Page 4

The tentacle between us moves closer, almost touching my cheek. I hold my breath, not in fear but in… anticipation? His gaze locks with mine, something predatory and curious in those eyes.

“You smell unusual,” he murmurs.

“It’s called ‘emotional trauma and three days without a shower.’ Latest fragrance from Disaster Girl: Summer Collection.”

He actually laughs, and the sound does things to my insides that I refuse to acknowledge.

The tentacle finally makes contact, a feather-light touch against my cheek that sends an electric current straight to places that haven’t felt anything but disappointment in years, replaced by a craving I almost forgot I had.

“Oh,” I breathe, eyes widening.

This is unexpected, to put it mildly.

His expression changes, something hungry flashing across his features. “Oh, indeed.”

And that’s my cue to retreat.

I push backward, breaking contact, and swim toward shore with as much dignity as a freaked-out, turned-on girl can muster.

“This lake isn’t big enough for both of us, Squidman!” I call over my shoulder, which, as far as exit lines go, ranks pretty low on the badass scale.

His laughter follows me to shore. By the time I reach the cabin, dripping and breathless, I’m already wondering how soon I can “accidentally” re-encounter my new neighbor.

Apparently, solitude and soul-searching have taken a backseat to whatever the hell just happened in that lake.

2

Caspian

She smells like sunlight and sorrow. Like warmth and something broken that wants mending.

I’ve lived in these waters for centuries, and never has a human’s scent called to me like hers.

Lily.

I heard her say it to herself as she unpacked her car.

A flower that grows in water—fitting for a female who has unknowingly wandered into a monster’s territory.

Into my territory.

Though I share these woods reluctantly with the others, the lake is mine alone. Or it was until she arrived with her sharp tongue and fearless eyes.

I sink beneath the surface, gliding through the cool depths to my dwelling—a cave system that extends from the lake bed into a partially submerged chamber where I keep my collection.

Humans think of Krakens as destroyers, wreckers of ships, and takers of lives. They never consider that we might appreciate beauty and crave knowledge.

My chambers are lined with salvaged treasures: jewelry, artifacts from sunken vessels, and a rather impressive collection of romance novels. There’s something fascinating about human notions of love and desire.

So much yearning, so much complexity.

I read stories where women who pine for lost loves for decades, men who cross oceans for a touch, and idiots who throw away everything for a single, damning kiss.

I despise humanity’s casual disregard for the world they invade, but I cannot help but envy their capacity for romance, for madness, for the kind of devotion that makes even the abyss seem less cold.

Not that I’ve ever experienced such things firsthand.

There might have been something once, a possibility I don't like to dwell on. He was far too stubborn, and I was far too proud.