Before Melanthe could answer, a covey of scantily clad sea nymphs began to rise up from one of the floor cutouts. Nereids. The females were all ethereally stunning, and dressed in nothing but short sea-foam skirts.
Each time a nymph emerged from the water and flipped her hair back, she seemed to move in breathless slo-mo.
The Lore held that Nereus had been trapped in Sargasoe either by another power—or by his own agoraphobia. His loneliness had driven him to create a new species of nymph to serve as his concubines and servants.
The females stopped and stared at Thronos, pointing at his wings with admiring looks and giggling flirtatiously behind their hands. Lanthe supposed he could be the first male with wings that they’d ever seen. Not many sky-born Loreans would journey to the bottom of the ocean.
Before Lanthe’s eyes, the nymphs’ flirtation transformed to brazen desire.
What would Thronos think about their interest? As they raked their gazes over him, she delved into his mind, but found his shields up.
Because he was thinking lustful thoughts about them and didn’t want her to know?
Dick. Typical male.
So this is jealousy. How had Thronos lived with it for so long?
She glared daggers at the females. Back off, nymphos. He’s mine.
Mine?
Mine.
Merely thinking that word was like a gunshot triggering an avalanche of emotion.
She and Thronos had literally been through hell together. Act like partners . . . They’d become a team, and the idea of parting from him—or sharing him with nymphs—hurt.
When the gaggle of Nereids finally sashayed away, Lanthe said, “Perhaps I should go without this top? Since the nymphs wear none, I don’t want to be overdressed.”
He drew closer to her. “That is not going to happen.”
“You sure? You seemed as taken by them as they were by you.” Jealousy sucked.
His expression was inscrutable. “Did I? Hmm.”
What did that mean?
Thronos changed the subject. “If we’ve been healed and dressed, have we escaped a fate as ‘entertainment’?”
“No, not necessarily.” She didn’t need to be hissying over Thronos; she needed to be plotting. “This could be part of the setup. Be wary. I’ve heard that if guests bore him, Nereus smites them down.”
As she and Thronos neared the sounds of revelry, she squared her shoulders, feeling like she was going to a court event in Castle Tornin.
Under the reign of Omort the Deathless.
Intrigues, plots, and machinations had been constantly in play. To lower one’s guard could mean a stolen power—or death.
She was ready for this, had been honed in a war zone like no other.
Outside an arched doorway, she murmured, “Our goal is to get him to transport us. Just follow my lead. Remember, nothing can get in the way of escape. Okay?”
“I understand.” He pinned his wings as much as he could, until they jutted only slightly past his broad shoulders.
“And, Thronos, this sea god considers himself a Casanova. I’m going to have to flirt, and you’ve got to roll with it.”
“Of course,” he said, even as he draped an arm over her shoulders. “Lead the way.”
They stepped into the hall to find the feast in full swing. The area was resplendent with shimmering shells and garlands of sea grass. Pearls the size of bowling balls adorned the walls and ceilings. There were more floor cutouts revealing the sea; serving nymphs emerged from them with bubble-encased platters and pitchers.