Page 21 of Captured by the Cthulhu (Monster Mates #3)

Chapter 21

Guardians of the Light

Roark

I coil one of my tentacles around the spiral staircase railing of the lighthouse, feeling the smooth texture against my suction cups as I make my way down.

Six months. Half a year since I nearly bled out on the docks of Cape Tempest, surrounded by a crowd of terrified humans who’d witnessed my true form for the first time. Half a year since everything changed.

“Tour starts in twenty minutes!” Ashe calls from below, her voice echoing up the stairwell. “And don’t forget we need to check the lens rotation mechanism before the afternoon group!”

I suppress a laugh. Ever the professional lighthouse keeper, my Ashe. Even with a cthulhu for an assistant.

“Already inspected it at dawn,” I call back, my voice carrying that slight oceanic resonance that humans find either fascinating or unnerving. “Rotational alignment is calibrated. Though I detected a minor fluctuation in the LED backup system that might warrant investigation.”

From the kitchen comes a noise that sounds suspiciously like a snort. “Show-off.”

I navigate the bottom of the stairs, compressing my bulk slightly to fit through the doorway into the living quarters. Ashe stands at the kitchen counter, hair pulled back in her trademark messy bun, a few rebellious strands framing her face.

She’s sorting brochures for today’s tours, organized in neat stacks that she’ll inevitably have to replenish by day’s end. The morning sunlight catches the auburn in her hair, turning it to fire.

“Simply thorough,” I correct her, extending two tentacles to gently wrap around her waist. “A century at sea teaches one to leave nothing to chance.”

She leans back against my chest. “I suppose that’s why you triple-check the weather reports even though I’ve told you my left knee is a better barometer than any satellite.”

I lower my head, the tentacles of my beard parting as I press my lips against her forehead. “Your knee predicted sunshine yesterday. And yet I distinctly remember rain.”

“A passing shower hardly counts.” She swats at one of my tentacles with a brochure.

This comfortable banter, this… domesticity. Sometimes I still wake expecting to find myself alone in the depths, cold currents my only companion.

Instead, I find her curled against my side, unafraid of the gentle grip my tentacles maintain even in sleep.

Ashe turns. “How do you feel about another elementary school tour next week? I know we just had one, but apparently you’ve become quite the educational attraction.”

I chuckle. “I suspect it has less to do with my extensive knowledge of maritime history and more to do with the children’s fascination that I can touch my nose with all of my eight limbs simultaneously.”

“It’s a rare skill,” she teases, placing her hands against my chest, warm against my cooler skin. “Some might even call it a superpower.”

I enfold her with my arms and four tentacles this time, lifting her slightly off the ground in the way I know she secretly enjoys. “Is that what draws you to me? My tentacular dexterity?”

“Oh absolutely,” she deadpans. “Has nothing to do with your intelligence, kindness, or how you saved an entire boatload of people from certain death.”

“Reassuring.”

Her laugh echoes through the kitchen, bright and unrestrained. That sound—I would brave a dozen more kraken attacks to preserve it.

The lighthouse’s old clock chimes the hour. I reluctantly loosen my hold, allowing her feet to touch the floor again. “Your admirers await, Lighthouse Keeper Morgan.”

“Our admirers,” she corrects, straightening her shirt.

The doorbell chimes. “Right on cue,” I murmur, glancing at the nautical clock on the wall. Eight minutes before the official tour time, which means it’s Mrs. Holloway and her grandson. Always early, always eager to hear whatever new historical anecdotes I’ve prepared.

“There he is!” Timothy exclaims as we open the door. At ten years old, he shows none of the fear many adults still can’t entirely conceal. Instead, his eyes light up with fascination. “Mr. Roark! Did you find any treasures today?”

It’s become something of a tradition—I occasionally bring small items recovered from the seabed during my patrols. Nothing valuable in monetary terms, just curious objects with interesting histories: sea glass smoothed by decades of tides, pieces of pottery from long-forgotten shipwrecks, unusual shells from deeper waters than humans typically explore.

“As a matter of fact,” I reply, reaching into a satchel I’d prepared earlier, “I discovered something rather interesting near Cutler’s Reef.” I extend my hand, opening my palm to reveal a piece of green sea glass, unusually large and perfectly smoothed by the ocean.

“Whoa,” Timothy breathes, accepting it with reverent hands. “It looks like an emerald!”

“That’s what sailors often called them—sea emeralds,” I explain. “This particular piece is likely from a champagne bottle tossed overboard during a celebration nearly fifty years ago.”

Mrs. Holloway smiles indulgently at her grandson. “What do we say, Timothy?”

“Thank you, Mr. Roark!” he says, already examining the glass from every angle. “Can I add it to our collection?”

“Of course. That’s why I brought it.”

More visitors arrive, a steady stream that will continue throughout the morning. Most are tourists, cameras ready, expressions ranging from curious to nervously excited about the lighthouse’s unusual guardian.

Some are locals bringing friends or relatives to meet the town’s most unusual resident. A few are repeat visitors who greet me by name, comfortable enough now to ask questions about my life before Cape Tempest.

I’ve developed what Ashe calls my “tour persona”—knowledgeable, slightly formal, with just enough of my natural intensity to remind people they’re speaking with a creature of the deep, but not so much as to frighten children.

By midday, the tours pause for a lunch break. The visitors disperse to explore the grounds or head into town for meals. Ashe locks the lighthouse door with a sigh of relief, kicking off her shoes as soon as we’re alone.

“Four more tours this afternoon,” she groans, stretching her arms above her head. “Maybe we should hire help.”

“And deprive the public of your unparalleled expertise?” I ask, moving behind her to gently massage her shoulders. “Unthinkable.”

She melts into my touch. “You’re just saying that because you don’t want to train someone new.”

“Perhaps,” I admit. My hands work at the knots in her muscles with practiced precision. “Though I maintain that no one explains the principles of lighthouse operation with your particular blend of technical accuracy and accessible terminology.”

“Flattery will get you everywhere,” she murmurs, eyes closed in contentment.

“I certainly hope so.”

I pause, wondering if now is the time. It feels right, and I make a decision then, one I’ve been contemplating for weeks. “I noticed something unusual with the Fresnel lens during the last tour. Perhaps you should inspect it before the next group arrives.”

She frowns. “The main lens? You didn’t mention that earlier.”

“It developed quite recently,” I say smoothly. The patterns on my skin ripple slightly—a tell she might notice if she weren’t already concerned about lighthouse equipment.

“Why didn’t you just fix it yourself?” she asks, already moving toward the stairs.

I follow her, my tentacles navigating the familiar spiral with practiced ease. “Some matters require the official lighthouse keeper’s attention.”

She throws me a suspicious glance over her shoulder. “Since when do you stand on ceremony?”

“I’m simply respecting the chain of command.”

She snorts but continues climbing. The late noon sun streams through the windows of the lamp room, casting golden light across the massive Fresnel lens that has guided ships safely past Cape Tempest’s treacherous shores for countless years.

Ashe circles the lens housing, her experienced eyes scanning for any irregularity. “I don’t see anything wrong,” she says after a complete inspection. “The lens is clean, alignment looks perfect.” She turns to me, hands on her hips. “What exactly am I supposed to be looking for?”

I move closer, one tentacle gesturing toward the control panel. “Perhaps check the manual rotation override.”

She gives me another suspicious look but turns her attention to the controls. That’s when she notices the small wooden box I placed there earlier, its dark polished surface incongruous among the mechanical components.

“What’s this?” she asks, reaching for it.

I remain silent, my skin illuminating with patterns that reflect my racing heartbeats.

She lifts the hinged lid, then freezes. Inside, nestled on a cushion of deep blue velvet, lies a ring—platinum band inset with a pearl flanked by small sapphires. The pearl has an unusual opalescence, shifting colors in the light filtering through the lens.

“Roark…” she whispers, looking from the ring to me.

I reach forward to lift the ring from its box, holding it delicately between two fingers. “I recovered this from a shipwreck seventy-eight years ago,” I tell her, my voice carrying that deep resonance that emerges when emotion threatens to overwhelm me. “A luxury liner that sank in a storm off Nova Scotia. I’ve kept it safe all these years.”

Her eyes widen, storm-gray and luminous in the golden light.

“Something told me to preserve it, as if I somehow knew it would one day serve a greater purpose than sitting forgotten on the ocean floor.” I extend the tentacle holding the ring toward her. “I’ve kept this treasure safe, knowing someday I’d find someone who shines brighter than any beacon.”

Ashe stares at the ring, then at me, her expression a complex mixture of shock and something deeper.

“In my century of existence, I never imagined finding harbor in another soul,” I continue. “Yet here you are—my lighthouse in human form, guiding me home when I thought no such place existed for one like me.”

I’m not following any human script, no carefully rehearsed proposal. My words come from depths I’ve only begun to explore in these months with her.

“Ashe Morgan,” I say, her name reverberating through the circular room. “Will you navigate the future’s uncharted waters with me? As partners, as equals?”

She reaches out with trembling fingers, not for the ring but for the hand holding it. Her fingers stroke across my sensitive skin, a touch so gentle it sends ripples of light cascading across my body.

“You ridiculous, wonderful creature,” she whispers. “You lured me up here under false pretenses.”

“I deemed it a necessary strategic deception,” I reply, the tension in my voice betraying my nerves.

She laughs then, the sound bouncing off the glass and metal surrounding us. “Yes,” she says, her voice clear and certain despite the tears gathering in her eyes. “Yes, of course I’ll marry you.”

My tentacles move of their own accord, lifting her off the ground in a gentle embrace as I slide the ring onto her finger. It fits perfectly.

“It’s beautiful,” she says, examining the pearl’s unusual shimmer. “I’ve never seen anything like it.”

“Abyssal pearl,” I explain. “Formed in the deepest trenches, where pressure and darkness create something entirely unique. They’re exceptionally rare.”

“Like you,” she whispers, leaning forward to press her forehead against mine.

Above us, the lighthouse lens continues its steady rotation, a constant amid change. Below, Cape Tempest carries on with its afternoon routines, unaware of the moment transpiring in the lamp room. And between us, a promise takes form—as solid as the lighthouse itself, yet as fluid as the sea from which I came.

The light sweeps around us once more, a full revolution completed. One cycle ended, another begun. The perfect symmetry of it strikes me—how lighthouses mark both endings and beginnings, warnings and welcomes, darkness and light.

As I hold her against me in the golden light, I know with certainty that whatever storms may come, we will weather them all.