Page 22 of Captured by the Cthulhu (Monster Mates #3)

Tides of Change

Ashe

The sound of splashing and laughter pulls me from sleep before my alarm does. Sunlight streams through the curtains I forgot to close last night, and I blink blearily at the clock—7:14 AM. Way too early for this much racket.

I drag myself from bed, heading for the window that overlooks the stretch of protected beach below the lighthouse. A smile spreads across my face before I can stop it.

My mom is waist-deep in the tide pool, her silver-streaked auburn hair twisted into a messy braid that’s coming undone in the breeze. She’s pointing excitedly at something in the water while my two-year-old son, James, perches on her hip, his pudgy hands reaching out toward whatever treasure she’s found.

“That’s a channeled whelk,” I can hear her exclaiming, her voice carrying on the morning air. “Different from the knobbed whelk we found yesterday. See the stripes?”

James nods solemnly, his little face serious as he studies the shell. Then, in a move that’s pure Roark, he reaches out with one of his small bluish tentacles to trace the ridges of the shell, completely focused.

The sight still catches my breath sometimes. Our son—a perfect blend of human and cthulhu, with my gray eyes and his father’s iridescent skin that shifts color with his moods.

“You could have slept longer,” Roark’s voice comes from behind me—his tentacles wrapping around my waist as he presses against my back. “Your mother insisted on taking him at dawn. Said something about low tide being the best time for finding gastropods.”

I lean back against his chest. “Of course she did. Nothing comes between Kate Morgan and a teaching opportunity.”

The irony isn’t lost on me. My mother, who spent most of my childhood chasing adventure on various maritime expeditions, now makes her permanent home in the cottage just down the path. All it took was the excitement of having the world’s first known half-cthulhu grandchild.

I lean against the windowsill, watching as James breaks away from Mom to toddle-crawl toward a seagull, his little tentacles working in perfect coordination. The bird eyes him warily before taking off, and James’s face scrunches up in disappointment.

“Your mother seems in her element,” Roark observes, standing beside me now.

“She’s making up for lost time,” I say softly. “With both of us.”

Roark’s hand finds mine, squeezing gently. “She’s remarkably accepting for someone who returned from an expedition to discover her daughter married a sea monster.”

“You’re not a monster,” I say automatically. It’s become a familiar exchange. “You’re just… differently limbed.”

His laugh is a deep rumble, something I feel more than hear. “Speaking of your mother,” he says, nodding toward where Kate is now pointing up at us, waving enthusiastically. “I believe she’s offering us some time alone.”

Sure enough, Mom’s gesturing toward town, then pointing at James, the universal grandmother signal for “I’m taking the little one for breakfast, you two enjoy yourselves.”

“She’s incorrigible,” I mutter.

“I see where you get it,” Roark replies.

As Mom gathers James and their collected shells, heading up the path toward her cottage and, likely, the café in town where Miss Harriet will slip my son extra pancakes because he’s “growing so fast,” Roark gives me a mischievous smile.

“Care for a swim?” he asks.

Three years together, and my heart still skips when his tentacles brush against my skin, gentle but possessive.

“What did you have in mind?” I ask, though the darkening patterns on his skin tell me exactly where his thoughts have wandered.

One tentacle curls around my wrist, as delicate as a bracelet. “It’s been weeks since we had a proper dive,” he says.

“Give me five minutes,” I say, already moving toward the bathroom.

When I emerge in my simple black swimsuit, Roark is waiting by the door that leads down to our private dock—a wedding present from the town council, installed after tourists kept trying to catch glimpses of the famous cthulhu and his human wife.

“Ready?” he asks, extending a hand toward me.

“Always.”

The water is cool but not uncomfortable as Roark guides me out past the sheltered cove. His tentacles support me effortlessly, one wrapped securely around my waist while another brushes the small of my back. The morning sun dapples the surface of the water, turning it into a shifting mosaic of light and shadow.

“Here,” he says when we reach deeper water.

I nod, the familiar flutter of anticipation building in my chest. This ritual has become precious to us—a connection that transcends the physical.

Roark draws me closer, his massive form dwarfing mine as his hand slides up to cup the back of my head. His eyes, ancient and knowing, meet mine.

“Are you ready?” he asks, always so careful, always seeking permission even after all this time.

“Yes,” I whisper, and close my eyes.

Our kiss begins as his tentacle beard parts, revealing his lips beneath. The sensation starts as it always does—his mouth warm against mine as a pressure spreads through my head and down my throat. The essence-sharing is like a dance we’ve perfected, Roark’s consciousness brushing against mine.

I open to him willingly, and the world transforms.

The water no longer feels cool against my skin but welcoming, like returning home. My lungs stop burning for air as the exchange takes effect, allowing me to breathe underwater through our shared connection. When I open my eyes, the murky green-blue of the Atlantic has become a variety of colors—rich violets and pulsing blues that human eyes could never perceive.

“Beautiful,” I say, though no sound comes out. In this state, we communicate through thought and sensation.

Roark guides us deeper, his powerful tentacles propelling us through the water. I feel their strength through our connection, the pure joy he takes in moving through his natural element. It’s intoxicating—the freedom, the weightlessness, the quiet.

We drift down to a small underwater shelf, private and hidden from curious eyes. Sunlight filters down in shattered beams, illuminating the sand beneath us and the colorful anemones that cling to the rock face.

Our place , I think, remembering the first time he brought me here, when the essence-sharing was new and frightening and exhilarating.

His response comes as a wave of affirmation and something deeper—possessiveness mingled with reverence. Through our connection, I feel the thrum of desire building in him, dark and primal.

A tentacle slides along my thigh, the suckers creating a trail of sensation that makes me shiver despite the water’s embrace. Another curls around my waist, and two more gently take my wrists, spreading my arms wide as he brings me to hover before him.

May I? His question ripples through our connection, heavy with want.

My answer requires no words. I project my desire back to him, letting him feel the heat building between my legs, the quickening of my pulse.

The swimsuit is no obstacle for him. One dexterous tentacle finds the edge of the fabric and slips beneath, dragging along my skin with deliberate slowness. I feel him savoring the contact—the silky texture of my inner thighs, the growing slickness that has nothing to do with the water surrounding us.

Through our connection, he can feel exactly what I feel—the electric jolt when a sucker grazes my clit, the spreading warmth as another tentacle slides up my back, under my top, to cup my breast. The dual sensation of giving and receiving pleasure is overwhelming. I arch into his touch, my body weightless in the water, completely at his mercy and glorying in it.

So responsive , he thinks, a note of pride coloring the impression. Always so perfect for me.

The tentacle between my legs grows bolder, tracing my entrance before pushing slowly inside. The intrusion is delicious—filling me perfectly as it undulates in a rhythm designed to drive me wild. Another joins it, twisting against the first, the ridged texture of his skin creating friction that has me gasping underwater.

In our shared consciousness, I can sense his pleasure building alongside mine. The dark patterns on his skin pulse, matching the rhythm of his movements inside me. It’s mesmerizing—watching his body respond to our shared arousal, knowing he feels everything I feel.

More , I project, greedy for the fullness only he can provide.

He obliges, tentacles repositioning me in the water, turning me, spreading me wider. I surrender to the sensation of being completely enveloped by him—surrounded, filled, cherished. His thick cock replaces the smaller tentacles inside me, stretching me while others keep me suspended, playing over every sensitive spot on my body.

The pressure builds quickly, coiling tight in my core as the tentacle inside me somehow finds that perfect spot and focuses there with relentless attention. Through our connection, I feel Roark’s own pleasure mounting, his consciousness flooding with the primal satisfaction of claiming what belongs to him.

Mine , vibrates through our bond, fierce and tender at once. My Ashe. My heart. My home.

The intensity of his emotions coupled with the physical sensations crashes over me, and I come apart in his grip, pleasure radiating outward like ripples in still water. My climax triggers his, and through our connection, I experience the echo of his release—a surge of energy that pulses through all eight of his limbs and leaves him trembling as he fills me to the limit.

For several moments, we drift together in the afterglow, our consciousnesses still tangled, sharing the fading waves of pleasure. Gradually, he loosens his hold, tentacles now cradling rather than claiming.

As our breathing slows and the connection begins to thin, he guides us gently back toward the surface. The ascent is unhurried, his grip secure and protective around me. When our heads break the water, I gasp at the sudden shift back to normal perception—colors less vivid, sounds sharper, the weight of my body more noticeable.

Roark’s tentacles support me as I readjust. He studies my face with those ancient eyes, a smile playing at the corners of his mouth.

“Welcome back,” he says, brushing wet hair from my face with a touch that manages to be both gentle and possessive.

The lighthouse stands tall against the cloudless sky as we swim back to shore, its white tower gleaming in the morning light. Once a symbol of my solitude, it’s now become the center of our unexpected family life.

“I never imagined this,” I say as we reach the shallow water, my feet finding purchase on the familiar sand. “Any of it.”

Roark follows, somehow graceful as he emerges from the sea. Water cascades down his skin, catching sunlight and scattering it in prismatic bursts. “The light guided me to you,” he says simply. “As it will always guide me home.”

Above us, the lighthouse beam makes its steady rotation—a constant reminder of where we began and where we are now. Not alone, but together. Not isolated, but part of something bigger than ourselves.

No longer lost.

Finally found.

The End