“Right.” I trace a pattern on his chest, not meeting his eyes. “Of course.”
“Though…” Roark hesitates, a tentacle gently tucking my hair behind my ear. “The storms come frequently this time of year.”
I look up at him, catching his meaning. “They do, don’t they? Big ones too. The kind where no one questions why I’d stay locked up in the lighthouse.”
“That is so.”
It’s not nothing, but…
“Would that be enough?” I ask, not sure if I’m asking him or myself.
His expression softens. “I’ve learned to take what joy I can find, where I can find it.”
That hits me harder than I expect. Because he’s right. What are we really doing here, other than grabbing a moment of connection in the middle of our separate lives? I barely know him, and he barely knows me, but here we are, intertwined in my sheets, planning clandestine meetings like star-crossed teenagers.
“The world’s changing,” I begin. “Maybe someday…”
“Someday,” he echoes, but I hear the uncertainty in his voice. This town, with its history of hunting sea monsters, with its old families still telling tales of beast-slaying heroics—it might not be ready for whatever this is between us.
His tentacle slides down my arm, drawing me closer against him. “But tonight, you’re here, and I’m here.”
“Very profound,” I tease, but I get what he means.
We can worry about the future when it comes. Tonight is just… tonight.
“Sleep,” he murmurs, his tentacles drawing the blanket over us both. “The lighthouse won’t run itself tomorrow.”
I smile against his chest, already half-dreaming. “You better have breakfast ready for me in the morning, then.”
His low chuckle is the last thing I hear as I drift off, wrapped in tentacles and possibility.
Chapter 9
Secret Tides
Roark
The wound in my side has begun to heal properly after three days of rest and nourishment—proof of Ashe’s diligent care. I stretch cautiously on the makeshift resting area made up of cushions and spare blankets as I glance out toward one of the windows.
The first rays of morning light filter in, catching dust motes in their beams. I study the room once more, cataloging its modest treasures. The collection of weathered books on seafaring and maritime history. The mismatched mugs hanging from hooks beneath the kitchen cabinet. The brass telescope mounted by the eastern window—functional rather than decorative.
This space speaks volumes of her character: practical, unpretentious, yet harboring unexpected depth.
I hear Ashe stirring in the bedroom, followed by the gentle click of her door opening. She emerges with hair still mussed from sleep, wrapped in a faded flannel robe. The sight stirs something unexpectedly tender within me.
“Morning,” she mumbles, making a direct course for her ancient coffee machine. The contraption wheezes and sputters like a drowning sailor, a mechanical abomination that should have been put out of its misery decades ago. “Sleep okay?”
“As well as can be expected,” I reply. “So what’s your schedule today?”
“First tour at ten. School group.” She grimaces slightly. “Twenty third-graders with unlimited questions and limited attention spans.”
I nod, though the concept of shepherding small humans through a historical structure sounds remarkably similar to navigating a ship through a hurricane—chaotic, loud, and potentially disastrous.
“I shall maintain absolute discretion during their visit,” I assure her.
Ashe leans against the counter while the coffee brews. “I’ll lock the private quarters from the outside as usual, so you should be safe.”
The coffee maker gives a final wheeze before falling silent. She pours the steaming liquid into a chipped mug bearing the faded words “Cape Tempest Annual Fishing Derby 2013.”
