He wanted Sara to be his mate.
The admission should have terrified him but instead, it settled into his bones like coming home.
He carefully set her cardigan back in the center of the nest, because there was no point denying that’s what it was, and headed for the shower. He had work tonight, a kitchen to run, and staff to manage. He couldn’t spend the whole evening mooning over bedding arrangements like some lovesick kit.
But as hot water sluiced over his shoulders, his mind kept circling back to the same question.Can I trust myself with her?
She trusted him, that much was clear. She’d looked at him last night with those warm green eyes and told him to stay, to take what he needed, and she hadn’t flinched when his control slipped. She’d welcomed it. She’d welcomed him, in all his possessive, instinct-driven intensity.
But she didn’t fully understand what she was agreeing to. She knew about mating season. She knew about his past and the careful discipline he’d built around himself. What she didn’t know was how thoroughly she’d dismantled it. How completely she’d worked her way under his skin until the thought of losing her made his vision go red and his claws ache to claim.
She can’t leave.
The memory of his own voice—raw and ragged and barely leashed—echoed through his skull. He’d almost scared her last night. He had scared himself. The possessiveness was intensifying, fed by proximity and affection and the growing certainty that she was meant to be his.
And now he was building her a nest.
“Fuck,” he muttered, tipping his head back under the spray.
He was in so much trouble.
The tavern was packedby the time he emerged from the kitchen for his usual walk-through. Saturday nights always drew a crowd, and tonight was no exception—every booth full, the bar three people deep, and Nina weaving through the chaos with her characteristic efficiency.
He’d been distracted all evening. He’d burned a pan of caramelized onions, which never happened. He’d snapped at Annabelle, then had to apologize. He’d frozen in front of the walk-in for five full minutes trying to remember what he’d come for.
His staff had noticed. They’d been giving him cautious looks all night, the kind usually reserved for bears emerging from hibernation. Even George, his bartender, had asked if everything was okay—and George never asked about anything personal.
He leaned against the doorframe separating the back section of the building from the bar, watching the crowd, and tried to make sense of the riot happening inside his own chest.
The back door was three steps away. The porch beyond it, a long wooden platform overlooking the river, was his usual refuge when the noise got to be too much. Tonight the pull was even stronger than usual. He needed air and a moment to think without the clamor of voices and clinking glasses drowning out his thoughts.
He slipped outside without anyone noticing.
The night air hit him like a benediction—cool and damp, carrying the green scent of the river. He took a deep breath and felt some of the tension drain from his shoulders. The porch wasdark, lit only by the spillover from the tavern’s windows, and he settled into his usual spot against the railing.
“Rough night?”
His ears swiveled towards the voice before his eyes found the source. The river below was quiet and still, its surface black and glossy in the darkness. But near the shore, barely visible in the dim light, a massive shape broke the surface.
Sam.
The kraken emerged slowly, tentacles coiling around the dock pilings for balance as he rose from the water. In this form—partially surfaced, torso bare and gleaming—he was an impressive sight. Broad shoulders, skin the color of moonlit silver, bioluminescent markings pulsing faintly along his arms. His eyes, bright blue and ancient, watched Ben with his usual calm.
“Something like that,” he admitted.
“Your scent’s different.” Sam’s voice was deep and unhurried. “Agitated, but not… unhappy.”
“You can smell me from there?”
“Of course.” A tentacle gestured vaguely towards the tavern. “Along with forty-three Others, twelve humans, and one very anxious brownie in the storeroom.”
“Shit, the brownies are back?” He rubbed his face. “I thought we’d gotten rid of them.”
“This one’s new. Smells apologetic.”
He filed that away for later. Right now, he had bigger concerns than mischievous household spirits.
A familiar silence stretched between them. Sam wasn’t much for small talk, and Ben had always appreciated that about him. Their friendship had developed over shared silences and occasional, meaningful exchanges.
