Stolen

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“BREE, DO YOU SEE THIS?” Lock shouted from his perch on the rocks, a massive fish held up on his line. It was flailing away its last moments of life—tail flapping, gills puckering madly.

Bree gave him a courtesy eyebrow raise and returned her attention to the water. She was standing in a mostly calm pool, just behind the rock jetty Lock was fishing from, water up to her knees. Silver scales flicked into view. She threw her spear and missed.

“I don’t know why you insist on using that thing,” he said.

Because it required skill. Because she wasn’t just waiting aimlessly, hoping some suicidal fish would come along and decide to chomp on the hooked end of her line.

“Also, did you see this?”

Lock hoisted the fish higher, but all Bree could see was the way his pants were hanging on his hips, a V of muscle cut off by the waistband. Muscle everywhere, actually. His chest. His shoulders. His biceps, flexed on account of the weight on his line.

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