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

Chapter 3

Beneath the Surface

Roark

Pain pulses through every inch of my body as I thrash against the nets. The steel-reinforced mesh—specially designed for capturing my kind—cuts deeper with each movement, binding my arms and tentacles in its grip.

Their vessel now lies in pieces on the ocean floor, the humans who dared hunt in my territory feeding the creatures they once sought to capture. Justice, but at a cost. The storm drove me against the rocks, my blood trailing behind me as I desperately sought shelter.

This wooden structure—human-built, reeking of brine and old rope—creaks around me as I collapse onto its floor. My senses, dulled by pain, still register the approaching footsteps through the wooden planks.

Light. Measured. Human. Female. Alone.

I coil tighter, preparing for the inevitable. In my century of existence, I’ve learned what humans do when they encounter my kind. I’ve seen the displays in their establishments—tentacles preserved in formaldehyde, bones mounted like trophies, the macabre celebration of conquest.

The door creaks open.

Rain blows in with her—a small figure silhouetted against the storm. The beam of her flashlight finds my face, and I watch resignation mix with fear in her expression. Her scent reaches me—the salt of the sea, something floral, and beneath it all, the sharp tang of adrenaline.

But she doesn’t run. Doesn’t scream.

Instead, she steps forward. One careful step. Another. Her heart hammers so loudly I can almost taste its rhythm.

“I’m Ashe,” she finally says.

The words hang in the space between us. My mind struggles to comprehend this reaction—this lack of horror, this… introduction. As though we’ve met at some human gathering rather than in the middle of a storm with my blood pooling beneath me.

Her voice trembles slightly, but her gaze remains steady. She stands just beyond my reach—close enough to indicate trust, far enough to suggest caution. A delicate balance.

“What should I call you?” she continues, when I offer nothing in response.

The question stuns me more than any attack could have. In my years hiding among humans, wearing their form like an ill-fitting coat, I never revealed my true nature. And in my natural state, there has been no one to speak with.

I struggle to form words with a mouth better suited to crushing bones than human speech. “R-Roark,” I manage, the sound alien even to my own ears.

She nods as though I’ve said something perfectly reasonable, as though we’re having a normal conversation instead of this bizarre encounter between predator and prey. I could seize her with a single tentacle, could drag her beneath the waves before she drew another breath.

Instead, I lie bleeding on her floor while she asks if she can help me.

Help me.

In a town where they mount pieces of my kind on walls, this lighthouse keeper offers assistance instead of raising the alarm. I should refuse. Should disappear back into the depths. But something in those storm-gray eyes makes me reckless.

“Yesss,” I say, and watch her shoulders stiffen with resolve.

She moves with surprising efficiency, gathering tools and setting up her light. The confidence in her movements fascinates me.

When she approaches with wire cutters, instinct makes my tentacles twitch defensively. She freezes, waiting until I settle before proceeding. Her respect for my boundaries—for my power—stirs something in me I’d thought long dormant.

“I’m going to start with this section here,” she says, her voice even despite the tremor in her hands.

She talks as she works—nervous chatter about lighthouse keeping, about tourists, about sailing documentaries—and I’m entranced not by her words but by the cadence of her voice. How long has it been since someone spoke to me as though I were worthy of conversation?

I study her. The furrow between her brows as she concentrates. The methodical precision of her fingers despite their trembling. The rain-slicked tendrils of auburn hair clinging to her neck. In my century of life, I’ve observed humans from a distance, sometimes walked among them disguised, but never been this close to a female without pretense.

When one of my tentacles brushes against her arm—pure accident, a spasm of pain—her breath catches. The sensation electrifies me, every sucker awakening to the feel of her skin. Warm. Soft. Alive. My body responds with embarrassing eagerness to this simple touch.

“Sorry,” she breathes, misinterpreting my reaction. “Did I hurt you?”

I tap twice against the floorboards. No. Far from it. Each brush of her fingers sends currents through me like deep-sea thermal vents—hot and primal and overwhelming.

My tentacles twitch with unfamiliar impulses—to explore, to taste, to understand these sensations that threaten to drown me. I force them still, though one refuses to retreat entirely from where it touched her arm. Like a compass finding north, it strains toward her.

“I need to disinfect these cuts,” she says, holding up a brown bottle. “And let me tell you, this is definitely gonna sting like a…” she trails off, clearly searching for words.

“A Portuguese Man o’ War, perhaps?” The suggestion rolls off my tongue before I can stop it—an awkward attempt at engagement that surprises us both.

Her eyes widen, and something flashes across her face—surprise that quickly melts into the beginning of a smile. “Yes. Portuguese Man o’ War. Exactly. Stingy. Very stingy.”

She pours the brown liquid onto a clean towel, movements precise despite her nervousness. “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?”

The care in her question stills something wild in my chest. No one has asked me such things, treated me with such… consideration. “Of course,” I hear myself saying. “I trust you.”

From her slight intake of breath, I can tell the words surprise us both. But they’re true. In this moment, with her hands hovering above my wounds and her eyes meeting mine without disgust, I trust her more than I’ve trusted any other being.

When she presses the disinfectant-soaked towel against the first wound, fire lances through me. My tentacles tighten reflexively, coiling against the floor. Yet it’s not the pain that tests my control—it’s her proximity.

The gentle pressure of her hand. The concentration in her eyes. The subtle scents of her body that register each time I inhale.

“So,” she says, working methodically, “do you make it a habit of crashing into random boathouses, or am I special?”

Her attempt at levity catches me off guard. I’ve spent so long either hiding my true nature or being feared for it. This casual banter is… disarming. “I was… pursuing something.”

“A white whale?”

A literary reference. Unexpected. “Poachers,” I explain, unable to keep the venom from my voice. “They were hunting in my waters.”

She pauses, towel hovering above a particularly deep gash. “Your waters?”

I raised one clawed hand, gesturing toward the storm-lashed windows. “I protect this coast.” The admission feels strange on my tongue. I’ve never told anyone of my self-appointed role.

Her eyes widen slightly, and I catch the subtle shift in her perception. I’m not just a wounded creature to her now—I’m a sentinel, a guardian. Someone with purpose. Her hands resume their work, each touch more deliberate than before.

When she reaches the junction where torso meets tentacles—where my skin is thinner, more sensitive—the jolt of sensation proves too much. A tentacle reflexively wraps around her waist.

“Sorry,” she breathes, but she doesn’t pull away. “Did that hurt?”

My pupils dilate as I drink in her nearness, the way her pulse quickens under my grip. “No,” I manage, struggling to keep my voice steady. “Quite the opposite. I’m… exceedingly sensitive in that spot.”

She swallows hard, and I watch the motion of her throat with a fascination that borders on obsession. I’ve never touched anyone like this—never allowed myself such an indulgence. The intimacy staggers me.

Each suction cup registers her warmth through the fabric of her clothing, mapping the subtle contours of her waist. The primitive part of my brain whispers how she’d fit perfectly in my grasp, that my arms and six tentacles could easily explore every inch of her at once.

I force these thoughts down, ashamed of my body’s reaction. She’s helping me—not offering herself as a mate. The distinction matters.

“Listen, these wounds need proper cleaning and bandaging,” she says, her voice carrying a slight tremor. “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.”

Her casual invitation to enter her private space sends an unexpected thrill through me. “You would invite me into your home?” The question escapes before I am able to mask my surprise.

“Well, yeah. Unless you’d prefer to bleed out in my boathouse.” Her attempt at levity doesn’t quite cover her nervousness, but the offer stands. “Besides, the storm’s getting worse.”

Thunder punctuates her words, and rain hammers against the roof. She’s right about the storm—but I’m more focused on how her warmth seeps into my cold skin where we touch.

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

I test my limbs, aware of her eyes on me. Every movement brings a new awareness of her proximity, of how easily I could pull her closer. “I can manage.”

“Good. Great. Just…” She gestures at my form, and I catch how her pupils dilate as she takes in my full size. “Try to hunch down? I doubt there’s anyone out in this storm, but we still can’t take the chance of being seen.”

I compress my form, coiling my tentacles tight—a display of control that makes her breath catch. The sound slides through me like a warm current, making my skin flush with involuntary bioluminescence.

I’ve never had a reason to demonstrate how precisely I can manipulate my form. But watching her reaction—the way her lips part, how her pulse quickens against the tentacle still at her waist—awakens something primal within me.

“I assure you, I can be quite discreet,” I say, and my voice emerges deeper than intended.

The storm hits us full force when we step outside, but I barely notice the rain. All my attention focuses on her—how she navigates the treacherous path, the grace in her movements despite the harsh conditions. When she slips on the wet rocks, I catch her automatically, pulling her closer than strictly necessary.

“Thanks,” she gasps, and the breathy sound makes every suction cup pulse with need.

The journey to her quarters becomes exquisite torture. My wounds throb, yes, but it’s my awareness of her that truly tests me. Her rain-soaked clothes cling to every curve, and I find myself cataloging details I’ve never noticed in humans before—the elegant arch of her neck, the subtle strength in her shoulders, the way her hips move as she walks the winding path.

She fumbles with her keys at the door, and I force my thoughts back to safer waters. But even attempting restraint, my tentacles curl and shift restlessly behind her, betraying my arousal.

When she pauses, hand on the doorknob, I taste her uncertainty in the air. She glances back at me, and something in her expression makes both my hearts stutter. There’s fear, but also curiosity. Interest. The kind of look I’ve seen humans exchange with each other, but never directed at me.

She pushes open the door and steps aside.

“After you,” she says, and with those simple words, she invites a monster into her home.

Ashe guides me through the interior of the lighthouse until we reach another locked door—marked with a sign as the living quarters. Inside, the space is small but orderly, with worn wooden floors and walls covered in maritime charts.

Everything smells of her—lavender and sea air. A living room opens to a practical kitchen, and beyond that, I glimpse a partially open door that must lead to her bedroom.

“The table’s sturdy,” she says, gesturing to a heavy wooden piece that dominates the kitchen. “Can you…?” She trails off, clearly unsure how to politely ask a massive cthulhu to arrange himself on her furniture.

I manage to settle myself across the table without knocking anything over, though barely. The position leaves me feeling exposed, vulnerable—emotions I haven’t experienced since I was a juvenile.

But when she returns with her medical supplies, the gentle determination in her expression makes something warm unfurl in my chest.

“This needs stitches,” she says, examining the deepest gash. Her fingers probe the wound with clinical precision, but every touch sends sparks through my nervous system. I’ve never been handled like this—with care, with purpose, with such maddening gentleness.

She threads a needle, and I brace myself. Not for the pain—I’ve endured far worse—but for the intensity of having her work so close, touching me so intimately. My tentacles curl and uncurl with anticipation.

The first stitch makes me jerk, tentacles lashing out. She flinches back, fear spiking in her scent, but then she forces herself to continue. The courage in that small action undoes me.

“Sorry,” she murmurs. “I know it hurts, but we need to close this.”

She’s apologizing to me. To me . When I’m the one who scared her, when I’m the monster from her town’s darkest legends.

The absurdity of it, the sheer impossible kindness, makes my hearts clench.

To distract us both, she talks while she works. Her voice washes over me like warm currents as she describes life in the lighthouse, the isolation, the judgment from others. “I mean, what kind of woman actually wants to live alone in a lighthouse, right? Probably the kind no one wants around, anyway.”

The self-deprecation in her tone stirs something protective in me. Without conscious thought, one of my tentacles hover around her waist, and when she bends, her shirt hitches up, exposing just an inch of skin. One sucker brushes up against it, and the contact is electric. I yank back quickly, nearly knocking over a jar of sea glass in my haste.

But instead of fear or disgust, Ashe’s lips quirk into a small smile. “Your suckers are cold,” she says softly.

The simple observation, delivered with such casual acceptance, threatens to undo a century of careful control. I want to pull her closer, to show her exactly what these suction cups can do, how they can warm up with use. I want to—

Her fingertips trace the edge of my wound, and I fight to keep my tentacles still. When she leans closer to tie off a stitch, her scent floods my senses. The urge to taste her skin, to learn if she’s as sweet as she smells, nearly overwhelms me.

“So,” she says, working steadily despite the slight tremor in her hands, “you’re not what I expected. The stories about cthulhus… They always made you sound more…” She trails off, presumably searching for a polite way to say ‘murderous.’

“Monstrous?” I offer, watching how her pulse jumps in her throat when I speak. The sight makes my tentacles twitch with the urge to explore that delicate skin. “We can be. But you’re not what I expected either.”

“Oh?” Her fingers hover over my wound. “And what did you expect?”

“Screaming. Running. Perhaps attempting to mount my tentacles on a wall.” My attempt at humor draws a surprised laugh from her, and the sound does dangerous things to my control. “Instead, you’re stitching me up in your kitchen.”

“Yeah, well.” She resumes her work, but I catch how her cheeks flush. “Maybe I have a thing for strays.”

If she only knew what that blush does to me, how it makes me imagine other ways I could make her skin pink.

She shifts to reach a particularly awkward angle, and her hip presses against where my tentacles meet torso. The contact sends a jolt of pure need through me, and without thinking, three tentacles curl around her waist and legs. Not threatening—but possessive in a way that surprises even me.

“Sorry,” I manage, though I make no move to release her. “The position is… awkward.”

“It’s fine.” Her voice comes out breathy, and I detect a spike of something in her scent that isn’t fear. “Whatever makes you comfortable.”

Comfortable is not the word I’d use. Not when I can feel her warmth through my suckers, taste her growing arousal in the air.

My kind can sense such things—chemical changes, subtle shifts in body temperature, the flutter of pulse beneath skin. The knowledge that she’s affected by my touch, even unconsciously, makes my hearts race.

I wonder if she knows what she’s doing to me. If she understands that every gentle touch, every careful stitch, is dismantling years of isolation. That her simple acceptance of my true form is more intoxicating than any siren’s song.

“Almost done,” she murmurs, leaning in to tie off the last stitch. Her breath ghosts across my skin, and my bioluminescence flares in response. She pauses, fascinated. “That’s beautiful.”

The word makes me grow still, almost bashful.

Beautiful. No one has ever used that word for my true form. I’ve been called terrifying, monstrous—but never beautiful. My tentacles tighten instinctively around her waist, drawing her closer.

“You,” I say roughly, “are either very brave or very foolish.”

Her lips curve into a smile. “Probably both. But you’re not going to hurt me, are you, Roark?”

The way she says my name, with such simple trust… It unravels something deep inside me. “No,” I promise. “Never.” And I mean it with every cell in my body.

When she finally ties off the last stitch, I feel a pang of loss.

But I’ve already stolen so much of her night. “You’ve been too generous. I have nothing to give in return.” It’s almost shameful to admit. I, who have defended these waters for years, have nothing to offer this woman who has given me her time, her skill, her trust.

She studies me for a moment, those stormy eyes seeing more than I want to reveal. “You don’t have to be alone, you know.”

The words hit me like a depth charge. In a century of solitude, I’ve never considered that someone might not want me to be alone. That someone might see my isolation as something painful, something to be eased.

That someone might care, even if she might only see me as an injured creature she needs to help.

“I mean it.” Her voice is soft but steady. “You don’t have to leave. At least not until you’ve recovered.”

I want to accept her offer. I want to stay here, basking in her presence. But the thought of having nothing to offer in return…

“I’ll stay,” I say, “on one condition.”

She raises an eyebrow. “Which is?”

“Allow me to repay your kindness.”

Ashe hesitates. “You don’t need to give me anything.”

“No, I don’t need to. But I want to.” I lean forward, letting my bioluminescence flicker brighter. “I want to show you how grateful I am.”

Her breath catches, and I can smell her arousal spike. “How… How do you mean?”

I extend a tentacle, brushing the underside of her jaw with my suckers. “Well…”

Her eyelids flutter shut as my suckers explore her skin, tracing the delicate line of her throat, dipping into the hollow at its base. She shudders at the sensation, before suddenly backing away, her cheeks flushed. “That really isn’t necessary. I-I don’t want you to think you owe me anything.”

I withdraw my tentacle, puzzled. “I don’t feel indebted. I simply wish to express my appreciation.” I pause, considering how to explain. “My kind… We’re tactile creatures. We communicate through touch. And we show gratitude the same way.”

Ashe blinks. “Through touch?”

“Yes.” I extend my tentacle again, slowly, giving her time to pull away. When she doesn’t, I brush her cheek with my suckers. “By showing you pleasure.”

Her breath hitches, and her pupils dilate. “Pleasure?”

I nod. “If you’ll allow me.”

She hesitates for a moment longer, then exhales shakily. “This is crazy. I’m… God, have I lost my mind?”

And yet, she doesn’t back away, as if waiting for me to convince her.

I lean in, letting my light patterns paint her skin in shifting colors. “Do you want me to stop?”

She swallows hard, then shakes her head. “No.”

“You’ve been alone for a while now too, haven’t you?” I murmur, tracing the curve of her ear with a tentacle. “Perhaps we can ease each other’s loneliness.”

Her eyes drift shut, and she tilts her head, exposing her throat to me. “Wow,” she whispers, a smile playing at her lips. “I knew you’d be dangerous. Just not like this.”

And as I wrap around her, I realize the most dangerous part isn’t what I might do to her—but what she’s already done to me.