Page 6 of Captured by the Cthulhu (Monster Mates #3)

Chapter 6

Keeper’s Quarters

Roark

I watch Ashe’s form disappear down the winding path to town, my hands pressed against the window glass until she vanishes around the bend. The morning sun catches in her auburn hair, making it flame like the beacon above us.

Strange how quickly one small human can become the center of my world.

When I turn back to survey her quarters, the space seems both cozy and confining. My tentacles, still tender from the nets, brush against worn furniture and weathered walls as I navigate the room.

Everything here speaks of practicality, of a life lived in service to the sea. Not unlike my old captain’s quarters…

The kitchen catches my attention first. Her spice rack is a sorry affair—salt, pepper, and what appears to be ancient oregano. The coffee maker might be older than she is. I tap it with a finger, remembering the gleaming brass contraption I once had aboard my ship. Perhaps, when I’m healed, I could—

But no. Best not to think too far ahead.

Still, I can’t help but notice all the little touches that make this space hers. A collection of polished sea glass arranged by color on the windowsill. A mug decorated with lighthouse puns. Dog-eared books about maritime disasters and history stacked on every available surface.

The books draw me in. I trail a finger along their spines, surprised to see some titles that I recognize from my captain days, though these editions are much newer.

Others are clearly recent works about the Great Unveiling and its aftermath. One volume about deep-sea creatures is marked with dozens of colored tabs. I ease it out, curious about what she’s flagged, only to find my own species mentioned. Her neat handwriting fills the margins: “Actual size??? Check town records re: 1943 sighting.”

My hearts quicken. She’s been researching us. Researching me, perhaps, though she couldn’t have known she’d end up harboring a cthulhu in her home.

The thought makes my skin ripple with patterns—a reaction I quickly suppress. Even alone, old habits die hard.

A framed photograph catches my eye, and I carefully return the book before moving closer. It shows a younger Ashe in diving gear, posed beside a woman who must be her mother. They share the same stormy eyes, their skin sun-browned, both grinning, both clearly in their element near the water.

Looking at their easy companionship, I wonder about Ashe’s solitude here. A woman like her—fierce, capable, with a wit sharp as a marlinspike—surely had her choice of companions.

Yet she keeps to herself in this tower, watching over waters that have taken as much from her as they’ve given.

Perhaps that’s why she helped me. She knows what it is to be caught between land and sea, between solitude and belonging.

The photograph slips from my hands as voices drift up from below—tourists gathering early for the morning tours. My body instinctively compresses, an old reflex from years of hiding. The sound carries clearly through these old walls, reminding me that discovery lurks around every corner.

It’s almost amusing being forced into hiding again. Almost. I spent years after the Great Unveiling in my secluded cabin, watching ships pass from behind drawn curtains, missing the days when magic let me walk among humans as their equal. As their captain, even.

Now here I am, crouched in a lighthouse keeper’s quarters, trying not to knock over her pottery with my tentacles.

At least the cabin has space. Her quarters, though charming, weren’t built with eight-limbed occupants in mind. I adjust my position for the dozenth time, careful not to disturb the stitches Ashe had so delicately placed.

And that is when my tentacle brushes the table where Ashe and I… Where we…

Gods of the deep. Even thinking about last night makes my skin flash with patterns.

I press a tentacle to my face, embarrassed by my own thoughts. Years of solitude did nothing to prepare me for the way she responded to my touch, the sounds she made when my suckers found sensitive skin, the trust in her eyes even as my limbs wrapped around—

A book tumbles from the shelf, startled loose by my unconsciously moving tentacles. I catch it before it hits the floor, my captain’s reflexes still sharp after all these years.

“Mysteries of the North Atlantic,” the cover reads. Of course she’d have this. Of course she’d be drawn to the very waters that claimed her father.

I return the book to its shelf, only to discover a well-worn paperback tucked behind it. “The Captain’s Tempestuous Heart,” declares the cover, featuring an impossibly muscled man in a period naval uniform embracing a woman in a billowing dress. The pages are creased, the spine cracked from multiple readings.

Well, well, well.

I flip through it carefully, amused by the dramatic declarations of love amid historically inaccurate sailing terminology. No captain worth his salt would ever describe the sea as “a tender mistress awaiting his firm hand.” The ocean suffers no masters, tender or otherwise.

Still, I’m oddly touched that Ashe harbors such romantic notions beneath her practical exterior. Does she imagine herself the heroine in these tales?

My enhanced hearing picks up voices from the shoreline below—tourists, by their eager chatter about tide pools. I drift to the window, and sure enough, a small group clusters around the rocks far below, pointing at something in the water. Even at this distance, their presence sets my skin rippling with unease.

These past years since the Great Unveiling have been an exercise in invisibility. When the magic failed and my human disguise melted away, I retreated to my cabin deep in the coastal wilderness.

Gone were my days as Captain Roark Sterling, respected navigator of the Atlantic trade routes. Gone were the evenings at port, sharing tales with fellow captains who never suspected their colleague was anything but human.

Even Iris, the fairy who’d gifted me that glamour so long ago, couldn’t help when the magic collapsed. She had originally found me in my darkest days after losing my pod as an adolescent, and offered me a chance at a human life in exchange for helping her with her own troubles.

Neither of us expected the Unveiling to shatter all magical disguises at once.

I trace the window glass with a tentacle tip, watching the pattern of light shift through the sea-weathered pane. Beyond lies the ocean, my true home, my territory. Yet for the first time since losing my human form, I find myself wanting more than just the sea’s company.

When I’m healed, perhaps Iris can help again. She’s always had a soft spot for outcasts like myself, though we’ve lost touch since the Unveiling threw the magical community into chaos. Until then—

The sound of approaching footsteps draws me from my reverie. Two sets—one light and familiar, the determined stride I already associate with Ashe, and another that stirs something deep in my memory. A man’s voice carries through the door, cultured and smooth in a way that makes my suckers contract involuntarily.

“At least let me help you carry those supplies up, Miss Morgan.” The tone is solicitous, but there’s an underlying note that sets my guard up—like the false calm before a storm.

“Really, Sebastian, I’ve got it handled.” Ashe’s voice holds forced politeness, the kind I remember using in port when dealing with particularly persistent harbor officials. “And you know the living quarters are off-limits.”

Sebastian. It couldn’t be… After all these years…

“Of course, of course. Though I do hope you’ll consider my proposal about expanding the maritime exhibits here. The tourism board has been quite impressed with similar installations in other lighthouses along the coast—”

“I’ll think about it,” Ashe cuts him off, her words clipped. “Thanks for the offer. Really.”

The door opens with a protesting creak, and Ashe practically dives inside, pressing her back against it as if barricading herself from unwanted attention. Her arms are laden with brown paper bags from the market, and her cheeks are flushed with frustration rather than exertion. She blows a stray strand of hair from her face and lets out a long breath that seems to deflate her entire body.

“Everything all right?” I ask, keeping my tone neutral despite the curiosity burning through me. The urge to probe deeper wars with my instinct to protect old secrets—not all of them my own to reveal.

“Just the museum director being… persistent.” She sets down her bags with more force than necessary, and several apples try to make a break for freedom. I catch them with a quick tentacle as she continues, “Sebastian Walsh practically ambushed me at the market. He’s always trying to get more involved with the lighthouse operations. As if I haven’t been managing fine on my own for years.”

I carefully school my expression, though my tentacles curl tighter against my body, betraying my unease. Sebastian Walsh. It is him, then. The same man who… but no.

This isn’t my secret to share, and revealing his true nature would only complicate matters.

“Sounds rather forward of him,” I offer instead, moving to help her with the bags. My tentacle brushes her hand as I lift them, and we both pause at the contact.

The touch lingers, neither of us pulling away immediately. Her skin is cool from the morning air, and I can feel her pulse quicken where my sucker rests against her wrist.

Ashe clears her throat and busies herself with unpacking the supplies, though her movements aren’t quite as steady as usual. “I got what I could from the market to supplement whatever I can catch—about fifteen pounds of fish. Mostly cod and haddock.” She gestures to the largest bag, trying to maintain a professional demeanor that’s betrayed by the slight flush creeping up her neck. “It’s not enough for a healing cthulhu, though, is it?”

“It’s more than generous,” I say, though we both know it isn’t sufficient. My kind requires substantial sustenance to heal, especially from wounds as severe as these.

“I’ll head out now and catch the rest.” She moves to a cabinet, pulling out well-worn fishing gear that speaks of years of use. “Dad’s old boat is still seaworthy, and I know where the best spots are. He taught me every hidden reef and sandbar in these waters.”

Her voice catches slightly on ‘Dad,’ and every part of me wants to comfort her. Instead, I say, “You needn’t go to such trouble. I can manage with—”

“Don’t you dare say you can manage with less.” She whirls to face me, gray eyes flashing with that fierce determination I’m growing dangerously fond of. “You’re healing. You need proper nutrition. And I won’t have you stuck eating whatever scraps I can scrounge from the market.”

The protectiveness in her voice makes my skin patterns ripple. “Your kindness continues to humble me,” I say softly, watching as she checks her gear with the expertise of someone born to the sea. “Though I worry about drawing attention to your fishing activities.”

“Let me worry about that.” She tests the tension in her line with practiced fingers. “Besides, I’ve been meaning to get back out there. It’s… It’s time.”

Understanding flows between us like a current. I know better than anyone that healing requires facing what we’ve lost.

“When things settle down,” she adds, shouldering her tackle box, “I’d love to hear some stories from your captain days. Bet you’ve seen some interesting things out there.”

“More than a few,” I admit, admiring how naturally she moves with the weight of her gear. “Though I suspect you have quite a few tales of your own. The sea doesn’t give up its secrets easily.”

“Nothing like commanding a merchant vessel, but I’ll trade you story for story sometime.” Her smile holds a warmth that makes my hearts stutter. “I’ll be back in a couple of hours. That should give me enough time to catch what you need and still prep for the noon tours.”

She pauses at the door, expression turning serious. “Just… Stay quiet up here while I’m gone? And when I return, remember the tours don’t come through the private quarters, but sound carries in this old building.”

“I remember well how to keep secrets,” I assure her, though my tentacles betray my concern for her safety by reaching toward her. “Be careful out there. The morning tide can be treacherous.”

“Always am.” Ashe gifts me one last smile before slipping out the door, leaving me with the lingering scent of salt air and the warmth of her regard.