“I built it.”
“By yourself?” Surprised is an understatement. But also, yeah, I guess that checks out with how it looks. “How? Where did you get all the supplies?”
“Mainland.”
He’s really not chatty today. Is it because I refused to marry him? Can he really be shocked by that? I shake my head. His silence is a good thing. It means…I get my space? I can’t think of any other benefit.
I circle the property and come face-to-face with the answer to my earlier question of how he brought the supplies over. A boat.Well, more of a dinghy with two lengths of rope hooked onto the keel. A log is hanging on either side of the vessel like a double rigger to help stabilize it.
When he said he brought my things by boat earlier, I stupidly imagined him messing around with an engine, hunched down behind a steering wheel, or using his tentacles like propellers to push it across the sea. Pulling it makes a lot more sense. I can’t imagine it’d be easy, but it’s far more logical.
I eye Ordus curiously. He built a shed by himself, modified a dinghy, fixed my generator, chair, and fridge, yet he had no idea how to keep me alive?
I’m having a hard time wrapping my head around that.
Ordus glides easily up the wonky steps onto the fenceless porch, then into the shed. He holds the anti-insect netting aside for me to enter first. The inside is much the same as the outside—plain, functional, no aesthetic, the same mismatched wooden walls.
The smell of cooked fish assaults my nostrils, but I’m too distracted trying to figure this place out to follow my nose.
I was wrong to call it a shed. It’s a shed—or, more accurately, a workshop. There’s a running ceiling fan tied to various rigs, tubes and plastic bottles powered by a watermill to circulate airflow. A DIY’d bench in the corner is tall enough for him to comfortably use. There are random bits and bobs he collected from humans, what looks like half-made creations lying around. A wheelbarrow made from flax. A spade fashioned from steel sheets. There’s a transmission part from some kind of car, hooked up to a series of wires, ropes, and pieces of wood—no idea what for.
And no sign of the Gallaghers,my brain helpfully supplies.
I turn to survey the area behind me, lighting up at the surfboard leaning against the wall with a green-and-pink hammerhead shark Deedee painted for “Cindi’s” first birthday.As for the organized mess on the homemade shelving beside my board? Ordus didn’t just move my bedroom—he brought my whole damn kitchen to the island.
There’s salt, pepper, bay leaves, tamarind concentrate,Sambal Jempol, a whisk, tongs, cupcake tins—the list goes on.
The kraken managed to fit almost my entire life onto a dinghy. If I ruminate on that, it’ll make me sad.
My eyes narrow on the other workbench that comes up to my chest. A portable camping stove and one of my pans sits atop it. It’s the source of the smell.
Fish.
Cookedfish. Fucking warm,pan-searedfish.
Wait. “Did you kidnap a chef?”
Ordus’ eyes flare in alarm. “No?” He looks around the hut like he’s double-checking.
Well, I haven’t seen anyone else around. Based on the purple spatula handle hanging over the edge of the pan, I’m going to guess no professional was involved.
“You made it?” It’s somehow a more ridiculous statement-question.Hold up— “You had this the whole time?” I point accusatorially at the stove, my anger rising. What the fuck was the point of almost killing me? “Because it most definitely didn’t come from my house.”
The stray tentacle that dropped down to my ankle frantically rubs what’s meant to be comforting circles over my leg. “I brought the—stove, I think it’s called—this morning so you may eat fish.” He picks up a pot from the shelf. “The pan is from your home. See? I was not hiding it from you. What’s mine is yours.”
I gape at him. This ten-foot giant really learned how to cook for me? Traveled hours to get me my things and everything I might need to eat and…entertain myself?
“Why?” I demand.
His ocean-blue eyes cast to the pan before fixing back on me with a questioning look. “So you can eat,” he says, like it’s the most obvious thing.
A dangerous warmth slithers into my stomach. I feel my eyes burning with pathetic, unshed tears. The only person who ever put in any effort for me was my dad. It’s been years since anyone has done something solely for my benefit without wanting anything in return.
But that’s not true, is it? He does want something. An exchange, of sorts. He wants me alive and to accept being his mate, to end the Curse. It’s as much for him as it is for me.
Even so, he didn’t need to bring me my surfboard to keep me alive—in fact, it’s putting my life more at risk. He brought spices, books, more clothes, skincare, a fucking dildo, all so I don’t have to survive off bare necessities.
My throat bobs. At no point while I was packing did I point the gun at him. I had countless opportunities to put a bullet in his head while we were still on the mainland, and I didn’t. I let him live. I let him bring me here.
