“The schoolteacher,” Sam said eventually.
His hands tightened on the railing. “What about her?”
“She’s the source of your agitation.” It wasn’t a question. “I’ve seen her walking by the river. She smiles at the water and waves sometimes.”
“That sounds like Sara.”
“You want her.”
Again, not a question. Sam had a disconcerting way of stating the obvious like it was a revelation.
“It’s more than that.” He heard himself say the words before he could stop them. “I’m… nesting.”
Sam’s tentacles stilled. Even the pulsing of his bioluminescence seemed to pause. For a kraken, that was the equivalent of shocked silence.
“Nesting.”
“I built her a goddamn nest, Sam. In my bed. Without even realizing I was doing it.” He laughed, the sound harsh and humorless. “Six years of control, and she’s undone all of it in a few weeks.”
“Hmm.” Sam sank a little lower in the water, considering. “My kind doesn’t nest. But we do… hoard. Precious things. Claimed things.” His blue eyes glinted. “I understand the impulse.”
“How do you handle it?”
“Poorly.”
Despite everything, his mouth twitched. “Helpful.”
“I never claimed to be a source of wisdom.” Sam’s tentacles resumed their slow, contemplative movement. “But I’ve watched this town. I’ve watched Others find their mates. The pattern is always the same—a loss of control, fear, and then the eventual surrender.”
“Surrender.”
“To the inevitable,” Sam said calmly. “You built her a nest. You’ve marked your territory. You have made your choice. What remains is whether you’ll fight it or accept it.”
“And if I can’t trust myself? If the possessiveness—” He stopped, jaw tight. “I almost scared her last night. She mentioned moving, and I lost it. Completely lost it.”
“Did she run?”
“No.”
“Did she seem afraid?”
He thought about it. Her face, patient and understanding. Her hands on his cheeks, gentle and grounding. Her voice, steady as bedrock.I’m not going anywhere.
“No,” he admitted. “She wasn’t afraid.”
“Then perhaps you should stop being afraid for her.”
Before Ben could respond, the back door banged open and heavy footsteps announced a new arrival.
“There you are.” Eric Grayson, the town’s werewolf sheriff, stepped onto the porch with two beers in hand. He was a big man—nearly as tall as Ben, broader through the shoulders—with the easy confidence of someone accustomed to command. His amber eyes flicked to the river. “Evening, Sam.”
“Sheriff.”
“I thought you’d be out here brooding.” Eric handed one of the beers to him and he took it without comment. “Nina said you’ve been in a mood all night.”
“Nina talks too much.”
“Nina’s worried. We all are.” Eric leaned against the railing, taking a long pull from his beer. “I heard you burned the onions.”
