Page 11 of Captured by the Cthulhu (Monster Mates #3)

Chapter 11

Captain’s Quarters

Ashe

The trail isn’t on any map.

No wonder. Anyone with a lick of common sense would take one look at this coastal death trap and run the other way.

I wedge my boot against a rock that feels distressingly loose, clinging to exposed tree roots as the path narrows between a wall of stone and a drop that will definitely be featured in my future nightmares.

My backpack digs into my shoulders with each step. Inside: a change of clothes, toothbrush, water, and enough protein bars to survive a minor apocalypse, and—buried at the bottom beneath a change of clothes—the lacy black underwear I impulse-bought last year and never had the occasion to wear. Until possibly now.

“Just don’t think about the fall,” I mutter to myself, trying not to focus on the jagged rocks waiting fifty feet below. “Think about what’s waiting at the end of this journey.”

Which is… what, exactly? A weekend hideaway with the cthulhu I’ve somehow stumbled into a relationship with?

God, my life has certainly taken a sharp left turn into uncharted waters.

The late-morning sun beats down on my shoulders, making the climb even more brutal. I’ve lived near these cliffs my entire life, but I’ve never ventured to this particular stretch of coastline. Dad always warned me away from here—too isolated if something went wrong, he’d said.

But isolation is exactly what we need right now.

After twenty more minutes of what feels like vertical rock-climbing disguised as hiking, the path suddenly levels out. I stop, gulping air and wiping sweat from my face with my shirtsleeve.

The coastline curves inward here, forming a sheltered cove invisible from both the sea and the main hiking routes. Smart choice for someone who needs to stay hidden.

And there it is—Roark’s cabin.

It’s not some rickety shack. The structure before me has weathered cedar siding and a slate roof, small but impeccably maintained. Wide windows face the water, and a covered porch wraps around one side. It’s the kind of hidden gem that real estate agents would label “rustic luxury” and charge half a million for.

I’m still catching my breath as I make my way down the final stretch of path. No smoke rises from the river rock chimney. No movement behind the windows. The place looks peaceful but empty.

My stomach does a weird flip-flop thing. We’d agreed on today, but never pinned down a time. Maybe he’s out hunting. Maybe there was some underwater emergency. Maybe he’s changed his mind about all of this.

I reach the porch and hesitate, suddenly feeling awkward.

I rap my knuckles against the solid oak door, then wait, shifting from foot to foot. The silence stretches out, broken only by seagulls arguing somewhere down the cliff face.

I knock again, louder this time. Nothing.

Okay, now what?

I peek through one of the windows, cupping my hands around my eyes to block the glare. The interior is dim but surprisingly homey—a single open room with different areas flowing into each other. A kitchen space with a woodstove. A living area with comfortable chairs and a desk. And in the far corner, a bed built into an alcove in the wall.

My face warms at the sight of that bed, memories of our last time together flashing unbidden through my mind.

I try the door handle—it turns easily.

“Roark?” I call, pushing the door open slowly. “It’s Ashe…”

The cabin smells like cedar and sea salt, with a faint undertone that’s distinctly Roark—like deep water and earth. The scent makes my skin prickle with a pleasant kind of anticipation.

“Hello? Anyone home?”

Silence. I set my backpack down by the door and try to ignore the twinge of disappointment.

Part of me had imagined finding him waiting, those gold-flecked eyes lighting up at the sight of me. But this gives me a chance to catch my breath and maybe discover a bit more about him without feeling self-conscious under his intense gaze.

I move deeper into the cabin, taking in the details. Everything is both beautiful and practical—handcrafted wooden furniture mixed with what looks like carefully salvaged pieces from ships or coastal homes. A brass telescope gleams by the largest window, and next to it sits a chart table with navigational instruments: a sextant, compass, and antique tide charts.

These aren’t just decorations. They’re the tools of Captain Sterling, the human persona Roark maintained for decades before the Great Unveiling forced him back into hiding.

I run my fingers lightly over the sextant, imagining Roark using it on some merchant vessel long ago, plotting his course by the stars. The instrument is polished to a high shine, clearly treasured.

Against one wall stands a bookcase packed with volumes in various states of weathering. Most are nautical in nature—navigation manuals, oceanography texts, histories of maritime trade.

But tucked among them are surprises: a collection of poetry, several classic novels, and what appears to be a comprehensive encyclopedia of undersea life that’s been heavily annotated in a precise, slanting hand.

I pull out one of the books—a leather-bound journal with no title on the spine. Inside, the same handwriting covers page after page. Dates from the 1980s head each entry. Captain Sterling’s log.

I know I shouldn’t read it. These are his private thoughts. But my fingers are already turning to a random page from July 1987:

Human customs continue to confound me. Today the first mate’s wife presented him with a cake and gifts for something called a “birthday,” celebrating the day of his birth with candles representing his years.

The ritual involves making secret wishes while extinguishing fire. When asked about my own birthday, I fabricated a date—December 25th—only to discover this coincides with a major religious holiday.

The crew found this hilarious. Apparently sharing one’s “birthday” with their deity figure is both fortunate and inconvenient for celebration planning…

I can’t help but smile at his clinical analysis of birthday parties. There’s something endearing about imagining him puzzling over human traditions, carefully maintaining his cover while navigating the foreign landscape of our social customs.

I flip forward a few pages:

I remain uncertain whether my experience of loneliness is equivalent to the human condition. Iris suggests it is universal, but I observe humans seeking each other constantly, forming bonds and breaking them with a frequency that suggests they find the process less painful than I would.

Perhaps my species feels connection more deeply, having evolved in an environment where isolation often means death…

The words hit uncomfortably close to home. I close the journal and return it to its place, feeling like I’ve accidentally glimpsed something too intimate.

Crossing to the kitchen area, I find it surprisingly well-equipped. There’s even an old icebox that’s still working—likely stocked with ice he harvests from the colder waters offshore. Inside are fresh fish fillets, neatly wrapped, and basic cooking supplies. The man eats many pounds of seafood daily but still keeps condiments. There’s something weirdly touching about that.

My gaze wanders to the sleeping area, where a built-in platform bed sits, with a thick mattress and a comfortable quilt. Navy blue, of course. I snort softly. Even his bedding choices are nautical.

Without really deciding to, I drift toward it, exhaustion from the hike suddenly catching up to me. I’ve been up since dawn, nervous energy propelling me through lighthouse chores at record speed before I could set out for this hidden cove.

I hesitate, then sit on the edge of the bed. It’s blissfully comfortable, the mattress giving just enough under my weight. Tentatively, I lean down and press my face to the pillow, inhaling. His scent is stronger here, and something warm unfurls in my chest.

“Just resting my eyes,” I murmur to the empty cabin, stretching out fully on the bed. I should probably leave his personal space alone, but the combination of the strenuous hike and the comfort of being surrounded by his things is too powerful to resist.

I’ll just close my eyes for a few minutes. He’ll probably be back soon anyway…

The sound of the door opening startles me awake. Golden light fills the cabin—afternoon sunlight, not morning. I bolt upright, disoriented.

A massive silhouette fills the doorway, momentarily backlit before stepping into the cabin. Roark, carrying a large net bag full of—well, something oceanic and probably still moving.

“Ashe.” His voice sends a pleasant shiver down my spine. “You came.”

There’s a note of surprise in his tone. Did he think I wouldn’t?

“Said I would, didn’t I?” I manage, suddenly aware that I’m rumpled and probably have pillow creases on my face. “Sorry, I fell asleep waiting.”

Roark sets his catch by the door and moves toward me, his humanoid torso and muscular arms bare above his powerful tentacles. Water still clings to his iridescent skin, making it shimmer in the slanting sunlight.

He’s breathtaking—otherworldly and yet somehow more real than anything else in my life.

“You’re tired.” He studies me with concern. “The journey was difficult?”

I swing my legs over the side of the bed, trying to smooth my hair into something less resembling a seagull’s nest. “Let’s just say it wasn’t exactly a stroll.”

His mouth quirks up at one corner. “The challenge of access is a feature, not a flaw. It has kept this place undisturbed for years.”

“Well, it’s beautiful.” I look around the sun-drenched cabin. “Really beautiful. Worth the climb.”

Roark moves closer, one tentacle extending almost unconsciously toward me before he seems to catch himself. There’s an endearing hesitancy in the gesture, as if he’s not sure of his welcome despite what we’ve shared.

“I’m pleased you think so.” His formal phrasing contrasts with the naked emotion in his eyes.

For a moment, we simply look at each other. The air between us feels charged with a week’s worth of unspoken thoughts and phantom touches.

Part of me wants to throw myself against him, to feel those powerful arms wrap around me again. But there’s something fragile in this moment that I don’t want to rush.

“I apologize for my absence,” Roark says finally. “I was obtaining provisions.” He gestures toward the net bag, which I can now see contains an assortment of shellfish. “I thought perhaps you might be hungry after your journey.”

The thoughtfulness of this—him gathering fresh seafood specifically for my arrival—makes my chest tight.

“I’m starving, actually,” I admit. “But I should probably shower first. That trail was no joke.”

“The waterfall at the north end of the cove is fresh water,” he offers. “It’s rather invigorating.”

I’ve never bathed in a waterfall, but after the past couple weeks, that doesn’t even rank in my top ten unusual experiences.

“Sounds refreshing,” I say, gathering my backpack. “Lead the way, Captain.”

His eyes flicker at the title, something between pleasure and old pain crossing his features.

“You want me to accompany you?”

“Of course. You know the way.”

He hesitates, then says, “Take only what you need. The path is short but steep.”