* * *
As impressive as the man's predictive talents are, this is one of the very few times where you hate when he's right. Really hate when he's right. With your newfound perpetual scowl, you glare up at the glowing phantom of Queen Athena hovering above the cauldron. Several child-sized figures swim about her happily while another has swelled the Queen's stomach once again. One by one, Queen Athena has given birth to not one, not three, but six children, all girls. With each birth, you grew wary for the seventh one, for she who resembles her mother will ultimately be the key to Triton's downfall. Granted that's what you've grown to desire. A kingdom split between two brothers is troublesome enough. Seven daughters would just be ridiculous, like sharing a husband amongst wives.
The thought of all the squabbling that would ensue over the most menial of things draws a strained groan from you along your hands down your face.
"Torturing yourself again, I see. Poor, sweet soul," a voice croons from behind you.
You fail to mask a flinch at having been found out, though a side of you secretly wished to be just so he could quell the angst rumbling in your head. Sighing, you glance over your shoulder to see Ursul watching you pitifully yet amusedly, his body sprawled along the entrance to the conch shell, head in palm and snow white hair fanned over his eyes. His tentacles caress the shell's opening absentmindedly.
"Ursul," you mumble, looking back at the cauldron, "Thought you were sleeping."
"I have eight tentacles, sweetcheeks, and I pride myself on having at least two gripping that body of yours to me at all times. Did you really think one of them wouldn't feel you slipping away?" he taunts.
A quiet chuckle. "I guess not... I don't know why I keep bringing myself before this vision, as though glaring at it will make it any less inevitable," you murmur.
"Or any less irritating," Ursul adds almost to himself. He stares at your back a few seconds longer, ice blue eyes dropping down the dip of your spine to the dimples of your lower back, to the curved frills of your fins and rounded hips. He lets out a bemused hum, reveling in some sordid idea that has long been boiling in his mind. "(Y/n)." You meet his tired, irritated gaze. "What?"
"Don't 'what' me. Quit wading there like a lost child and bring yourself here," he snaps. All sense of humor abandons Ursul when he's exhausted, and yet such sharp-tongued remarks only serve to make his appeal darker, more tantalizing. His eyes follow your approach till you're a couple of feet below him. Humming again, he drops an arm to allow his pointer finger a quick dip within your cleavage before it trails up your throat to chin. Using little to no effort, he lifts you to his awaiting lips where he plunges you into a hard, unforgiving kiss that demands nothing but your silence. It ends noisily, however, muddled with wet lips and a panting sigh.
He grins with a low growl. "We're not having second thoughts, are we?" He asks.
It takes you a moment to think through the fog. "What...no? Of course not. You know I'm dedicated to the plan," you reply.
Ursul chuckles, but it bares his fangs menacingly. "The plan isn't what requires your dedication, dear," he hums. Before you can retort, he continues, "We're going back to bed. Come along nicely."You nod.
How is it that such a heathen of a man has managed to tame you, a woman whose weapon was once her eyes, tongue, mind, and sword? A kiss? A measly kiss is now all it takes to surrender those weapons and melt you down to the core in Ursul's hands. Those long, coy, quick hands that burn like ice and fire simultaneously. Unconsciously you bite your lower lip and shift closer to Ursul, perhaps, maybe, to brush your chest against his or drift a curious hand down his stomach. Truth is, you've never been with a man. Your whole life up till now has been dedicated to Triton and sharpening your military skills. Ursul is the first—and, in hindsight, probably only—male that has pursued you or expressed sexual interest. And this shameful display is exactly why you've avoided temptations all this time. With or without his presence, focusing on any task is for naught and, instead, the overwhelming instinctual need to—you can't believe you're saying this—to mate claws at your brain. It sends your pheromones in a heightened frenzy that rolls off you like perfume.
