One tentacle gestures vaguely toward the window. “I protect this coast.”
Well. That’s new. Here I’ve been giving tours, telling stories about the monsters that used to plague these waters, and all this time we’ve had our own personal guardian cthulhu.
I resume cleaning his wounds, but now I’m acutely aware of how his muscles tense under my touch. How those eyes follow my every movement. The way his skin seems to glow brighter wherever my fingers brush it.
“The nets,” I prompt, trying to keep my voice steady. “They’re from the poachers?”
“They were prepared.” His voice darkens. “Steel-reinforced. Designed to catch… beings like me.”
I bite my lip, imagining the fight. No wonder he’s so torn up. “Did they get away?”
A slow smile spreads across his face. “They’re at the bottom of the ocean now. I made sure of it.”
That probably shouldn’t send a thrill through me, but it does.
I move to a particularly nasty gash near his hip, where his humanoid torso transitions into his six powerful tentacle legs. The arrangement reminds me vaguely of Ursula from The Little Mermaid, only Roark is all sleek muscle and dangerous beauty—decidedly male and undeniably captivating.
The skin at this junction is different—softer, more delicate. When I press the towel against it, his whole body shudders and one of his lower tentacles wraps around my waist.
Not threatening. Steadying. But the strength in that grip, the way those suckers press against me through my wet clothes…
“Sorry,” I breathe, but I don’t pull away. “Did that hurt?”
His eyes have gone dark, pupils blown wide. “No. Quite the opposite. I’m… exceedingly sensitive in that spot.”
Oh…
The air between us shifts, charging with something that has nothing to do with the storm outside. His tentacle tightens slightly, drawing me closer, and suddenly I’m very aware of everywhere we’re touching.
I clear my throat and step back, and he releases me slowly, each sucker leaving little ghost sensations through my rain gear. “Listen, these wounds need proper cleaning and bandaging. Maybe even some stitches. My more extensive first aid supplies are in my quarters, and I’ll have actual lighting that isn’t a flashlight balanced on a crate.”
He hesitates. “You would invite me into your home?”
“Well, yeah. Unless you’d prefer to bleed out in my boathouse.” My heart’s pounding, but I manage a smile. “Besides, the storm’s getting worse.”
On cue, thunder rattles the windows and rain hammers the roof like machine gun fire, the wind howling through every crack in the old building.
“The path to my quarters isn’t far,” I continue, “but it’s steep, and these rocks get slippery in the rain. Can you move?”
He shifts, testing his limbs. Even injured, the raw power in those movements is undeniable. “I can manage.”
“Good. Great. Just…” I gesture vaguely at his massive form. “Try to hunch down? I doubt there’s anyone out in this storm, but we still can’t take the chance of being seen.”
His tentacles ripple with what might be amusement. “I assure you, I can be quite discreet.”
He demonstrates by somehow compressing his size—his six tentacle legs coiling and sliding against each other as his body becomes more streamlined, more fluid. His muscular arms fold against his torso as eight feet of predator suddenly becomes something that could slip through narrow spaces. The display of control over his form, the way those powerful muscles flex and contract…
My mouth goes dry, watching him twist and manipulate his shape. The possibilities are endless, aren’t they? And from the knowing glint in his eyes, I’m worried he knows exactly where my thoughts have gone.
“Right.” My voice comes out embarrassingly squeaky. “Yup, that should work. Follow me.”
We make our way outside, back into the relentless storm. The beam of my flashlight barely cuts through the rain, but Roark moves sure-footed beside me. His tentacles grip the wet rocks with perfect precision, and when I slip, one wraps around my waist to steady me.
“Thanks,” I say, trying to ignore how that touch sends heat straight through me.
We reach the lighthouse entrance without incident, though every crunch of gravel sets my nerves on edge. The sounds ofthe storm should cover our movement, but my mind races with what-ifs.
What if someone’s walking the path despite the weather? What if someone glances out a distant window at just the wrong moment?
