But instead of fear or disgust, Ashe’s lips quirk into a small smile. “Your suckers are cold,” she says softly.
The simple observation, delivered with such casual acceptance, threatens to undo a century of careful control. I want to pull her closer, to show her exactly what these suction cups can do, how they can warm up with use. I want to—
Her fingertips trace the edge of my wound, and I fight to keep my tentacles still. When she leans closer to tie off a stitch, her scent floods my senses. The urge to taste her skin, to learn if she’s as sweet as she smells, nearly overwhelms me.
“So,” she says, working steadily despite the slight tremor in her hands, “you’re not what I expected. The stories about cthulhus… They always made you sound more…” She trails off, presumably searching for a polite way to say ‘murderous.’
“Monstrous?” I offer, watching how her pulse jumps in her throat when I speak. The sight makes my tentacles twitch with the urge to explore that delicate skin. “We can be. But you’re not what I expected either.”
“Oh?” Her fingers hover over my wound. “And what did you expect?”
“Screaming. Running. Perhaps attempting to mount my tentacles on a wall.” My attempt at humor draws a surprised laugh from her, and the sound does dangerous things to my control. “Instead, you’re stitching me up in your kitchen.”
“Yeah, well.” She resumes her work, but I catch how her cheeks flush. “Maybe I have a thing for strays.”
If she only knew what that blush does to me, how it makes me imagine other ways I could make her skin pink.
She shifts to reach a particularly awkward angle, and her hip presses against where my tentacles meet torso. The contact sends a jolt of pure need through me, and without thinking, three tentacles curl around her waist and legs. Not threatening—but possessive in a way that surprises even me.
“Sorry,” I manage, though I make no move to release her. “The position is… awkward.”
“It’s fine.” Her voice comes out breathy, and I detect a spike of something in her scent that isn’t fear. “Whatever makes you comfortable.”
Comfortable is not the word I’d use. Not when I can feel her warmth through my suckers, taste her growing arousal in the air.
My kind can sense such things—chemical changes, subtle shifts in body temperature, the flutter of pulse beneath skin. The knowledge that she’s affected by my touch, even unconsciously, makes my hearts race.
I wonder if she knows what she’s doing to me. If she understands that every gentle touch, every careful stitch, is dismantling years of isolation. That her simple acceptance of my true form is more intoxicating than any siren’s song.
“Almost done,” she murmurs, leaning in to tie off the last stitch. Her breath ghosts across my skin, and my bioluminescence flares in response. She pauses, fascinated. “That’s beautiful.”
The word makes me grow still, almost bashful.
Beautiful. No one has ever used that word for my true form. I’ve been called terrifying, monstrous—but never beautiful. My tentacles tighten instinctively around her waist, drawing her closer.
“You,” I say roughly, “are either very brave or very foolish.”
Her lips curve into a smile. “Probably both. But you’re not going to hurt me, are you, Roark?”
The way she says my name, with such simple trust… It unravels something deep inside me. “No,” I promise. “Never.” And I mean it with every cell in my body.
When she finally ties off the last stitch, I feel a pang of loss.
But I’ve already stolen so much of her night. “You’ve been too generous. I have nothing to give in return.” It’s almost shameful to admit. I, who have defended these waters for years, have nothing to offer this woman who has given me her time, her skill, her trust.
She studies me for a moment, those stormy eyes seeing more than I want to reveal. “You don’t have to be alone, you know.”
The words hit me like a depth charge. In a century of solitude, I’ve never considered that someone might not want me to be alone. That someone might see my isolation as something painful, something to be eased.
That someone might care, even if she might only see me as an injured creature she needs to help.
“I mean it.” Her voice is soft but steady. “You don’t have to leave. At least not until you’ve recovered.”
I want to accept her offer. I want to stay here, basking in her presence. But the thought of having nothing to offer in return…
“I’ll stay,” I say, “on one condition.”
She raises an eyebrow. “Which is?”
