My anxiety spikes.
That’s fine. It’s fine. Ordus hasn’t hit me or yelled at me. Just because he’s giving me the cold shoulder doesn’t mean anything. Sometimes, no attention is good attention. It means I’ll be left to my own devices.
Or it means that whatever is wrong will fester.
“How did you get all of this here?” I settle on. Baby steps. We’ll get to the bigger issues eventually.
My muscles scream with each incremental movement from yesterday’s events.
“Boat.”
And we couldn’t have boated me around?I take a deep breath. Fine. Next question. “Why?”
He doesn’t grace me with attention when he throws over his shoulder, “For our den.” No further detail. No follow-up explanation. Just,it is what it is.
My hackles rise. What’s gotten him in a mood? He stills and casts a careful glance my way as he very obviously lowers himself to the ground to make himself smaller. He can do that all he wants; the scowl betrays him.
The stone floors shift to eggshells, and the grey walls turn into the alabaster white of the mansion.
I dip my head on instinct to avoid furthering his…irritation? Anger? Disgust?
Averting my gaze to my water shoes, I shuffle to the opposite side of the cavern where my luggage is, always keeping my front facing him.
As if a couple yards is going to mean anything.
But this is Ordus. My supposed mate. A monster who is apparently the king of the Dead Lands.
He won’t hurt me.
No matter how many times I tell myself that, I don’t find myself relaxing as my stiff muscles tug at the zipper. The glowing algae casts a bluish light on the hardcase luggage I bought for ten bucks at the market. I grab the water bottle from inside and gulp the whole thing before reverting my attention back to the contents of the bag.
It takes me a second to process everything, but once I do, I almost burst out laughing, forgetting I’m meant to be frightened.
All my skincare is there. A paintbrush. Whiteboard marker. Sunglasses. My Bluetooth speakers. A fake Chanel handbag. The generator I was fixing. Multivitamins I opted not to bring. A raggedy hoodie that’s three sizes too big. Tablecloth. The Bulbasaur squishy Nat gave me for some reason. Books. Measuring tape. A spare PopSocket. The tennis ball I use to help undo knots in my back. A scrunchie. My dil?—
My cheeks burn bright red, and I quickly cover the dildo with one of my clothes.
“What is that?”
I yelp, clambering away. When did Ordus move so close? His brows pull into a frown, and he moves into the kraken version of sitting on the other side of the luggage. The stray tentacle instantly reaches for me, and one of the other ones snatches it back before it makes it beyond the makeshift barrier between us.
“Nothing,” I say quickly, cheeks heating.No follow-up questions, please.
“It is a tentacle.” A hint of uncertainty trickles into his nonquestion.
I blanch white. “Yup.”
He keeps glancing between me and the sleep shirt the blue dildo hides under. “What is it for?” His voice echoes against the cave walls.
Is he kidding me? “None of your business.”
It’s hard to be frightened of him when he seems so genuinely perplexed about the silicone,uh, appendage in my luggage.
The luggage he filled himself. Which means his large, thick hands have touched it.
I chastise my perverted brain, because the first thing that comes to mind is wondering which is bigger: the ten-foot monster’s hand, or thethingthat’s been my only source of action in over a year.
Ugh. I’ve only used it like four times max. I just bought it about a month or two ago. I’ve been too unnerved about putting anything in me, and I figured if it didn’t look remotely human, maybe that would trick my brain into being more receptive to—I don’t know—reclaiming my sexuality, I guess.
