Page 2 of Captured by the Cthulhu (Monster Mates #3)

Chapter 2

Harboring Cthulhu

Ashe

The first rule of lighthouse keeping is simple: expect the unexpected. Drunk tourists, freak storms, the occasional lost seal finding its way into the gift shop—I’ve handled it all with the kind of practical efficiency that would make my father proud.

But standing here in my rain-soaked boots, staring at an enormous injured cthulhu sprawled across my boathouse floor… I’m pretty sure we’ve sailed right past “unexpected” into “are you freaking kidding me?”

Lightning strobes through the broken windows, illuminating the scene in sharp bursts. Fishing nets crisscross his massive form like a web, cutting deep wherever they’ve twisted tight. The blood pooling beneath him is darker than human blood, almost black against the weathered boards. Each labored breath makes the whole structure creak, and I find myself counting the seconds between those breaths, the way I count the seconds between lightning and thunder during a storm.

I should have turned and made a run for it the second I saw him. Any sane person would be halfway to town by now, screaming about cthulhus in the boathouse.

But I’m rooted in place, my narrow flashlight beam catching on details I can’t quite process: the way his skin shifts color like deep water in sunlight, the delicate patterns that seem to pulse with his breathing, the raw intelligence in his gaze that brings into question every horror story I’ve ever heard about sea creatures.

Monsters live among us. The Great Unveiling had taught us that. And many monsters have a place in society.

But certain monsters still have a mystique to them. Certain monsters have yet to integrate.

Because, to them, humans are beneath them.

To them, humans are prey.

The creature groans, a low, desperate sound that resonates in my bones. It’s a sound of pain, not anger, and it cuts through my paralysis.

I step forward, the floorboards creaking under my boots.

His eyes track me, their alien pupils dilating in the dim light. The tentacles around his mouth writhe and twitch as if tasting the air between us. I stop just out of reach, close enough to smell the coppery tang of blood and the salt of the sea, but not close enough to be caught in his grasp. At least, not if he’s as injured as he seems.

“I’m Ashe,” I say, and somehow my voice doesn’t shake. “What should I call you?”

He blinks, his eyes narrowing in what might be surprise or suspicion. Then, slowly, he opens his mouth, revealing rows of sharp teeth. “R-Roark.”

His voice is like nothing I’ve ever heard, a deep, sonorous rumble that seems to come from everywhere and nowhere. I swallow hard and force myself to meet his gaze. I’m not sure if he even answered my question or if that was another croak of pain, but I’m going to go with it.

“Nice to meet you, Roark.” I try to keep my tone light, friendly. “I’m the keeper of the lighthouse just up the cliff. You seem to have gotten yourself into a bit of a mess. Would you allow me to help you?”

He stares at me, unblinking. His tentacled mouth twitches again, and this time I can see the muscles in his jaw working as he tries to form words. Finally, he manages a single syllable: “Yesss.” The sibilant hiss lingers in the air, and for a moment, it sounds almost like a threat, a demand. My heart is a caged bird thrashing inside my ribs.

“Okay.” I swallow again. My fingers clench and unclench, and I feel as though the world is shifting around me like the deck of a ship in heavy weather.

It strikes me suddenly, horribly, how this feels. Like some Choose Your Own Adventure book where I’m the idiot who picks the option that leads to me being eaten.

Except here I can’t cheat and turn the pages back.

I take a deep breath and try to steady myself. “I’m going to need you to hold still. Can you do that for me?”

He grunts again, and this time it sounds like assent.

I move carefully, setting my flashlight on a nearby crate so that its beam illuminates the tangle of tentacles and nets. The boathouse is stuffed with fishing gear and old tools, and I thank my lucky stars that I’m a compulsive organizer. Everything has its place, and I know exactly where to find what I need.

First, a pair of wire cutters. They’re heavy-duty, designed for cutting through steel cables, and they feel reassuringly solid in my hands. I dig further to find the first aid kid, which yields materials to clean and patch up wounds.

I approach him again, setting up the light so I can actually see what I’m dealing with. The netting is a nightmare—twisted and embedded in places, with darker patches that must be blood.

“I’m going to start with this section here,” I say, not sure how much he understands or if he can even respond. That grunt earlier might have been a word, or might have just been pain. His mouth—framed by those smaller tentacles—seems to struggle with forming sounds.

But those eyes are tracking my every move with clear intelligence, so I press on. “Listen, I need to know if I’m causing too much pain. Since talking seems difficult, maybe you could tap once for yes, twice for no?”

He responds by lifting one clawed hand—seemingly the only limb not caught up in netting—and tapping it against the floor. Once. Clear and deliberate.

Well, that answers whether he understands me.

“Okay then.” I take a breath and move forward. The wire cutters make quick work of the outer layers, but the deeper ones… That’s going to be trickier. I suddenly feel the need to chatter, if only to distract myself. “This is definitely not covered by my first aid certification. Though honestly, neither was that tourist who got his tongue stuck to the brass plaque in January, so I guess I’m used to improvising.”

His chest rumbles—maybe in pain, maybe in response to my babbling. But he stays still as I work, only occasionally tensing when I have to get closer to the deeper cuts.

The process is slow, delicate, and weirdly intimate. Every time I have to lean in close to work at a particularly tangled section, I catch that faint shimmer in his skin. It’s mesmerizing—like the northern lights decided to go swimming.

“Almost done with this section,” I murmur, more to fill the silence than anything else. “Though I have to say, as far as Friday nights go, this is definitely more exciting than my usual routine of watching sailing documentaries.”

His tentacle taps once against the floor, and I swear the corners of his mouth twitch. Is he… laughing at me?

“What, you’re not into nautical history?” I get back to work on a stubborn knot. “I’ll have you know I can name every famous shipwreck from here to Nova Scotia. Though I guess you probably know them firsthand, huh?”

When I glance up, his eyes are intensely fixed on me. There’s something about the way he watches me—like I’m a puzzle he’s trying to solve. Like he can’t quite figure out why I’m helping him.

Join the club, buddy.

I shift to work on another section, and suddenly one of his tentacles brushes against my arm. The touch is feather-light, barely there, but it sends electricity shooting through my whole body. His skin is impossibly smooth, and the gentle suction of those cups…

“Sorry,” I manage, my voice embarrassingly breathy. “Did I hurt you?”

Two taps. No.

The tentacle retreats, but slowly, almost reluctantly. And now I’m thinking about those suckers, about how all those tiny little kisses would feel pressed against…

Nope. Clearly living alone in a lighthouse for several years has driven me mad. No sane woman would be fantasizing about—

“Anyway!” I continue, hoping he can’t read my mind in addition to everything else. “There. That’s the worst of it.”

I step back to survey my handiwork and realize that I’m trembling. Adrenaline crash, that’s what I tell myself. It’s not because of the weight of his gaze or the strange, magnetic pull I feel toward this wounded creature.

I clear my throat and focus on the first aid kit, rummaging until I find a bottle of iodine. “Now comes the fun part.”

His eyes track my every movement as I unscrew the cap, his beard tentacles flaring as he scents the air.

“I need to disinfect these cuts,” I explain, holding up the bottle. “And let me tell you, this is definitely gonna sting like a…” I trail off, not sure what would be the aquatic equivalent of “like a hornet.”

A smile spreads across his lips before he offers, “A Portuguese Man o’ War, perhaps?”

He speaks full sentences!

“I…” Now I’m the one who’s turned mono-syllabic. “Yes. Portuguese Man o’ War. Exactly. Stingy. Very stingy.” I pour iodine onto a clean towel, determined to regain my composure. “So… I’m going to use this to clean your wounds, okay? It’s going to burn, but you don’t want to risk infection. Can you hold still for me?”

His eyes never leave mine, and now his voice is almost a purr. “Of course. I trust you.”

Those simple words carry so much weight coming from him. From any cthulhu, really. I can barely breathe as I press the towel gently against his wounds. His skin is hot to the touch, and I feel his muscles tense beneath my hands. But he holds perfectly still, even as his breathing quickens.

Working with his wounds is like trying to detail a living muscle car—there’s raw power under my hands, barely contained. Every time I press the towel to a new cut, his tentacles ripple and flex. The iodine must sting like hell, but he doesn’t make a sound.

“So,” I say, desperate to distract both of us, “do you make it a habit of crashing into random boathouses, or am I special?”

His laugh is deep. “I was… pursuing something.”

“A white whale?”

“Poachers,” he says, and the word carries enough venom to make me pause. “They were hunting in my waters.”

“Your waters?”

One tentacle gestures vaguely toward the window. “I protect this coast.”

Well. That’s new. Here I’ve been giving tours, telling stories about the monsters that used to plague these waters, and all this time we’ve had our own personal guardian cthulhu.

I resume cleaning his wounds, but now I’m acutely aware of how his muscles tense under my touch. How those eyes follow my every movement. The way his skin seems to glow brighter wherever my fingers brush it.

“The nets,” I prompt, trying to keep my voice steady. “They’re from the poachers?”

“They were prepared.” His voice darkens. “Steel-reinforced. Designed to catch… beings like me.”

I bite my lip, imagining the fight. No wonder he’s so torn up. “Did they get away?”

A slow smile spreads across his face. “They’re at the bottom of the ocean now. I made sure of it.”

That probably shouldn’t send a thrill through me, but it does.

I move to a particularly nasty gash near his hip, where his humanoid torso transitions into his six powerful tentacle legs. The arrangement reminds me vaguely of Ursula from The Little Mermaid, only Roark is all sleek muscle and dangerous beauty—decidedly male and undeniably captivating.

The skin at this junction is different—softer, more delicate. When I press the towel against it, his whole body shudders and one of his lower tentacles wraps around my waist.

Not threatening. Steadying. But the strength in that grip, the way those suckers press against me through my wet clothes…

“Sorry,” I breathe, but I don’t pull away. “Did that hurt?”

His eyes have gone dark, pupils blown wide. “No. Quite the opposite. I’m… exceedingly sensitive in that spot.”

Oh…

The air between us shifts, charging with something that has nothing to do with the storm outside. His tentacle tightens slightly, drawing me closer, and suddenly I’m very aware of everywhere we’re touching.

I clear my throat and step back, and he releases me slowly, each sucker leaving little ghost sensations through my rain gear. “Listen, these wounds need proper cleaning and bandaging. Maybe even some stitches. My more extensive first aid supplies are in my quarters, and I’ll have actual lighting that isn’t a flashlight balanced on a crate.”

He hesitates. “You would invite me into your home?”

“Well, yeah. Unless you’d prefer to bleed out in my boathouse.” My heart’s pounding, but I manage a smile. “Besides, the storm’s getting worse.”

On cue, thunder rattles the windows and rain hammers the roof like machine gun fire, the wind howling through every crack in the old building.

“The path to my quarters isn’t far,” I continue, “but it’s steep, and these rocks get slippery in the rain. Can you move?”

He shifts, testing his limbs. Even injured, the raw power in those movements is undeniable. “I can manage.”

“Good. Great. Just…” I gesture vaguely at his massive form. “Try to hunch down? I doubt there’s anyone out in this storm, but we still can’t take the chance of being seen.”

His tentacles ripple with what might be amusement. “I assure you, I can be quite discreet.”

He demonstrates by somehow compressing his size—his six tentacle legs coiling and sliding against each other as his body becomes more streamlined, more fluid. His muscular arms fold against his torso as eight feet of predator suddenly becomes something that could slip through narrow spaces. The display of control over his form, the way those powerful muscles flex and contract…

My mouth goes dry, watching him twist and manipulate his shape. The possibilities are endless, aren’t they? And from the knowing glint in his eyes, I’m worried he knows exactly where my thoughts have gone.

“Right.” My voice comes out embarrassingly squeaky. “Yup, that should work. Follow me.”

We make our way outside, back into the relentless storm. The beam of my flashlight barely cuts through the rain, but Roark moves sure-footed beside me. His tentacles grip the wet rocks with perfect precision, and when I slip, one wraps around my waist to steady me.

“Thanks,” I say, trying to ignore how that touch sends heat straight through me.

We reach the lighthouse entrance without incident, though every crunch of gravel sets my nerves on edge. The sounds of the storm should cover our movement, but my mind races with what-ifs.

What if someone’s walking the path despite the weather? What if someone glances out a distant window at just the wrong moment?

I fumble with my keys, painfully aware of Roark’s massive presence behind me. His tentacles curl and shift in my peripheral vision, and even in the darkness, I can see his blood mixing with the rain. He needs medical attention. If I hesitate much longer, he really could be done for.

The key slides home, and I pause with my hand on the doorknob. Behind me stands a creature of myth and nightmare—the kind whose tentacles hang preserved in every pub in town, whose battles with fishing crews fill our local legends. The kind that makes tourists gasp and lean forward when I tell stories about Cape Tempest’s bloody history.

If the town finds out I’m harboring a cthulhu…

But as I glance back at him, those intelligent eyes meet mine, and I see something the stories never mentioned.

Something that makes my pulse race.

And maybe that should frighten me more than anything else about this situation.

I push open the door and let the monster inside.