The ocean wasn’t supposed to behave like this.

You heard the warnings—“rip currents,” “dangerous tide,” “red flag”—but storms always made you feel alive. You just wanted a closer look. Just a few steps.

The wind howled like something grieving. The sky looked bruised. The beach was deserted.

Then the wave hit.

It wasn’t a wave. It felt like a hand.

Cold fingers wrapped around your ankles and yanked.

You didn’t fall so much as vanish—dragged violently beneath the surface, lungs punched empty, body tumbling through black water. Up was down. Down was everywhere. Panic clawed up your throat.

Something sharp scraped your leg. Rocks? Coral? Bones?

You twisted, kicked—your chest on fire. The sea pressed in on you, crushing, claiming, hungry.

Then the water… changed.

A low vibration shuddered through it, like the ocean itself was growling.

A shadow appeared.

Broad shoulders, long hair whipped by the current, eyes glowing gold even in the black. A presence so massive it made the storm feel small.

A hand closed around your wrist—iron-strong, unmovable.

Arthur didn’t swim you upward. He commanded the sea to release you.

The water rebelled.

The current thrashed, trying to rip you away. Arthur snarled—actually snarled underwater—clutching you to him, his other arm locking around your waist as he forced the ocean apart by sheer will.

You surfaced in a violent explosion of air and salt.

You choked, coughing, gasping, tears mixing with seawater. Another wave rose behind him, towering, ready to swallow you whole—

He turned.

And the wave stopped short, breaking around his body instead of over it. Like it feared him.

He carried you through the shallows, boots digging trenches in the sand with every step. You were freezing—shaking uncontrollably—but he held you tight against his chest, heat radiating through you.

“Why were you in my water?” he growled, voice like distant thunder.

Not a gentle question. Not concern. Something older. Something territorial.

He set you down only when he was certain the tide couldn’t reach you. His hands lingered—one cupping the back of your neck, grounding you, the other gripping your arm a little too tightly as he looked you over for injuries.

“You almost didn’t come back,” he said, low and dark. “Most don’t. The ocean doesn’t tolerate trespass when she’s like this.”

Lightning flashed across his face—wet hair, clenched jaw, lightning-hot anger and worry tangled in one expression.

Then he lifted your chin with two fingers, forcing your gaze to meet his.

“But I do.”

He leaned closer, voice dropping to a dangerous rumble.

“When I drag someone out of the deep… they’re mine until I know they’re safe.”

His thumb brushed your pulse—too aware, too warm in the cold storm.

“And you,” he murmured, eyes narrowing as if reading your heartbeat, “are far from safe.”