Page 52 of Holiday Wishes and Tentacle Dreams
“You deserve to be treasured,” Doren continued, “and I’ll prove it to you every day until you no longer question it, until you wake up every morning certain of your worth and of your place by my side. I promise.”
Jake seemed as if he was about to reply, but after a moment his mouth snapped shut, and he leaned his head back against Doren’s.
That was where Jake belonged. And if Doren had their way, Jake would never have reason to question it.
Chapter Seventeen
JAKE
The sun had been up for many hours when Jake finally arose the next day. For the first time in a long time, sleeping in didn’t feel like lethargy, or a desperate escape from the idea of life. Instead, he was simply exhausted from ocean sex with his tentacle lover.
Doren had worn him out, and he deserved the extra minutes of rest.
He floated, drifting in and out of a shallow sleep as the bright morning sun kept him from losing himself completely in slumber. He only came to when a horrific, inhuman yowl reached his ears. Any peace he had achieved shattered into a million pieces.
It was Miranda Priestly, that much was clear, but beyond that he was very confused.
Slapping the bed next to him, Jake found only empty sheets. Doren was gone. They’d probably gotten up early to start the coffee and breakfast as they often did.
“Begone, you foul thing, or I’ll put arsenic in your tuna!”
Well, that was definitely a man’s voice, rough and elderly, which meant there were people in the house that he didn’t know. He would have to save Doren and MP from whatever geriatric intrusion was happening on the first floor.
When he arrived at the top of the stairs, however, the tableau greeting him was a lot more serious than he’d expected. A wrinkled, silver-haired man in a deerstalker, pipe in his mouth as though he were doing Sherlock Holmes cosplay, was backed into a corner of the living room. In his hand was?—
Shit, he was pointing a fucking gun at Miranda Priestly! Ornate and antique-looking, it may not have been used in half a century, but it was definitely a gun.
The cat, for her sake, appeared undaunted by the weapon, hissing and screaming at the old man. She arched her back as she eyed him, her claws digging into the hardwood floor.
But what worried Jake more than 100-year-old Sherlock was Doren. They were plastered against the kitchen counter, their hands gripping it so hard their knuckles had turned white. Dispersed throughout the rest of the first floor, staring intently at the old man and the cat, were three more elderly people, all women, one of whom was Dorothea.
Who waslaughing.
Before Jake could demand explanations, Pipe Guy called out across the house to Doren in the kitchen.
“Call off your fiend, sea monster! We won’t allow you to sully the waters of Linwood Falls any longer!”
Jake reeled at the words. What the hell?! How had they found out what Doren was? They’d been careful. Well, mostly. Regardless, Doren had done nothing to warrant this.
He needed to intervene before it became more of an incident than it already was. Jake headed down the stairs, but before he could speak, Dorothea was chiding Sherlock.
“Be quiet, you old coot!” Her bent, arthritic finger pointed at the elderly man with the pipe. “Doren is a lovely person. We’re not here to attack anybody.”
For a second, the righteous indignation flickered away on the old man’s face, but as Miranda Priestly batted at him with her clawed paw, it came flaring back.
“The thing’s an abomination! We have to?—”
“We’re not doing anything about anything.Youwill not say a word unless you want me to cut off your pie supply.” The other two elderly women glanced at each other, worry on their faces, as if Dorothea had suggested a devastating punishment.
“But Dot?—”
“No!” Dorothea stalked over to him, her steps strong and even for someone in her golden years, and grabbed the gun out of Sherlock’s hand without a hint of fear in her eyes.
“I mean it, Horace,” she continued. “If you say anything else, I’ll never make you another pie. You can kiss your strawberry rhubarb addiction goodbye.”
The old man’s—Horace’s?—shoulders slumped as she reiterated her threat.
“Okay,” he mumbled. Dorothea reached down and scooped up Miranda Priestly, holding the cat up under her chin and speaking in a low, soothing tone.