Page 5 of Captured by the Cthulhu (Monster Mates #3)

Chapter 5

Feeding Time

Ashe

Last night I dreamed of tentacles. Not the terrifying kind from the stories locals tell over beer—the kind that drag ships into the depths. No, these were gentle, exploratory, leaving trails of electricity across my skin.

I wake up tangled in my sheets, pulse racing, and for a moment I think maybe the whole thing was just a very intense dream.

Then I smell coffee.

And… is something burning?

Reality crashes back: the storm, the injured cthulhu, the way his tentacles… Nope. Absolutely not going down that mental path before caffeine. I need to focus on practical matters, like how I’m harboring a creature that half the town might love to mount on a wall.

I drag myself out of bed, catching my reflection in the mirror. My hair’s escaping its bun in ways that defy gravity, and there’s a small mark on my neck that is definitely from a sucker.

Yeah, guess I’m wearing a turtleneck today.

The smell of burning gets stronger as I shuffle out of my bedroom. When I reach the kitchen, I stop dead in the doorway, trying to process what I’m seeing.

Roark—all eight feet of him—is somehow managing to occupy every inch of my small kitchen. His tentacle legs are everywhere, multitasking with an efficiency that would be impressive if he wasn’t completely disrupting my cooking space.

One tentacle stirs something in a pan while his clawed hands fight with my coffee maker. Two more tentacles are rummaging through my spice cabinet, and I swear another one is… reorganizing my drawers?

“Did you know,” he says without turning around, his voice carrying a formal captain’s tone that does stupid things to my insides, “that your spice rack is criminally understocked? And this coffee maker—” A tentacle waves at the device accusingly. “This belongs in a museum.”

“Hey, that coffee maker has character.” I edge into the kitchen, navigating around his tentacles like they’re just another part of my morning routine. Which they’re definitely not. This is weird. This should feel weird. Why doesn’t it feel weird? “It’s gotten me through countless years of sunrise tours.”

“Character is a polite way of saying it’s ancient.” He finally turns to face me, and my breath catches. In the morning light streaming through the windows, his skin shifts with subtle patterns that remind me of sunlight through waves. The effect is mesmerizing, beautiful in a way that makes my fingers itch to trace each swirl.

Then I notice the way he’s favoring his left side. “Should you be up? Your wounds—”

“Are healing, but slower than I’d like.” His expression shifts to something almost apologetic, reminding me of a guilty dog who got into the treats. “Which brings me to a somewhat awkward conversation.”

“More awkward than finding a cthulhu making coffee in my kitchen?” I move past him to rescue my coffee maker from his grasp, trying not to shiver when one of his tentacles brushes against my arm.

It’s ridiculous how my body remembers every touch from last night, how even this casual contact sends heat crawling up my neck.

He watches me with those deep eyes, and I busy myself with the coffee to avoid meeting his gaze as he begins, “I require a rather substantial amount of food to heal properly. Specifically… fish.”

“Okay.” The coffee maker sputters to life, filling the kitchen with the comforting smell of cheap breakfast blend. “How substantial are we talking?”

“Thirty pounds a day until I’m healed.”

Coffee sloshes over the rim of my mug as I fumble it. “I’m sorry, what?”

“Give or take.” His tentacles curl inward. “My metabolism runs quite hot, especially when healing. I normally hunt in deeper waters, but in this condition…”

I sink into one of my kitchen chairs, mind racing. “Thirty pounds of fish. Daily.” The logistics are already giving me a headache. “I can’t exactly buy out the fish market. This town runs on gossip. If I started procuring industrial quantities of fish, everyone would know before lunch.”

I can already imagine the rumors. The speculation. In Cape Tempest, buying an unusual amount of coffee creamer is enough to fuel a week of theories. Bulk-ordering fish?

Yeah, that won’t go unnoticed.

A tentacle reaches out to steady my coffee mug before I can spill more of it. “I understand if this is too much to ask—” Roark begins.

“No, no, I’ll figure something out.” The solution hits me, and my stomach clenches. “I’ll just have to catch it myself.”

I haven’t been fishing since Dad died. Haven’t even opened the storage locker where we kept the gear. But Dad’s old boat is still in the boathouse, and I know these waters. Know where the big schools run, where the deep channels hold the bigger fish.

“You fish?” Roark asks, and there’s something in his tone—interest? respect?—that makes me straighten.

“Used to. With my dad.” I take a long sip of coffee, letting the familiar bitter taste ground me. “He loved the water. Professionally, he was a diver. But his favorite thing to do was fish… before the accident. He taught me everything he knew about these waters.”

One of his tentacles brushes my shoulder, so lightly I almost think I imagined it. “You don’t have to—”

“Yes, I do.” I straighten up, decision made. “Because unless you’ve got a better idea for feeding a cthulhu in secret, this is our best option. I’ll need to get supplies, though. Bait. New line.” I glance at the clock and groan. “And I have tours starting in two hours.”

His expression shifts to alarm. “Tours?”

Right. We probably should have discussed that part last night. “Yeah, the lighthouse is open to the public three days a week. Today being one of them.” I run a hand through my mess of hair. “So we need to figure out how to handle that too. But first things first. I can’t have you starving to death, and I don’t think my four measly cans of tuna in the cupboard are going to cut it.”

“Well.” His hands and tentacles move with careful precision as he starts cleaning, efficiently managing multiple tasks. “I can stay out of sight. I’m well-practiced at remaining unnoticed.”

I hide behind my coffee cup, needing the barrier. “The tours stick to a set route—lighthouse tower, gallery, museum room. They don’t come into the private quarters, but…”

“But?”

“People get nosy.” I trace the rim of my mug. “Especially about the ‘mysterious lighthouse keeper who lives alone.’” The memory of Mrs. Harrison’s concerned tutting makes me cringe. “Everyone’s got an opinion about it.”

Roark pauses his cleaning, and I feel his focus shift to me. “They disapprove of your solitude?”

“Small town.” I shrug, aiming for casual, even though the judgment still stings. “Being alone is weird enough. Being alone and female? Apparently incomprehensible.”

He’s quiet for a moment, tentacles drawing back as if giving me space. “I… understand something of isolation.” His formal tone carries an edge of something raw. “I wasn’t always alone. Before the Great Unveiling, I maintained a human disguise. Served as a ship’s captain.”

That makes me look up. “You were a captain?”

“For several decades.” His posture straightens, almost proud. “Though I imagine those credentials mean little now.”

The revelation throws me off balance. I keep discovering layers to him, and each one makes it harder to think of him as just some creature I’m helping. “That explains the kitchen efficiency.”

“Running a galley requires organization.” He gestures to my spice rack with what might be disapproval. “Though I had rather more to work with at sea.”

I drain my coffee, forcing myself to focus on practicalities instead of the way his tentacles move with such precise grace. “Right. Well, I should get going. There’s a shop down by the docks—Marina’s. Half bait shop, half coffee spot. Marina’s kind of the town mother figure. Taught me to tie my first fisherman’s knot when I was six.”

“You trust her?” His tentacles curl inward, betraying concern.

“With my life.” I head for my bedroom to change. “But maybe not with the whole ‘hiding a cthulhu’ thing just yet.”

When I return in my turtleneck and jeans, I pause at the door. “Just… stay in the private quarters? Even if you hear voices. There’s always lookie-loos.”

He inclines his head. “Of course.”

I hesitate, hand on the doorknob. “I’ll be back soon.”

His gold-flecked eyes meet mine, and the intensity there makes me forget how to breathe. “I’ll be here.”

As I head down the path toward town, my mind keeps circling back to him. To last night. To this morning. To all the ways this situation is absolutely insane.

And to how, despite this tide I’ve found myself swept up in, I want it to keep pulling me in deeper.

The morning fog hasn’t fully lifted as I make my way down the winding path into town. Sea air mixed with early coffee scents drifts from Main Street, where Cape Tempest is just starting to wake up.

Tourist season is ramping up, and already I spot a few people taking photos of the “Historic Monster Hunter’s Pub,” complete with its wall of harpoons and questionable taxidermy.

I pass the gift shop where Derek is setting up his window display—new shirts with slogans like “I Survived Cape Tempest.” He waves, and I return it automatically, trying not to think about how there’s a cthulhu in my kitchen.

The town’s done its best to adapt since the Great Unveiling. We’ve got a harpy running the post office now, and nobody blinks when the minotaur construction crew works on building repairs.

But there’s still that underlying tension—especially with the older families who made their fortunes hunting sea monsters. They’ve switched to “monster tourism” instead of monster hunting, but those old trophies still hang in their bars.

Roark would hate it here. The thought hits me as I pass The Kraken’s Head Inn, where a particularly garish tentacle display draws tourist photos. All those preserved pieces of sea monsters, treated like decoration. No wonder he hides in the deeper waters.

Last night flashes through my mind—how those same kind of tentacles wrapped around me, gentle and reverent….

“Ashe Morgan!”

I nearly jump out of my skin. Marina stands in the doorway of her shop, arms crossed, looking exactly like she did when she caught me trying to steal candy at age seven. She’s barely five feet tall, but she’s got the presence of a battleship, enhanced by the fact that she’s wearing what looks like three different flannel shirts layered over each other.

“You’re up early,” she says, eyes narrowing. “And heading toward my shop with purpose.”

“Can’t a girl visit her favorite coffee spot?”

“You have your own coffee maker.” She steps aside to let me in, the shop’s bell jingling. “And that look on your face means trouble.”

The familiar smell of coffee and fishing gear wraps around me as I enter. Marina’s is exactly what you’d expect from a bait shop that decided to also serve coffee—hooks and lures hanging from the ceiling, rows of tackle and gear, and somehow the best espresso machine in town. The walls are covered in photos of successful catches, including a few of Dad and me that I try not to look at directly.

“I need gear,” I say, running my hand along a display of fishing line. “Good gear. For serious fishing.”

Marina goes still behind the counter. “You haven’t fished since…”

“Since Dad.” I force myself to meet her eyes. “I know. But I want to start again.”

She studies me for a long moment, then nods once and moves to the gear wall with purpose. “What kind of fishing we talking about? Because if you’re just looking to catch some flounder—”

“Bigger.” I think of thirty pounds daily and try not to wince. “Much bigger.”

“Uh huh.” She pulls down some heavy-duty line. “And this sudden interest in big game fishing wouldn’t have anything to do with the commotion I heard about last night? Boats spotted something huge in the water during the storm.”

My heart stutters. “What?”

“Oh yes.” She tests the line tension with practiced fingers. “Some of the night fishermen came in talking about it. Something massive in the water, fighting with what looked like poacher nets.” Her eyes find mine. “Interesting timing, you showing up here the next morning.”

I try to keep my face neutral, but Marina’s known me since I was in diapers. She and Mom were research partners on maritime archeology projects, hunting shipwrecks all along the Atlantic coast. Back then, Mom balanced it well—a few weeks at sea, then home to us, bringing stories of underwater mysteries and forgotten treasures.

But after Dad died in that diving accident, something in Mom broke. These days, she’s always chasing the next expedition, jumping from research vessel to research vessel. The postcards come from different oceans each time, full of coordinates and compass readings but empty of anything real.

Marina’s the one who stayed, who made sure someone kept an eye on me even after I was old enough not to need it.

Which is exactly why she can probably read my guilt like a newspaper headline. She’s had twenty-eight years of practice.

“The thing about Cape Tempest,” she says, moving to check some hooks, “is that we’re real good at pretending nothing’s changed. Sure, we’ve got out and proud monster residents now, paying taxes, being normal. But those hunting trophies still hang in the bars. Those old families still talk about the ‘glory days’ of monster hunting.” She selects several hooks with clinical precision. “Makes you wonder how many creatures still hide in our waters, afraid to come up for air.”

I swallow hard, really not sure what to say. I want to tell her everything, but I also have to be careful. I can’t be spilling the beans about my new sea monster roommate in less than a day.

Regardless, Marina starts assembling a tackle box with an efficiency that I suspect would impress even Roark. “Anyhow, I’m sure that storm inspired you to see what it stirred up. It’s always good fishing after a storm like that.”

The tension in my shoulders eases slightly. Trust Marina to know exactly what’s going on and give me plausible deniability at the same time.

“Now then.” She sets a truly impressive array of gear on the counter. “Here’s the kind of equipment you’ll need for catching big fish.”

I blink at the pile. I’m going to have my work cut out for me until Roark can hunt for himself again.

“And if you continue needing a suspicious amount of bait every morning, you can count on me to keep it on the down low.”

My throat gets tight. “Marina…”

“Don’t.” She holds up a hand. “The less I officially know, the better. Just…” Her expression softens. “Be careful? The old families might play nice with the local monsters now, but a sea creature? That’s different. That’s their pride on the line.”

I think of Roark’s wounds, his careful movements this morning. “I will.”

“Good.” She hands me the bags. “Now get out of here before the morning rush starts. And Ashe?” I pause at the door. “Your dad would be proud. Of all of it.”

The walk back feels heavier, and not just because of the gear.

Marina’s warning about the old families settles in my gut like lead.

She’s right—the town’s tourist-friendly monster acceptance only goes so far. We had land monsters. Civilized monsters.

Sea creatures, however?

It remains to be seen if they’re still game in some people’s eyes.

But I’ll be damned if I let any harm come to Roark.