I manage to make it to my room before slumping against the door, exhaling shakily.
What the hell am I doing? I just hooked up with a cthulhu.
An incredibly hot, surprisingly gentle cthulhu who makes me feel things I definitely shouldn’t be feeling after knowing him for no longer than one night.
My bed feels too empty when I crawl into it, my skin still tingling from phantom touches. Through the wall, I hear the subtle shiftof tentacles as Roark settles in. He’s really here. This is really happening.
Tomorrow I’ll have to figure out how to smuggle him back to the ocean. Tomorrow I’ll have to face whatever this is becoming. But right now?
Right now I’m going to lie here and replay every moment of tonight until I fall asleep.
God help me, I think I’m in trouble.
Chapter 5
Feeding Time
Ashe
Last night I dreamed of tentacles. Not the terrifying kind from the stories locals tell over beer—the kind that drag ships into the depths. No, these were gentle, exploratory, leaving trails of electricity across my skin.
I wake up tangled in my sheets, pulse racing, and for a moment I think maybe the whole thing was just a very intense dream.
Then I smell coffee.
And… is something burning?
Reality crashes back: the storm, the injured cthulhu, the way his tentacles… Nope. Absolutely not going down that mental path before caffeine. I need to focus on practical matters, like how I’m harboring a creature that half the town might love to mount on a wall.
I drag myself out of bed, catching my reflection in the mirror. My hair’s escaping its bun in ways that defy gravity, and there’s a small mark on my neck that is definitely from a sucker.
Yeah, guess I’m wearing a turtleneck today.
The smell of burning gets stronger as I shuffle out of my bedroom. When I reach the kitchen, I stop dead in the doorway, trying to process what I’m seeing.
Roark—all eight feet of him—is somehow managing to occupy every inch of my small kitchen. His tentacle legs are everywhere, multitasking with an efficiency that would be impressive if he wasn’t completely disrupting my cooking space.
One tentacle stirs something in a pan while his clawed hands fight with my coffee maker. Two more tentacles are rummagingthrough my spice cabinet, and I swear another one is… reorganizing my drawers?
“Did you know,” he says without turning around, his voice carrying a formal captain’s tone that does stupid things to my insides, “that your spice rack is criminally understocked? And this coffee maker—” A tentacle waves at the device accusingly. “This belongs in a museum.”
“Hey, that coffee maker has character.” I edge into the kitchen, navigating around his tentacles like they’re just another part of my morning routine. Which they’re definitely not. This is weird. This should feel weird. Why doesn’t it feel weird? “It’s gotten me through countless years of sunrise tours.”
“Character is a polite way of saying it’s ancient.” He finally turns to face me, and my breath catches. In the morning light streaming through the windows, his skin shifts with subtle patterns that remind me of sunlight through waves. The effect is mesmerizing, beautiful in a way that makes my fingers itch to trace each swirl.
Then I notice the way he’s favoring his left side. “Should you be up? Your wounds—”
“Are healing, but slower than I’d like.” His expression shifts to something almost apologetic, reminding me of a guilty dog who got into the treats. “Which brings me to a somewhat awkward conversation.”
“More awkward than finding a cthulhu making coffee in my kitchen?” I move past him to rescue my coffee maker from his grasp, trying not to shiver when one of his tentacles brushes against my arm.
It’s ridiculous how my body remembers every touch from last night, how even this casual contact sends heat crawling up my neck.
He watches me with those deep eyes, and I busy myself with the coffee to avoid meeting his gaze as he begins, “I require a rather substantial amount of food to heal properly. Specifically… fish.”
“Okay.” The coffee maker sputters to life, filling the kitchen with the comforting smell of cheap breakfast blend. “How substantial are we talking?”
“Thirty pounds a day until I’m healed.”
