“What is this for?”
It takes me a second to get my bearings over Ordus changing the subject again. His attention is cast toward the bag, almost—regretful?
I don’t let myself read into it. I follow the line of his pointer finger to the red satin scrunchie. Is he oblivious, or does he not visit land often? He must spend enough time around my kind if he knows our music, but somehow, he doesn’t know we eat and drink different things? It’s hard to wrap my head around.
He doesn’t strike me as the people-watcher type. The Gallagher head of security was broody as hell and wouldn’t talk much, but Nolan knew every detail about his surroundings. No one could drop a crumb without him noticing. You could tell he was the type from his eyes. They were always alert, cataloging everything.
Ordus is like that all the times we’re in the water, except it’s a different type of observation. Ordus is on the lookout for threats for survival, but Nolan watched for weaknesses to strike.
Tommy was kind of like that, except cockier. Most of the time, his arrogance outshone his conniving intelligence. Nolan’s was always there. You knew the moment you looked at him that he’d taken a mental snapshot of you and done an entire analysis already.
But Ordus’ eyes hold a heart-wrenching familiarity too. It’s the same type of eyes my dad wore for most of my childhood, and later, whenever we had fish for dinner.
He lost someone he loved. If yesterday’s conversation was any indication, he lost three. I’ve seen this island, searched this cave. Everything is bare, empty. I don’t think he has anyone else, and something about that has all my defenses dropping.
My throat bobs as I pick the scrunchie up and pull my matted strands up into a messy bun. “A hair tie.”
Gnawing on the inside of my cheek, I rock forward to fish out the other scrunchie I saw in here. It came in a pack of three: red, green, and blue. I pause before holding it out to him.
A peace offering. Maybe also an apology for stabbing him—twice—even though he seemed grateful for it.
Ordus’ eyes bore into mine. He tentatively raises his hand like he’s unsure whether he should. My gut sours. He’s looking at me the same way I do when Tommy asks me to come closer, and I don’t know if I’ll walk away with a new bruise.
I don’t like that Ordus is looking at me like that. It doesn’t sit right with me.
I lean forward and pull the scrunchie onto his wrist. “For your hair.”
His throat bobs as he stares at it like I’ve just given him the moon. The corners of his eyes crinkle, body utterly motionless, as he stares at the little green scrunchie around his thick wrist. Slowly, almost like he’s afraid it’ll disappear if he moves too quickly, he brushes his fingers over the fabric. In his distraction, the stray tentacle breaks free and joyrides straight to me, curling around my leg. Ordus shudders at the contact, and something innate settles in my soul.
He isn’t going to hurt me.
“You can…” I start, wanting to break the pregnant silence. I feel like I’m going to choke from how heavily he’s looking at thescrunchie. “You can braid your hair back if it, um, gets in the way.”
What a stupid thing to say. What the fuck else would he use the hair tie for? I don’t need to mansplain it when I did a demonstration not sixty seconds ago. He probably uses seaweed or something to keep his hair out of his face.
I’m pretty sure krakens have figured out their hair business, and I’m being a dick for running my mouth.
I twist my hands in my lap, waiting for him to say something. Anything. Maybe resume whatever it was he was doing. This whole exchange has gotten weird.
With nothing better to do, I reach for a dress to begin folding my clothes.
“How?”
Huh?I flick my attention up to him and raise a questioning brow.
“I braid flax and seaweed into rope or a basket. Krakens do not…” He trails off like he’s embarrassed, eyes lowering in dejection. “Krakens do not have hair.”
My chest pinches at his tone. He’s tense, as rigid as the stone walls around us. I’d get like that whenever I said something I knew might upset Tommy. It’s not obvious. Someone like Nolan might notice the flicker of fear, but no one else would, not unless you’ve been in that position—like you’re waiting for hurt.
“You have nice hair.” I’m not sure why I say it. It just feels like I should. But it’s true all the same. Ordus’ hair looks like the smoothest silk, even though he’s spent all his life in saltwater. Mine feels like a nest birds wouldn’t dare go near.
His eyes dart up to me, disbelieving. He’s braced for an attack. Hell, something in my chest shatters at that.
“May I?” I point to the scrunchie around his wrist.
His brows lower, and his lip twitches, like I’m trying to steal his toy. It’s animalistic. Eventually, he relents, albeit extremelyreluctantly. His muscles are bunched, movement sharp, acting like it physically pains him to give it back.
My legs protest and groan as I rise back onto my feet. It takes me a second to stop wobbling and straighten my legs completely, but I get there eventually. It’s like I’ve ran a marathon twice over.
