Moss raised his head. “I know what I have to do.”
Two pairs of dark eyes watched him, waiting.
It might have been either of them.If the kraken had chosen Ataahua or Pania, he would have lost one of them forever. And they would have lost one another. He couldn’t bear to imagine it. Ataahua’s cackling laughter, or Pania’s steady warmth, locked away beneath the waves.
And he never would have met Carol.
An uncanny stillness washed through him, cold and bright and sharp. He never would have met Carol, because she would have died out there in the storm.
He steeled his shoulders. Decision made. No turning back. And it was easy to pull on a smile as he said, “Fancy place like this must have a kitchen. Let’s start there.”
The kitchen was well equipped and stocked to feed guests with expensive tastes. Expensive tastes and good palates—an important distinction. Everything was as fresh and high quality as though he’d plucked it from the markets and the ocean himself.
Next time, he told himself, as though there would be a next time.
He was lucky to get this one chance. If it was a chance, and not a trap.
The deep black of his soul was silent. The kraken was still dormant.
So he still had a few precious hours to do this one thing for her.
Kitchens had always been his sanctuary. Commercial or home, well stocked with all the mod cons or bare cupboards and a blunt knife with the handle broken off. So long as there was something to cook and something to cook it with, he could make himself at home.
Or so he’d always thought. Now, with his future looming cold and empty in front of him, he knew there was one other key ingredient.
Someone to cook for.
The twins usually crowded him in the kitchen, in the lovingly-helpful-but-annoying-as-fuck way that family was so good at, but this time they gave him space. He told them what he was planning. They didn’t tell him he was being a complete dumbass. That was a good sign, right?
He cleaned, and prepped, and lost himself in the familiar movements of chopping and stirring and tossing, the symphony of sound and taste and heat that pulled at him like the moon pulled the tides. The hiss of the gas. The burst of flavor on histongue. The myriad scents billowing in steam or crackling in fat or spiraling upwards, caught in smoke. The moment everything came together.
Plating, the usual mixture of frustration and frivolity. Did he enjoy fussing with food like this, or did he only do it because people wanted to see a fuss being made? Too late to figure it out now.
There was a platform a short distance down from the main lodge, looking out over the water. He laid out place settings on a table there and set the rest of the stage: aromatic logs in the firepit, which would burn without the salt-mineral stench of the driftwood they’d had to use on the island. Fresh water that didn’t taste like the dirt it had filtered through on its way to the surface. Chilled wine to match the food he’d prepared.
Everything he wished he could have offered her from the moment they met.
He took the shrubbery-lined path back up towards the main residence. The twins were playing with Maggie in the garden, hiding in the flax bushes and jumping out. Was Carol with them? They’d said they would tell her he wanted to talk, and where to meet her, but there was no sign of her.
The call of the ocean spun a sweet story over his skin. It could tell her where she was, bring him the shape and intoxicating scent of her from where the traces of salt in the coastal air brushed against her own skin.
No. Even with the kraken silent, he couldn’t risk that.
He met Pania’s eye and made a questioning gesture. She raised both eyebrows at him.
Fine. He walked closer. “Have you seen—”
“She already followed you down, cuz.”
He looked back down the path.
Carol was standing on the edge of the deck, staring back up at him.
He swallowed. He’d set all this up for her. But now she was here, and he couldn’t decide whether she’d been drawn in by the lure he’d unwittingly set.
Or whether she’d decided to hunt him down herself.
26
