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Cal looked away too quickly, breaking eye contact with me, and I got the distinct impression he was trying to hide something. Maybe he was just uncomfortable with the conversation. But now that I’d asked the question, I was almost desperate for the answer.
“So do orca shifters believe in fated mates or not?”
“You realize that’s a different question than how we claim our mates, right?”
“You realize that wasn’t an answer, right?”
He sighed heavily, drained his glass and set it aside, then leaned forward with his elbows braced on his knees and his hands dangling in the open space between them. He didn’t look up at me when he spoke.
“Yes, orcas believe in fated mates.”
“Really?”
“No, Jack, I’m lying to you. Yes, really. I take it sharks don’t?”
“No.”
“Figures.”
“What does that mean?”
He shook his head and didn’t say anything else, still keeping his focus on the shiny mahogany planks of the boat’s deck.
“Do you believe it?”
Cal went eerily still and didn’t answer the question. I was about to pull it back, sensing I’d inadvertently waded into treacherous waters when Cal spoke again.
“I didn’t.”
“But now you do?” I was curious about what had changed his mind. “Why?”
Again, a long beat of silence stretched before Cal spoke.
“My grandparents were fated, but my grandfather died before I was born, so I never really saw proof. Same with my parents. They were fated but were gone before I could understand what a fated mate was. Then Nero met Felix, and yeah. I guess I just believe it now.”
He still wasn’t meeting my eyes, and again, I was struck by the odd feeling that he was keeping something from me.
“What proof is there to see?”
He looked up at me then, and there were storm clouds in his eyes, not the thunderous ones I saw when I pissed him off, but ones that spoke of internal turmoil he was still working through. I’d seen a lot of Cal’s expressions in the last eighteen months, but this one—this weird sort of confused vulnerability—it was new, and it wasn’t my favorite. I didn’t like thinking that Cal was struggling, even if it was with his own belief system. He slow blinked, and when he opened his eyes again, the clouds were gone, replaced by his normal nonchalant expression.
“Why do you care?”
I shrugged, sensing this conversation was almost over. “Just trying to make conversation.”
“Sure.” He stood, grabbed his glass, and emptied the last of the prosecco into it, shoving the empty bottle back into the ice bucket with a hollow clunk. “We claim our mates, fated or otherwise, by biting. Same as most shifters.”
It didn’t escape my notice that he’d dodged my questions, and where I normally would have pressed him for an answer, even if it pissed him off, something told me to let it go. At least for now. “Yeah, same. Shark shifters bite our mates too.”
Cal knocked back another large gulp of wine. Was he even tasting it? I knew it would take a hell of a lot more than a single bottle to get him anywhere near drunk, but the way he’d downed the wine made me think that was what he was going for. “So how do you think we get around that?”
“We were saving the bites for after the wedding?”
“That’s stupid.”
He wasn’t wrong. “Do you have a better idea?”
He smirked. “We wear turtlenecks or dress shirts for this entire mission?”
