood, Pip would always associate the heavy whirr and smack of a typewriter, the taste of peanut butter eaten straight from the jar, the acrid smell of ink, the words of A.A. Milne and the soft hum of the record player, though only on Fridays, with some of the happiest and warmest times of his entire life.

This only made it more of a shock, more of an affront, when the peace was disturbed one day.

Alex knew he and Pip wouldn’t get much more days like this. Soon Eliza would be taking her maternity leave and then soon after that the new baby would be here and the times to uncover some peace and quiet with his little boy would be few and far between.

So, when the first throaty roar of thunder made Pip squeak in fright from under the desk and made Alex’s fingers on the keys stumble so the word ‘shark’ became ‘sharpkm’ (which didn’t quite have the same feel to it and completely murdered his iambic pentameter), his first reaction was one of annoyance.

Oh, fuck off, his thoughts directed bitterly and the oncoming storm that he could now smell and feel in the hollows of his bones, he’d been too distracted by work and Philip to notice it before, of course you had to come along and ruin one of the last days. Go on and fuck yourself.

He was only thinking it so virulently because he’d wanted to take Philip down to the beach later, make sandcastles and play chicken with the incoming wave and make believe pirates or mermaids until they saw Eliza come walking over the crest of the hill, walking carefully and with one hand resting underneath the bulge in her coat, so they could run to her and greet her like always.

That’s all he’d been thinking. But, as it happened, his spitting at the storm turned out to be rather prophetic.

The first flash of lightning had passed them by but this one broke through their refuge, strong enough to negate the soft glow of the lamp and turn the world to a photographic negative for a heartbeat. It’s partner, the thunder, came soon after, as much of an assault on the ears as the lightning had been on the eyes.

“Oh no,” Alex sighed, trying to lighten his tone, trying to pretend that he couldn’t taste the burning rising in his throat, he’d been getting so much better at controlling it recently, he couldn’t let go, he couldn’t, not in front of Pip…

When he heard the tinny, terrified sobbing, he’d thought at first that his breathing exercises and anxiety management had failed him, like it had sometimes before, his body’s terror had broken through the walls he tried to hastily throw up and the tears had come without his knowledge.

But no, he realised, after a heartbeat’s worth of vertigo, his eyes were dry. It was Philip who was sobbing. Alex ducked under to see him curled up in as tight a ball as his little body could be made to form, hands bunched up tight in his curls, Legs crushed desperately in between his knees and his chest, skin a petrifying sallow pale, what could be seen of his face was shiny and wet.

Alex had always found the phrase ‘broken hearted’ to be a funny one. Hearts weren’t made of glass or porcelain or clay, nothing that could be broken. Hearts were meat and sinew, if anything they tore. They bruised. They throbbed with pain but they didn’t break.

Seeing his little Philip like this, Alex saw the truth in that phrase. Meat or not, it felt as if his heart had been shattered so viciously that nothing was left but dust. Like glass in too hot a kiln, burst into a million jagged parts.

“Oh,” he tried not to cry too obviously but that was an impossibility, “Oh Pip, buddy, it’s okay. It’s okay!”

But Philip seemed unable to hear him, all he cared about was the new flash of lightning and fresh litany of thunder roars, making him tremble all over like a cornered animal, clap his arms over his ears and scream thinly into the noise.

Alex remembered the night, the one that really didn’t seem all that long ago but looking at the size of Pip now it must have been an eternity ago, surely, he’d never been so small he could fit inside Eliza? But Alex remembered how even held in the safety of her body, poor Philip had panicked and writhed at the storm. It didn’t look like he’d been able to shed his fear in the nearly two years since.

But this time Alex could get to his son, he wasn’t in some abstract plane of half existence, he was here and Alex wasted no time in reaching below the desk, pulling Philip into his arms, rocking him.

“Shhh, Pip, I promise, it’s only a storm,” he murmured, fretfully as his hysterics continued, “It’s out there and we’re in here and it can’t hurt us, I swear. Oh buddy…”

Philip’s sobbing continued like it was never going to let up, clutching his cloth giraffe so tightly that his knuckles went white.

Sometimes Alex didn’t think any of his Selkie blood had touched his son. He just looked like a normal little boy, a sweet thing with big eyes and an easy smile like any well loved and protected human child, only having inherited his father’s nose and coppery skin. But every now and again he’d be sharply reminded.

This was one of those times. In every harsh, furious flare of lightning, his baby’s eyes would look almost totally black, animalistic, the shadows that fell across his face could be mistaken for whiskers almost, for the length of a terrified heartbeat, his teeth seemed to sharpen almost on sight, refracting the glare in a way no human tooth, no tooth that wasn’t filed to a point, would, his face shape seemed…wrong.

Alex gave a low, tortured moan, showing no revulsion though he couldn’t promise that he didn’t feel any, he couldn’t tell. All he did was bundle Philip closer to him, pressing his lips to his clammy forehead, stroking his mussed-up curls, whispering that it would be okay, it would, nothing here could hurt him. His Pops would protect him.

But he didn’t believe him.

That hurt a hell of a lot more than he wanted to admit.

Alex tried every trick he knew to soothe his little boy, making Legs talk in the cheery, high pitched little voice that usually had Pip giggling away, bouncing his curls, pulling faces. He even kissed the bridge of his nose in light, flurrying pecks, right over the little birthmark that looks as if someone had splattered a little strawberry juice or plum flesh over his son’s little face. He remembered how Pip used to wonder how the mark had gotten there, standing on the little step in the bathroom so he could reach the sink and brush his teeth, looking in the mirror and rubbing at it with a confused expression. The explanation Alex had carefully chosen to give him (having no idea how birthmarks formed in the first place) was that silly Pops must have kissed him too many times in one place when he was an even littler thing than he was now, staining that little patch of skin with too much love. Eliza had snorted into her teacup when she’d heard this, involuntarily of course, requiring a sharp look from Alex not to blow this for him, please. But Philip had puffed up his chest like the pride flooding there had been a physical thing, taking up too much room to be contained in what space there was in his little ribcage. Since then, Philip had always requested kisses on his birthmark, like it was some special place, a mark of affection right there on his skin.

Alex had realised a few days later that he’d lied to his son.

He’d been lying in bed on top of the covers, naked and sweating slightly, with Eliza tangled around his body, resting her head on his chest while his thumb stroked along the line of her eyebrow tenderly, hazily examining the trail of his own birthmarks, the ones that blotched his hips and ran a trail right down to his ankle, the ones that pattered along his spine to end at the juncture of his thighs (the ones Eliza always teased him were her little landing strip). He’d been wondering in a listless, vague kind of way, demoting the thoughts to a back part of his brain while the rest concentrated more on the frankly delicious taste still lingering in his mouth and the press of Eliza’s breasts against his side and, as the way often goes, it was this back, dim part of the brain that produced the revelation.

Something had always nagged him about his birthmarks. And he saw it then, finally. They corresponded perfectly, to an exact far too precise to just be a quirk of happenstance, to the dapples and patches of darker fur that decorated his coat in another body.  

The link, small and almost unnoticed by him but there all the same, had sent something cold and skittering running through his tendons and sinews.

But even that paled in comparison to the realisation that came now, in the moment he held his terrified, shaking son while the storm roared at them.  

Philip’s birthmark. Alex knew in that moment that it was no normal collection of abnormal pigment cells (he’d looked it up later). He knew that somewhere, on the pelt that Philip didn’t have but could have, if he wanted it, if Alex could face what needed to be done, there would be a darker patch of fur on the hood that, when swept around his little boy’s shoulders, would transfer to a blotch of black or maybe blue or maybe even white on the muzzle.

Alex recoiled from the thought. He didn’t want to imagine Philip having a muzzle. He didn’t want to imagine him with a pelt. He didn’t want to imagine him feeling the pull of the sea, slipping his own pelt around him, changing, becoming like liquid and then solidifying, swimming away into some dark, jagged horizon. Beyond the reach of him or Eliza.

He couldn’t bear the thought. He couldn’t bear the thought of it happening, or the thought of him enabling it, as he knew he would if it were asked of him. Those kinds of instincts were buried too deep to fight against.

But it might just kill him to do it.

Alex found himself hugging Philip even tighter. He knew what he’d done to soothe him last time the storms had caused such a fright in him, the words to the song that had settled him were ready and waiting, curled around his brain like a dozing snake. But it was like he couldn’t quite make the motion to let them loose, he couldn’t take that jump. Like it was something poisonous in the truest sense, like it would only help to make the imaginary divide between him and his son turn as real and as impassable as it was in his nightmares.

He waited a beat too long. He was so close but as he parted his lips, another, somehow stronger and more livid burst of lightning filled the room, like whatever point such grim explosions originated from was only drawing nearer and nearer, until it would get so close as to consume them completely. Philip screamed louder, so loud that in the flash he looked like the Edvard Munch painting that had unnerved Alex so much when he first came across it all those years ago in Eliza’s room at her parents’ beach house, in one of the many art history books she loved, that he’d shut the book immediately and set a potted plant on top of it, as if to prevent that misshapen creature, who he both was disgusted by and identified with to the same degree, from climbing out. In this stunned moment of Alex’s, Philip’s blind panic took over his little limbs and suddenly he wasn’t in his father’s arms at all but falling, propelled by pure fear, landing on the carpet and fleeing from the room as fast as he could. Which was faster than any fully human three year old would have managed.

“Pip!” Alex yelped in shock, and a little bit hurt, “Pip, no!”

Philip wasn’t sure where exactly he was running to, he couldn’t hear his Pops’ voice over the alarm bells in his ears. All he did know was that the horror chasing him was there so he needed to be not there. Wherever that was, wherever the lights and the roars couldn’t reach him.

He didn’t know where to go, the light just seemed to be everywhere, up every wall, in every usually shadowed corner, even in the red, veined space behind his eyes. It hurt every single part of him, too loud, too bright, too angry, too everything. And there was nowhere he could go to get away from it, he was just running further into it with every corner he turned.

But then he heard the sea.

Alex threw himself into the hallway but Philip was already gone. But gone which way, this cottage was a relic, a maze of sharp turns and un-sanded floors? Alex cursed sharply under his breath, calling, “Philip! Pip, buddy, come on, everything’s okay. Please don’t do this…”

He went to his room, the one he’d insisted on taking because it would be next to the new baby’s room and he wanted to keep an eye on his little sibling in case they couldn’t sleep. But he wasn’t there, not in the little hammock Alex had rigged up for him with an old sheet and some rope, not wrapped up in the blanket Eliza had made for him, stitched with lions, naturally. Alex ran down the hall, panic now throbbing through his veins like his blood was suddenly almost too thick to flow properly. But Philip wasn’t in the bathroom either, he loved his baths and showers, it was like he couldn’t get enough of the water but he wasn’t there now. He wasn’t in the kitchen or the living room, as Alex checked each room and each time he saw no Philip, the panic rose to almost choking levels. He was silently begging gods he’d only ever read about in books that he wouldn’t suddenly stumble across the front door wide open, a window cracked or so many of the increasingly hideous ideas that were clamouring for space in his brain.

One last room, one last chance.

Alex hadn’t thought Pip would go to his and Eliza’s room, he’d been going through a phase of being a ‘big grown up boy’ and apparently big grown up boys didn’t need to come running to their mama and Pops’ room.

But clearly such laws of nature didn’t apply during storms, Alex heard Philip’s hitching sobs from behind the door that never fully closed because it was warped and because either Alex or Eliza had been thrown against it one too many times.

Alex was caught between wanting to cling to Philip desperately and having to force himself to give his little boy space, crowding him would only push him away further. He pushed back the door slowly, immediately getting to his hands and knees, keeping low and quiet, shutting the door behind him so the storm could stay on the other side. Hopefully.

“Pip?” he called softly, he could hear the broken little whimpers and sniffles coming from behind the other side of the bed, “Philip, I’m sorry, I know you’re scared but it’s okay. It’s only the weather, just rain and wind. You like the rain, remember? There’ll be puddles, after, we can go splash in puddles…”

Alex could hear how thin and reedy with stress his own voice was, so far from the gentle, comforting tone he wanted. God, he wasn’t built for this, where was Eliza? He couldn’t even comfort his own son…

“M’scared, Pops,” he heard Philip’s voice, he couldn’t believe the miserable croak came from the little boy he knew, the one with the sun in his voice that always seemed to make Alex feel a little warmer. A little bit of a better person.

“Oh no, Philip…” Alex looked around the edge of the bed, not caring about his qualifications to deal with this anymore, he had to try at least.

He stopped dead, recoiling a little in spite of himself.

“Philip…”

He’d thought the chest had been locked. In fact, he knew it was, it had been him that locked it, a week ago when an argument with a stressed, tired and hormonal Eliza had put the wanderlust back in his heart. He’d felt it; the stirring, the whispering in his ear like the ringing aftershock of an explosion. It always rose in the moments he was at his lowest, telling him that he wasn’t supposed to be here, he didn’t belong, it would be better for everyone if he just left. But, like always, he’d fought it. He’d gone and clicked shut the padlock that had come with the old trunk but was rarely necessary, hissing in pain as it had shut and nipped his thumb, making blood bead there. He’d sucked at the wound, tasting the salt and feeling better for it. It wasn’t seawater in his veins. Just blood. Only blood. He’d left the room, key kept as always in Eliza’s jewellery box, he’d gone and apologised to his wife, been apologised to in turn, hugged and kissed and comforted. And he’d forgotten the whole thing.

But that chest had been locked, it definitely had been locked.

And yet despite the evidence of the fading scar on his right thumb and the remembered ghostly tang of blood on his tongue, there Philip was, wrapped in his father’s sealskin like it was his safety blanket, like it was a talisman keeping back the storm.

A bone deep shiver made itself known in him, a hollowing at the pit of his stomach, as he watched Philip run his little fingers over the fur, the way he stroked his little cloth giraffe. He noted with a sick feeling, rather than anything close to relief, that his little boy’s fear was fading the further he retreated into the skin. The colour was coming back to his ashy face, his curls were even lifting a little, his eyes were turning back to their usual brightness. There was another growl of thunder from behind the heavy curtains and the door, the storm a threatening presence right on top of them, and Philip didn’t even notice.

Anything Alex had seen in that terrifying split second, in the glare of the lightning, was far away. Almost like he could believe it had never been there.

But Alex was only feeling worse.

“I can hear the sea, Pops,” his voice was only bewildered now, a little awed, back to sounding like a child rather than a cornered animal. There was even a smile growing, “It’s here!”

Alex tried to smile back, trying to share his enthusiasm even as the sound of the blood pounding through his temples in a panicked rush made him nauseated.

He could hear the sea too. Of course he could, his pelt was right there. Wrapped around his son. Every note of the low, ancient song that was currently echoing through Philip’s ears, Alex heard it too. He wondered if Philip was realising where his lullabies came from, where the affectionate words his Pops would whisper to him to calm him down came from, where his own love of collecting the smooth pebbles that fringed the beach came from, where his little quirk of always getting sleepy when it rained, like the sound itself soothed him. Alex wondered.

He feared that Philip was realising where he belonged. Not in his father’s arms. In a seal pelt.

Alex opened his mouth, to do or say what he had no idea. Anything. Anything at all that would get the thing away from him, back in the box where no one could get at it, where Philip could forget about it, never wonder, never feel caught between two worlds, pulled between two species like his father was. To keep him here.

No.

Alex shook himself, his jaw snapping shut with a sense of finality. The dry, resolute sound of a difficult decision being made.

Philip was happy. He wasn’t scared anymore. That was what Alex was supposed to want, whatever the cost. The guilt won out over the fear.

“That mean old storm can’t get you in here, can it?” he managed a wan smile, “All safe and sound.”

Philip, looking like someone swimming in a pool of silver wrapped up in the cloak of skin that was much too big for him, brightened and nodded like his father’s words were confirmation of what he’d hoped. He freed his hands, reaching for Alex, wanting him to come and join him under this amazing magic blanket he’d just found, exactly like they did on Saturday mornings, reading under the duvet on Mama and Pops’ bed.

Alex hesitated, not sure how to explain this, his hesitation. He and Eliza hadn’t broached the subject of Philip’s dual heritage, deciding to not…hide anything from him exactly, that would be wrong, but also not to state it explicitly. Not until he old enough to understand some of the more complicated parts of it.

And this felt very complicated.

Which left him with no choice but to not hesitate.

“See?” Alex murmured, pulling Philip onto his lap, swinging the pelt around his shoulders so it draped around both of them.

It still fit. Nearly three years and it still fit. He didn’t know why he should be surprised by that but still, it startled him.

All it would take would be one shift of his shoulders, a sensation like the un-focusing of the eyes and he’d be there. Problems would become simple again, shrunk down to the simple and understandable concept of staying alive. A basic directive, followed easily by instinct alone, and no consequences to anyone but him if he failed. No lives entangled with his.  No emotions to be wrestled with every day before you could do anything as basic as going to sleep. An odd juxtaposition of hard and easy. Maybe not easy, not exactly. But shallow.

“Nice and safe,” Pip chirruped suddenly, interrupting his Pops’ train of thought. In the slightly disjointed intonation of little kids, it sounded more like ‘My sand ‘afe.”

“Yeah, buddy,” Alex kissed the top of his head, finding a lot of comfort in the way he smelled, like brown sugar and peanut butter and blueberry soap, “Nice and safe.”

“Like Pops promised,” Philip beamed, craning his neck back to look at Alex.

Alex blinked, feeling enough emotion in that moment to choke him. It hurt but a hurt that was necessary, that was wanted, like bright sunlight in the eyes after walking from a dark room, the sting of a removed splinter, the ache in restricted muscles finally being able to move.

“I’ll always keep my promises to you, lion cub. You know that, right?” he hoped Philip didn’t notice the way his voice trembled.

He didn’t seem to. He nodded enthusiastically, curling more into his lap, face buried against his chest, “I know, Pops.”

Alex closed his eyes, winding his arms around his son, listening to the now distant rolling of the storm though whether it was by distance or the pelt drowning it out, he didn’t know. Either way, he pushed it far out of his mind, what he focused on was Philip’s thoughtful breathing, the way he hummed the theme song to his favourite cartoon under this breath.

He didn’t know where the song came from, he never did. It came from somewhere at the very root of him, like it was always running through him but he only drifted in and out of its current. It was nothing with a start and an end, it was more like a living thing. A living, breathing prayer, part of his DNA, the frequency at which his bones reverberated. Singing it for Eliza in the moments when she needed it, for their unborn child when they would refuse to settle even when their mother wanted to sleep, for Philip when he’d broken his wrist and had been forced to face one of his biggest terrors- the hospital. In those moments, singing it felt more like offering them something of himself, taking a deep, generous handful of whatever opalescent black soil lined the edges of his soul and giving it to them.

But it was worth it. A few bars in of the haunting, sloping melody, ran through Alex’s careful hands to fit what he needed it to, right now he needed it to be warm, full of promise and protection, and Philip closed his eyes, a happy smile on his face. He didn’t sleep but there was no more fear in his heart; it had barely left a mark.

It was the front door rapidly opening and banging shut, Eliza’s worried, fearful voice calling for her boys, that woke them out of the song, that had somehow flowed and changed to incorporate the old game of counting the beats between each lightning flash and thunder clap to follow the progress of the storm as it disappeared into the horizon.

“Alex? Philip?” she panted a little as she threw her soaked coat carelessly over the sofa, not caring that she was dripping rainwater onto the carpet, tracking mud, only cursing her body preventing her from darting up the stairs as fast as she wanted to.

Eliza had been worried to the point of nausea since the storm first hit in the middle of her final period French class. Her friend, Maria, the lady who taught in the classroom next to hers had been forced to drag her back from the door, insisting that there was no way anyone was going anywhere in a storm like that, least of all the seven-month pregnant Eliza. So, she’d been forced to pace restlessly this entire time, knowing in the very depths of herself that her boys were scared and needed her.

She gave a small, dry sob of relief when she heard their son’s voice from the bedroom, his flurry of excited, “Mama, mama, mama!”

It took nearly everything Eliza had not to give a cry of surprise at the sight of Alex, what was unmistakably his pelt around his shoulders, Philip in his arms. The answers to what she found, that flashed into her mind before she could think properly, would shame her when she remembered them later that night.

As soon as they found their skins, found where they were locked away, they would take them and run back to the sea…

But then Philip was at her shins, clinging on for dear life, chattering animatedly already about how scary the storm had been, how Pops had protected him, wasn’t it loud, is the new baby scared? Eliza murmured answered, petting his hair, but her gaze was fixed on Alex who had whipped the skin from his shoulders, as fast as if it’s touch burned him, back in the trunk and locked again with the kind of loud thud that couldn’t be argued with.

Once Philip had run out of the room (to go splash in puddles, like Pops said), Alex made an attempt at giving Eliza their usual greeting like nothing at all was out of the ordinary but his voice broke halfway through asking her is she needed him to rub her ankles and he began to cry. Eliza was ready, holding him, rocking him, not needing to ask; she’d pieced it together herself.

The tears lasted a while, but just like the storm outside it did pass. What seemed endless, insurmountable, did pass.

Alex had been rereading all the parenting books he’d picked up the first time around, when Pip wasn’t Pip but a concept, half to make sure any information that may have escaped the as yet boundary-less fields of his mind, partly to revel in the excitement of having another little baby to meet. And they all made it clear that parenting was hard, there would always be struggles and trials and exhaustion.

Alex remembered this and gave a shaky sigh into Eliza’s shoulder, prompting her to rub circles across his back soothingly.

Whoever wrote those books had no idea.

-

Angelica seemed like such a grand name for such a tiny thing.

Alex found himself having to balance these two ideas in his head, that of his sister in law, intimidating and commanding when she wanted to be, warm and playful and witty when she wasn’t being anyone but herself. And his new daughter, who he had laid lengthways across his lap, head gently supported in his hands that had finally stopped trembling a few minutes ago. This new little Angelica who he didn’t know yet but even know after the first hour or so of her life, he ached to know everything, every single little detail of who she would be, what was and wasn’t yet determined about her personality; how she’d smile, whether she’d like mornings or not, what movies she’d prefer, whether she’d fall in love, what colours would suit her, allergies, fears, nightmares, hopes. Everything Alex had given her, everything Eliza had given her and everything that would come from just herself, no one else.

Alex wept silently as he held her, his thumbs running across the tight, damp curls at the nape of her neck, watching the sunlight fall on half of her face but not wake her, just illuminate her skin. She was darker than Philip, more of his colours than Eliza’s.

Getting her here had been hard, worse than last time, proving that the old adages of practise makes perfect and fortune favours the prepared mind were bullshit. But she was here, their little Angie, who wore another person’s name but would become entirely her own person.

Alex couldn’t wait to meet her. Already, he was reeling with love.

He was usually good at picking up Eliza’s moods, reacting and adapting to them without needing prompting. It was part of his instinct, the way he could smell the state of the tide in the air or could hear bad weather before it materialised on the horizon. But today he was exhausted, he was overwhelmed and his senses staggering under the weight of a new world.

So, only today, he didn’t intuitively turn to see Eliza standing in the doorway, leaning against it as her legs trembled, fingers bunched up anxiously in the towel wrapped around her body. She’d washed away the sweat and blood and agony, sluiced it from her skin and down the shower drain in a tide of soap (Alex’s body wash, she always used that when she needed comforting so her skin would smell like his). But there was a gap in the bottom of her stomach now, a hollowness and want, the dazed uncertainty of her body unbalanced and wrongly shaped. And an exhaustion that ran too deep for words.

It was all of this that left her unable to fight back the fears that had been rising in her ever since the day of the storm. She was going to say it. As much as she knew that it wasn’t a good idea, she was still going to say it.

“Eliza!” Alex hissed, the excitement in his voice meaning it only just stopped short enough to still be called a whisper, “Eliza, look, she does the little eyelid flutter thing Philip does!”

Eliza tried for a smile, leaving ghosts of footprints as she padded across the room to gingerly sit on the bed beside her husband. The smile became something real only when she gazed down at her daughter’s face. She knew she wasn’t supposed to care but she’d sobbed with joy when Alex had bewilderedly told her it was a girl, clutching her to her chest and trembling with a joy that could only be expressed with near hysterical bawling.

She was too beautiful for words, their little Angie. Eliza thought that she’d keep her hair short for as long as her baby girl would allow it; she could see now, in the fresh, moony face of her hours old child, the bob of raven wing hair she’d grow to have, a colour so indefinable that it transcended such common or garden words as black, holding blues and greys and deep purples in it, given the right light. It would frame the sleek, defined face she would grow into- her father’s face, in a lot of ways- and highlight the dusting of freckles Eliza knew by some primordial maternal instinct would dust her long nose.

“She’s just gorgeous, isn’t she?” Alex beamed, the tears catching the dawn light filtering in through the windows as he repeated the words he’d already said again and again but they were still just as true, “I mean, Eliza, baby, she’s so perfect.”

“I know,” Eliza whispered, leaning against Alex’s shoulder so she could softly cup Angie’s sleeping face, prompting the little thing to lean into her mama’s warm palm.

Alex didn’t understand why their new daughter couldn’t just sleep in his arms but Eliza pointed out the way his own head kept nodding and the bruises under his own eyes, finally convincing him to set little Angie down in her bassinet by their bed so they could get to stealing whatever minutes of sleep they’d be allowed until she woke up.

Maybe she wouldn’t say it, Eliza thought, as she watched Alex’s back, the muscles moving in waves under his copper skin as he set Angie down, pulling the blanket over her and tucking her in so close and safe. Maybe she’d regained enough of her control to swallow back the words, after all, this was one of the most perfect and beautiful moments of her entire life. She didn’t need to say it.

But then her eyes drifted down to the run of birthmarks along Alex’s lower back, that travelled down the prominent ridges of his spine and disappeared under the waistband of his shorts. He’d told her what he’d realised about those birthmarks and she found herself hating them, they that dared to run down below that dark fabric and touch the part of Alex’s body that belonged to her as much as it did him, that she’d marked out and mapped with her hands and her mouth so carefully. Poisoning that so beloved part of him with memories of awful times and the possibility of heartbreak and loss. Reminding her of everything that had dared to hurt the man she loved.

And how the man she loved could hurt her.

Eliza knew with even harsher, granite carved certainty, that she was going to ask it. She had to know, in this moment as much as any. So, she could know for sure whether such perfect and precious moments were numbered.

Alex noticed then, and realised with a stab of guilt that he’d missed it before, when he turned expecting to see Eliza’s smiling face, her expression mirroring his own, but instead saw her fighting back tears.

“Baby?” he murmured, his heart sinking, scrambling over and kneeling before her, holding her face in his hands, “What’s wrong? Does it hurt?”

It did hurt, it hurt in a million different ways, but Eliza shook her head. The tears were undeniable now, now that Alex had seen it too.

“I just…” as inevitably as she’d accepted the words, now her tongue felt heavy and swollen and unmalleable.

Alex blinked, it dawning on him that this wasn’t merely that her torn and bruised and exhausted body needing some love and affection and sweet words, the ones that had been crowding at the back of his tongue all day and he would give freely and devotedly.

Eliza saw his expression and it only made her cry more, “It’s just…everything you said, what happened to your mother…the storm…”

Alex looked taken aback, “It was a long time ago, Eliza…”

Then was history repeating itself?

“But…I saw the way you…with Philip,” she managed to choke up just enough of the words for Alex to piece it together and know what she was talking about.

“I was only trying to comfort him, I swear,” panic leeched into his voice, “I felt nothing, I swear! That’s the first time I’ve put it on in years!”

Eliza’s jaw slacked a little and she caught his shoulders, shaking her head frantically, seeing him veer off the path she was trying to describe, “No! No, no, no….”

Angie stirred behind Alex, making them both jump. Just a sleepy huff and slight squawk before snuggling further into her swaddling and going back to sleep, but her parents both stiffened. Eliza sighed silently, placing a finger to her lips and getting up. Even confused, even scared, Alex moved swiftly to help her, supporting her hips where most of the ache was concentrated, her back which yowled painfully when asked to prop up the weight of her body.

They found themselves in the nursery, neither of them quite sure which of them had made the decision to come here, in his brightly painted room that would become Angie’s when she was old enough, still decorated lovingly as it had been for Philip. Maybe it was knowing the baby monitor standing sentinel on the bookcase would let them know if their daughter’s sleep was disturbed and she needed them. Maybe it was something else.

“Eliza, I promise, I…whatever that looked like, I don’t want to go, I’m not…” Alex scrabbled at his words, eyes wide with fear, not knowing what he should take back but wanting to do it so badly blood beat behind his eyeballs and made his vision swim.

Face wet with tears and lined with tiredness and sorrow, Eliza placed her palms on his chest, their universal gesture for calm down. Listen. I will explain. Trust me.

“Alexander,” she pulled the last scraps of his focus back to her with all four syllables of his name, “It isn’t that, I’m not…accusing you. I just want to know.”

“Know what?” Alex looked helpless, taking hold of her wrists.

Eliza’s mouth twisted bitterly, hating this, hating herself, hating that she just couldn’t have her Alex without needing to needle and question and worry. Her forehead dropped to his chest and she nearly wailed, “What that awful man did to your mother, stranding her, forcing her to stay on land…is that what I’m doing to you?”

Alex staggered a little, eyes widening.

“Oh no…” he breathed, not as an answer per se but at the realisation of how long Eliza had been carrying this fear like calcification on her heart, like something pressing too tight on her neck that couldn’t be loosened.

Eliza sniffled miserably, “Am I doing wrong by making you stay here, am I hurting you? You sounded so angry at what he did to your mother, I get that there’s nothing worse you can do to a Selkie, if I knew that I was putting you through that pain I couldn’t live with myself. Oh Alex…”

“Shh,” Alex soothed, hands coming up to run through her hair, damp from the shower, “Eliza. Oh god, my beautiful Eliza. No, listen…”

He gently placed his fingers under her chin and lifted her swimming eyes to his own. There was no insistence in the movement but Eliza went willingly.

“Eliza, you and I could not be more different,” he gasped in a trembling voice, “Baby, you didn’t take my skin, look, it’s right there, I could have it back any time I wanted! You made that so clear.”

“But…” Eliza bit her lower lip, she knew how Alex felt the pull sometimes, how he had to use all these tricks and coping mechanisms to fight against it. Surely none of that would be necessary if she wasn’t chaining him here?

Alex shook his head, running his thumb along her bottom lip line, seeing the thought gaining purchase behind her eyes and shrugging it off before the words could even leave her tongue.

“Eliza Hamilton,” there was firmness and promise in the way he spoke now, “I gave you my skin. It’s hardly even mine any more, it’s ours. Being here, this life with you, it scares me sometimes but you make it so worth it, it’s barely even a thing I consider these days. Nothing keeps me here but my own choice. My choice to be happy.”

As much as her self-doubt was roaring, that tone, the look in his eyes couldn’t be argued with. There wasn’t a shred of reservation, Alex at his most open and certain and real.

“I mean,” Alex huffed out a slightly hysterical laugh, “Look at what I have here! Look at what you’ve given me, Philip, Angie…Eliza, you are my life. They are my life. Where else would I want to be but right here?”

Eliza’s lower lip trembled but she let it, her tears held only relief now. Relief and delight as she had it confirmed for her that she was giving Alex the happy, safe life she’d always hoped she was.

Alex relaxed, smiling through his own tears, “There is something worse you can do to a Selkie, other than take their skin. You can keep them away from their mate. And Betsey, believe me, nothing- nothing- is going to keep me away from you.”

Eliza threw her arms around his neck, clinging to him as she sobbed. Over and over again she whispered the words, I love you, I love you, I love you, as he hugged her back, covered her salt tinged skin with kisses, pressed her to him, as he carried her back to bed and lay with her, his body curled around hers protectively, his grip never slackening even in sleep.