Page 7 of Captured by the Cthulhu (Monster Mates #3)

Chapter 7

Captain’s Table

Ashe

After the last tour finally leaves, I drag myself across the short walk to my quarters, feeling like my arms have been replaced with overcooked noodles. My hair has achieved what I fondly call “sea witch chic,” and I’m pretty sure there’s still a piece of dried kelp stuck somewhere in my bun from this morning’s fishing expedition.

The sun’s just starting to set, painting the landscape outside in amber and gold. Usually this is my favorite time of day—when the tourists clear out and I can just watch the light change over the water.

But keeping up appearances while harboring a massive cthulhu is turning out to be an Olympic-level sport, and I’m ready to face-plant into my bed and not move until the lighthouse crumbles into the sea.

The key finally clicks home, and when I push open the door, the smell hits me like a wave. Something rich and garlicky and… edible? It’s definitely not the usual bouquet of instant ramen and regret that perfumes my kitchen.

My stomach growls, reminding me that lunch was a granola bar eaten between tours while trying to convince Mrs. Henderson that no, the lighthouse isn’t haunted, those are just normal settling noises, please step back from the railing.

I kick off my boots, leaving them in their usual heap by the door, and follow my nose toward the kitchen. The floorboards creak familiar hellos under my feet as I round the corner and stop dead in my tracks.

Roark has squeezed his bulk into my narrow galley kitchen, with one tentacle braces against the counter to keep his balance. The sight of him there, domestic and focused, does something funny to my chest.

Four tentacles are busy at my stovetop, while his hands chop herbs I didn’t even know I owned. Another tentacle stirs something that smells divine, and yet another… I lose track of it until it reaches past me to grab a spice jar, the slight brush against my hip making my skin tingle.

“You can cook?” I blurt out.

“I thought you might appreciate a proper meal,” he says. “I started as a cook on a ship, so I know my way around a kitchen. Though, as I’ve perhaps mentioned before, your spice collection leaves much to be desired, so this won’t be my best work.”

“Sorry my kitchen isn’t up to standard,” I say, but there’s no bite to it. I’m too busy watching him work, mesmerized by the fluid grace of his movements, and just how damn good dinner is smelling.

“I found some dried herbs in the back of your cupboard,” he says, a tentacle gesturing to a small jar. “Though I suspect they’re as old as the lighthouse itself.” He then presents me with a wooden spoon in his hand, some kind of sauce gleaming on its tip. Without thinking, I lean forward and taste.

The flavors—garlic and herb—elicits a small sound from my lips. When I open my eyes, I find Roark watching me intensely.

“Good?” he asks with a satisfied smile. The same satisfied smile I saw last night, after…

I simply nod.

“Sit,” he says, interrupting my increasingly heated thoughts. “You look exhausted.”

I sink into one of my mismatched kitchen chairs, the old wood creaking. “Long day,” I admit. “Apparently, everyone and their mother wanted a lighthouse tour today. And their cousin. And their cousin’s roommate’s dog.”

He slides a glass of water in front of me with one hand. The casual domesticity of it catches me off guard, and something hot pricks at the corners of my eyes. When was the last time someone had taken care of me like this?

“You’re crying,” Roark says, alarm coloring his tone. In an instant, I’m surrounded by tentacles, one gently brushing my cheek while others hover uncertainly.

“No, no, I’m fine,” I say quickly, but my voice cracks. “It’s just… No one’s cooked for me since Dad died. I forgot what it felt like to come home to someone.”

His tentacles curl around me, not restraining but supporting, like being held in a gentle embrace.

“My kind are not meant for solitude either,” Roark says quietly, his ancient eyes fixed on me. “We are pod creatures by nature. I recognize the same weight of isolation in you, Ashe.”

Before I can respond, one of the pots boils over and he’s gone from my side, just like that. As he tends to the stove, my gaze drifts to the counter where I spot one of my books laid open—an old volume on maritime history I’d inherited from Dad. “Been doing some light reading?”

“Ah.” Is it my imagination, or does Roark look almost sheepish? “I hope you don’t mind. I found myself curious about your collection. Though I must say, Captain Miller’s account of the storm of 1932 is wildly exaggerated. The waves were thirty feet at most, not the fifty he claims.”

I blink. “Wait, you were there?”

“Mm. Though I was quite young then.” His tentacles wave in what I’m learning is his equivalent of a shrug. “Miller was prone to dramatics, but he was a decent sort. Always left offerings for the sea creatures—bread and wine, very old world.”

I want to ask for more details, but my stomach growls loud enough to probably wake the ghosts Mrs. Henderson was so worried about.

“Goodness,” Roark remarks. “Enough chit-chat. I need to plate your dinner.”

“Yeah, okay,” I concede. “But afterward, you’re telling me more about Captain Miller. And…” I hesitate, curiosity getting the better of my exhaustion. “I’d like to know how you ended up being a sea captain yourself.”

One of his tentacles pauses mid-stir, and something flickers across his expression—nostalgia maybe, or grief. “Oh, that’s a long story.”

“I’m sure it is. But I’d like to hear it.”

He glances back at me, and his tentacle beard lifts in a smile. “Well, all right.” With that, he’s already moving again, plating the tastiest fish I’ve ever seen, complete with some kind of herb sauce.

When he sets the plate in front of me, the presentation is beautiful—the fish nestled on a bed of herbs, the sauce drizzled just so.

He hesitates then, hovering near the counter, his massive form somehow managing to look uncertain. It hits me that this might be the first time he’s shared a proper meal with anyone in… decades?

“Join me?” I motion at the chair across from mine, trying not to think too hard about how this feels weirdly like a date.

His tentacles curl inward, almost shy, before he carefully arranges himself in the chair. It creaks ominously, but holds. “I… haven’t done this in a very long time,” he admits.

“Eaten dinner?”

“Shared a meal.” His ancient eyes meet mine. “With someone who knows what I am.”

Oh. Something warm blooms in my chest, and suddenly I’m aware of how intimate this feels—just the two of us, in my small kitchen, sharing a meal he cooked. The way he’s holding himself, slightly stiff despite his fluid nature, reminds me of first dates and awkward dinners.

And maybe that’s exactly what this is for him. Even when he lived as a human captain, he couldn’t have risked getting truly close to a woman. One passionate moment, one intimate touch, and his secret would have been revealed.

I wonder if he’s ever been able to be with anyone at all, or if last night was as new for him as it was for me, just in a different way.

The thought makes my throat tight—not just the loneliness of keeping everyone at arm’s length, but never being able to experience that basic human connection. Never experiencing what it feels like to be touched by someone who knows exactly who and what you are.

I pick up my fork, needing a distraction. The first bite makes me forget everything else. The fish is perfectly cooked, tender and flaking apart, and the sauce… I close my eyes, savoring it.

When I open them again, Roark is watching me, his skin shifting to deep purples and blues, swirling like ink in water.

“Good?” he asks, sounding adorably hopeful for someone who’s supposed to be a fearsome creature of the deep.

“Good doesn’t begin to cover it,” I say, taking another bite.

He relaxes slightly, then the tentacles of his beard part slightly to reveal his mouth as he takes a bite of his own portion, the movement both fascinating and strangely elegant. “I’m glad my cooking skills haven’t atrophied.”

I try to picture him at a ship’s helm, giving orders, managing a crew. The image comes easier than I expect—he has that air of quiet authority about him, even now. “It must have been strange,” I say carefully, “living among humans like that.”

His eyes drift to the window, where the last light of day paints the sea in gold. “It was… complicated. Necessary, but lonely in its own way. Always holding yourself apart, even when surrounded by others.”

I get that. Maybe not the hiding-your-true-nature part, but the holding-yourself-apart thing? That’s basically been my entire adult life. “Is that why you became a captain? So you could be alone even when you weren’t?”

He looks back at me, surprised. “You’re perceptive, Ashe Morgan.” A tentacle reaches across the table, hesitates, then gently tucks a loose strand of hair behind my ear. “But perhaps we should start at the beginning. You asked how I came to live among humans…”

He settles back in his chair, and I notice his tentacles have stopped their restless movement, going still as he goes deep in thought. Outside, the lighthouse beam sweeps across the darkening water, regular as a heartbeat.

“I was young when I lost my pod to hunters,” he says finally. “I survived only because I was exploring the depths that day, chasing schools of fish around a shipwreck.”

I set down my fork, my appetite wavering at the grief in his voice.

“The deep became my home after that. I learned its ways, grew stronger, but…” He pauses, and I watch emotions play across his features. “A pod creature alone is like a lighthouse without its lamp. It’s there, perhaps, but it’s missing its purpose.”

“How long were you alone?” I ask softly.

“Decades. Until I met Iris one day, when my loneliness brought me to shore.” His expression shifts, warming with the memory. “She quite literally ran into me while swimming away from some trouble she’d caused in a coastal town. As a fairy, I suppose trouble is one of her specialties, but this time she overdid it. I helped her flee their ships, and not long after that, she declared us friends. She was my first friend, in fact.”

I can’t help but smile at that, imagining some fae facing down a young Roark without fear. “She sounds amazing.”

“She was. Is, I hope—I haven’t seen her since the Great Unveiling.” He shifts, and the chair creaks like an old ship. “But back then, she changed everything. She saw how I longed to walk in the world above, to have a purpose beyond mere survival. So she offered me a gift: magical glamour that would let me pass as human.”

“It wasn’t an easy transition,” he continues, and I notice his tentacles have started moving again, but differently now—more purposeful, like he’s recreating memories through motion. “Iris taught me how to walk on legs, how to navigate human customs. I started as a ship’s cook, then a deckhand, learning the rules of ships from the bottom up. But I already knew the sea better than any human captain, could read its moods, predict its tempers.”

I lean forward. “So you worked your way up?”

“Mm. First mate by thirty—human years, that is. Then captain of my own small merchant vessel.” His eyes crinkle at the corners. “The Crown of Nova, we called her. Nothing grand, but she was mine. And for the first time since losing my pod, I had something like a family. Even if they couldn’t know what I truly was.”

The way he says it… I know that tone—that mix of fondness and distance, of belonging, but not quite. It’s how I feel giving tours, sharing my lighthouse with strangers who’ll never understand what it really means to me.

“Did you ever…” I start, then hesitate, not sure if it’s too personal. But the intimacy of the moment, the soft darkness gathering outside, makes me brave. “Did you ever want to tell any of them? About the real you?”

His tentacles go still again, and in the growing dusk, I can see the faint luminescence of his skin casting light on my walls. “No. I kept to my solitude, even among humans. It was safer that way. Easier.”

“Until the Great Unveiling,” I say.

“Until the Great Unveiling.” His tentacle squeezes my hand gently. “When every magical disguise failed at once, I was thankfully at sea. I dove deep and didn’t surface again. I’m sure everyone presumed me dead. An old captain who should have long retired, finally lost to the sea. That is, until…”

“Until you got tangled in those nets and crashed into my boathouse?”

His expression softens. “Until I found someone who saw what I was and helped me anyway.”

He releases my hand, his tentacle sliding away with reluctance that sends a shiver up my arm. The lighthouse beam sweeps across the window again, illuminating his face in rhythmic flashes—vulnerable one moment, shadows the next.

“You’re looking at me strangely,” he says, tilting his head. “Have I something in my tentacles?”

I snort, nearly choking on the sip of water I’d just taken. “No, I just—” I wave vaguely. “It’s weird, right? That you’re here? That we’re just… having dinner like it’s normal, when two days ago I didn’t even know you existed.”

“Does it bother you? The strangeness of it?”

“No,” I answer, surprising myself with how true it is. “It’s actually the least strange I’ve felt in… God, I don’t even know how long.” I gesture at the tight quarters around us, the lighthouse beyond. “Most days, it’s just me and a bunch of tourists who care more about getting the perfect Instagram shot than actually learning anything. Then they leave, and it’s just… silence.”

His eyes—ancient and somehow sad—hold mine. “Loneliness is a curious thing. How it can hollow you out while convincing you it’s your natural state.”

“Exactly.” I run a finger along the edge of my plate, not quite meeting his gaze now. “After Dad died, Mom threw herself into her expeditions. I think being home reminded her too much of him. So I was alone a lot. Then she sold the house, and I just… never found another place that felt like it belonged to me. Except here.”

“The lighthouse.”

“Yeah. It’s weird and isolated and too small, but it’s mine.” I look up, finding him watching me with an intensity that should probably scare me. Instead, it feels like being seen for the first time in years. “So no, the strangeness doesn’t bother me. It’s actually kind of nice to have someone who gets it.”

One of his tentacles reaches up to trace a gentle line along my jaw. Where the suckers touch, my skin burns pleasantly.

“I should return to the sea soon,” he says softly, and my heart sinks at the words. “The risk of discovery grows the longer I stay.”

“Right. Of course.” I fight to keep the disappointment from my voice. “You’re healing well. Another day or two and you’ll be good as new.”

His skin ripples with dark blue patterns, and the tentacle at my jaw curls to cup my cheek. “I didn’t say I wished to go.”

My breath hitches. “Then don’t.”

“Ashe—”

“I mean, not forever,” I say quickly, my pulse hammering in my throat. “Maybe you could split your time. The ocean when you need it, and… and here. Sometimes.”

The tentacle against my cheek trembles slightly. “The town has a history—”

“Screw the town.” The vehemence in my voice surprises us both. “Half those trophies in the pub are probably fake, anyway. And the other half are so old they’re practically fossilized. Things are different now.”

His tentacle beard lifts in what might be hope. “Are they?”

“I don’t know,” I admit, reality taking hold again. “But I’m not ready to… for this to…” I gesture between us, frustrated by my inability to articulate this tangle of emotions I’m feeling. “I’m not ready to go back to that silence. Not yet.”

His pupils dilate, turning his eyes almost completely black. The tentacle at my cheek slides down to trace my collarbone, leaving a trail of heat in its wake.

“Perhaps,” he says, his voice dropping to a deep register, “we should discuss this more… thoroughly.”

I swallow hard, my body already responding to his tone. “Thoroughly sounds good.”

Two of his tentacles slide under the table, wrapping around my ankles with gentle pressure. My heart hammers against my ribs as they glide upward, slow and deliberate, curling around my calves, my knees, my thighs. His eyes never leave mine, pupils expanding until they nearly swallow the gold.

“I’ve thought of little else,” he admits, “since last night.”

The confession makes my breath catch. Last night had been instinct and adrenaline and surprise. This… This is deliberate. This is choice.

“Me too,” I whisper, shivering as one tentacle traces the curve of my neck, the delicate skin behind my ear. Every touch leaves a trail of heat, like he’s marking me from the inside out.

Then, one powerful tentacle wraps around my waist, another sliding beneath my knees, and suddenly I’m airborne—lifted from my chair with a strength that makes something primal unfurl in my stomach. He carries me through my small kitchen like I weigh nothing, taking me toward my bedroom.

And I want nothing more than to surrender to whatever comes next.