“Listen, these wounds need proper cleaning and bandaging,” she says, her voice carrying a slight tremor. “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.”
Her casual invitation to enter her private space sends an unexpected thrill through me. “You would invite me into your home?” The question escapes before I am able to mask my surprise.
“Well, yeah. Unless you’d prefer to bleed out in my boathouse.” Her attempt at levity doesn’t quite cover her nervousness, but the offer stands. “Besides, the storm’s getting worse.”
Thunder punctuates her words, and rain hammers against the roof. She’s right about the storm—but I’m more focused on how her warmth seeps into my cold skin where we touch.
“The path to my quarters isn’t far,” she continues, “but it’s steep, and these rocks get slippery in the rain. Can you move?”
I test my limbs, aware of her eyes on me. Every movement brings a new awareness of her proximity, of how easily I could pull her closer. “I can manage.”
“Good. Great. Just…” She gestures at my form, and I catch how her pupils dilate as she takes in my full size. “Try to hunch down? I doubt there’s anyone out in this storm, but we still can’t take the chance of being seen.”
I compress my form, coiling my tentacles tight—a display of control that makes her breath catch. The sound slides through me like a warm current, making my skin flush with involuntary bioluminescence.
I’ve never had a reason to demonstrate how precisely I can manipulate my form. But watching her reaction—the way her lips part, how her pulse quickens against the tentacle still at her waist—awakens something primal within me.
“I assure you, I can be quite discreet,” I say, and my voice emerges deeper than intended.
The storm hits us full force when we step outside, but I barely notice the rain. All my attention focuses on her—howshe navigates the treacherous path, the grace in her movements despite the harsh conditions. When she slips on the wet rocks, I catch her automatically, pulling her closer than strictly necessary.
“Thanks,” she gasps, and the breathy sound makes every suction cup pulse with need.
The journey to her quarters becomes exquisite torture. My wounds throb, yes, but it’s my awareness of her that truly tests me. Her rain-soaked clothes cling to every curve, and I find myself cataloging details I’ve never noticed in humans before—the elegant arch of her neck, the subtle strength in her shoulders, the way her hips move as she walks the winding path.
She fumbles with her keys at the door, and I force my thoughts back to safer waters. But even attempting restraint, my tentacles curl and shift restlessly behind her, betraying my arousal.
When she pauses, hand on the doorknob, I taste her uncertainty in the air. She glances back at me, and something in her expression makes both my hearts stutter. There’s fear, but also curiosity. Interest. The kind of look I’ve seen humans exchange with each other, but never directed at me.
She pushes open the door and steps aside.
“After you,” she says, and with those simple words, she invites a monster into her home.
Asheguidesmethroughthe interior of the lighthouse until we reach another locked door—marked with a sign as the living quarters. Inside, the space is small but orderly, with worn wooden floors and walls covered in maritime charts.
Everything smells of her—lavender and sea air. A living room opens to a practical kitchen, and beyond that, I glimpse a partially open door that must lead to her bedroom.
“The table’s sturdy,” she says, gesturing to a heavy wooden piece that dominates the kitchen. “Can you…?” She trails off, clearly unsure how to politely ask a massive cthulhu to arrange himself on her furniture.
I manage to settle myself across the table without knocking anything over, though barely. The position leaves me feeling exposed, vulnerable—emotions I haven’t experienced since I was a juvenile.
But when she returns with her medical supplies, the gentle determination in her expression makes something warm unfurl in my chest.
“This needs stitches,” she says, examining the deepest gash. Her fingers probe the wound with clinical precision, but every touch sends sparks through my nervous system. I’ve never been handled like this—with care, with purpose, with such maddening gentleness.
She threads a needle, and I brace myself. Not for the pain—I’ve endured far worse—but for the intensity of having her work so close, touching me so intimately. My tentacles curl and uncurl with anticipation.
The first stitch makes me jerk, tentacles lashing out. She flinches back, fear spiking in her scent, but then she forces herself to continue. The courage in that small action undoes me.
“Sorry,” she murmurs. “I know it hurts, but we need to close this.”
She’s apologizing to me. Tome. When I’m the one who scared her, when I’m the monster from her town’s darkest legends.
The absurdity of it, the sheer impossible kindness, makes my hearts clench.
To distract us both, she talks while she works. Her voice washes over me like warm currents as she describes life in the lighthouse, the isolation, the judgment from others. “I mean, what kind of woman actually wants to live alone in a lighthouse, right? Probably the kind no one wants around, anyway.”
The self-deprecation in her tone stirs something protective in me. Without conscious thought, one of my tentacles hover around her waist, and when she bends, her shirt hitches up, exposing just an inch of skin. One sucker brushes up against it, and the contact is electric. I yank back quickly, nearly knocking over a jar of sea glass in my haste.
