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20

Cindi

Breathe.

It’s not Tommy.

My house is inside a cave.

One minute, I’m asleep on a bed of moss—which isn’t as comfortable as being all cocooned by Ordus—and the next, I awake to clattering in the main cavern.

I thought I’d find a brigade of Gallagher men with weapons trained on me while Tommy does his bloodcurdling, sadistic laugh.

I imagine the gleeful pity in his eyes as he berates me for being caught.

He’d hold up the knife I stabbed him with and promise to use it on me.

But none of those things happened.

Apparently, I’m well and truly moving in.

My luggage is here, bedside table, bookshelf, more food, the car tire that has a slow leak, a couple plastic bags with stuff inside, tools, nuts and bolts, a stud finder near the pool, the cushion that was on my sofa, the sofa pillows themself.

The gun trembles in my hand as I drag my eyes over Ordus and the items.

Not Tommy.

I blow out a ragged breath and tuck the gun in the waistband of my shorts.

“You brought me my things.” It’s obvious.

There’s no point saying it.

But he’s barely acknowledged my presence, and it feels—wrong, like I made a mistake somehow and I need to fix it.

Ordus gives me a sideways glance and grunts, using a single tentacle to suction onto a bookshelf and move it to a solid surface.

What I should be asking is how in the fuck he brought it all here without getting a single drop of water on it?

And, follow-up question: why didn’t I get the dry mode of transport option?

I’m ashing up like a motherfucker from living life like a drenched sea rat.

Oh, right, and lastly, why are my things here?

But he still doesn’t say anything, doesn’t look at me.

His shoulders are stiff, muscles bunched, vibrating with an emotion I can’t pinpoint.

My anxiety spikes.

That’s fine.

It’s fine. Ordus hasn’t hit me or yelled at me.

Just because he’s giving me the cold shoulder doesn’t mean anything.

Sometimes, no attention is good attention.

It means I’ll be left to my own devices.

Or it means that whatever is wrong will fester.

“How did you get all of this here?” I settle on.

Baby steps. We’ll get to the bigger issues eventually.

My muscles scream with each incremental movement from yesterday’s events.

“Boat.”

And we couldn’t have boated me around?

I take a deep breath.

Fine. Next question.

“Why?”

He doesn’t grace me with attention when he throws over his shoulder, “For our den.” No further detail.

No follow-up explanation.

Just, it is what it is .

My hackles rise. What’s gotten him in a mood?

He stills and casts a careful glance my way as he very obviously lowers himself to the ground to make himself smaller.

He can do that all he wants; the scowl betrays him.

The stone floors shift to eggshells, and the grey walls turn into the alabaster white of the mansion.

I dip my head on instinct to avoid furthering his…

irritation? Anger? Disgust?

Averting my gaze to my water shoes, I shuffle to the opposite side of the cavern where my luggage is, always keeping my front facing him.

As if a couple yards is going to mean anything.

But this is Ordus. My supposed mate.

A monster who is apparently the king of the Dead Lands.

He won’t hurt me.

No matter how many times I tell myself that, I don’t find myself relaxing as my stiff muscles tug at the zipper.

The glowing algae casts a bluish light on the hardcase luggage I bought for ten bucks at the market.

I grab the water bottle from inside and gulp the whole thing before reverting my attention back to the contents of the bag.

It takes me a second to process everything, but once I do, I almost burst out laughing, forgetting I’m meant to be frightened.

All my skincare is there.

A paintbrush. Whiteboard marker.

Sunglasses. My Bluetooth speakers.

A fake Chanel handbag.

The generator I was fixing.

Multivitamins I opted not to bring.

A raggedy hoodie that’s three sizes too big.

Tablecloth. The Bulbasaur squishy Nat gave me for some reason.

Books. Measuring tape.

A spare PopSocket. The tennis ball I use to help undo knots in my back.

A scrunchie. My dil?—

My cheeks burn bright red, and I quickly cover the dildo with one of my clothes.

“What is that?”

I yelp, clambering away.

When did Ordus move so close?

His brows pull into a frown, and he moves into the kraken version of sitting on the other side of the luggage.

The stray tentacle instantly reaches for me, and one of the other ones snatches it back before it makes it beyond the makeshift barrier between us.

“Nothing,” I say quickly, cheeks heating.

No follow-up questions, please.

“It is a tentacle.” A hint of uncertainty trickles into his nonquestion.

I blanch white. “Yup.”

He keeps glancing between me and the sleep shirt the blue dildo hides under.

“What is it for?” His voice echoes against the cave walls.

Is he kidding me? “None of your business.”

It’s hard to be frightened of him when he seems so genuinely perplexed about the silicone, uh , appendage in my luggage.

The luggage he filled himself.

Which means his large, thick hands have touched it.

I chastise my perverted brain, because the first thing that comes to mind is wondering which is bigger: the ten-foot monster’s hand, or the thing that’s been my only source of action in over a year.

Ugh. I’ve only used it like four times max.

I just bought it about a month or two ago.

I’ve been too unnerved about putting anything in me, and I figured if it didn’t look remotely human, maybe that would trick my brain into being more receptive to—I don’t know—reclaiming my sexuality, I guess.

And now, he knows about it—the creature those dildos are vaguely fashioned after.

I want to crawl into a hole and die.

“Are humans aware krakens exist?”

Wait.

He seriously has no idea.

Fuck, his mind is going to blow once he hears about hentai and the romance books I’ve been reading.

“No.” I don’t think so, at least. If America knew, I’m pretty sure they would have figured out how to drain the ocean and twist it to say they were protecting democracy by now.

Ordus nods at the luggage.

“It smells like your sex.” He says it so innocently.

Jesus H Christ.

“Too far. Boundaries,” I snap.

I’m burning up. I feel red from my hairline to my toes.

“We are not talking about my—what’s between my legs.”

His gaze drops to the area in question, and I squirm.

Wearing shorts wasn’t a good idea.

That perplexes him even more.

“I like what’s between your legs. The human music on the beach always mentions the female?—”

“ Boundaries, ” I repeat.

This conversation is physically paining me.

And because my mind is a traitorous bitch, she’s decided to remind me how it felt to stretch around the base of the dildo, and she’s taking it a step further by replacing blue silicone with Ordus’ brown, spotted tentacle, the same stray tentacle fighting tooth and nail to break free from his hold to get to me.

By a stroke of pure weakness, I fall for the compulsion to look at his ocean blues, and I wish upon everything I never did.

Stormy black has eaten every drop of clear seas, ready to devour me whole.

They’re heated and starved, a beast pulling on his last thread, ready to pounce.

His nostrils very obviously flare, and his eyes flicker to my thighs and back.

He—fuck, can he smell when I’m aroused?

My gaze darts to the tentacle leaking an iridescent liquid onto the stone floor.

Try as I might, I can’t help but squeeze my legs together.

I’m telling myself it’s to conserve the modesty I left dead alongside Tommy, but I’m well aware at a certain angle, the pressure from the seams of my shorts pushes just right and feels a little too good to be acceptable.

“Are you a witch?”

My jaw drops.

“ What? ”

“You have potions like our healer,” he says cautiously, nodding at the skincare products in my luggage.

I say a silent thank you to whoever is listening for getting Ordus to change the subject.

I pick up the white dropper bottle.

“This?” He tips his head in confirmation.

“It’s…”

Am I really about to explain my skincare routine to him?

I suppose someone would’ve accused me of witchcraft for it two hundred years ago if they saw it.

“Niacinamide,” I read out the label.

“It’s for, uh—” I don’t remember.

Someone recommended I use it, and I did.

“Pigmentation. I think.”

He looks at the other bottle at the top of the bag, a silent question.

This one, I know. “That’s hyaluronic acid to hydrate your skin.”

Tommy practically forced me to get beauty treatments—Botox, dermablading, LED therapy, IPL, facials, the works.

Early on, if I ever refused or pushed back, he’d subtly compare me to the other Gallagher women.

They do it , so I should.

Lily’s thirty-five with two kids, but she looks like she’s in her early twenties.

Olivia’s on baby number three, and she’s making sure she’s on top of her figure.

Well, why would I be selfish and inconsiderate regarding my body when Tommy’s the one who had to have me by his side at events?

Aren’t I embarrassed?

Don’t I care? He’s doing this for me, not him.

It’s because he loves me.

He cares about me.

I grind my molars.

Fuck you, Tommy.

“So the potion is like water on your skin?”

“I, uh, guess so?” I’m not about to explain the science about it.

I couldn’t if I tried.

I could spend hours explaining to him what robots and aliens are, but I highly doubt he knows what they’d mean.

“What is this for?”

It takes me a second to get my bearings over Ordus changing the subject again.

His attention is cast toward the bag, almost—regretful?

I don’t let myself read into it.

I follow the line of his pointer finger to the red satin scrunchie.

Is he oblivious, or does he not visit land often?

He must spend enough time around my kind if he knows our music, but somehow, he doesn’t know we eat and drink different things?

It’s hard to wrap my head around.

He doesn’t strike me as the people-watcher type.

The Gallagher head of security was broody as hell and wouldn’t talk much, but Nolan knew every detail about his surroundings.

No one could drop a crumb without him noticing.

You could tell he was the type from his eyes.

They were always alert, cataloging everything.

Ordus is like that all the times we’re in the water, except it’s a different type of observation.

Ordus is on the lookout for threats for survival, but Nolan watched for weaknesses to strike.

Tommy was kind of like that, except cockier.

Most of the time, his arrogance outshone his conniving intelligence.

Nolan’s was always there.

You knew the moment you looked at him that he’d taken a mental snapshot of you and done an entire analysis already.

But Ordus’ eyes hold a heart-wrenching familiarity too.

It’s the same type of eyes my dad wore for most of my childhood, and later, whenever we had fish for dinner.

He lost someone he loved.

If yesterday’s conversation was any indication, he lost three.

I’ve seen this island, searched this cave.

Everything is bare, empty.

I don’t think he has anyone else, and something about that has all my defenses dropping.

My throat bobs as I pick the scrunchie up and pull my matted strands up into a messy bun.

“A hair tie.”

Gnawing on the inside of my cheek, I rock forward to fish out the other scrunchie I saw in here.

It came in a pack of three: red, green, and blue.

I pause before holding it out to him.

A peace offering. Maybe also an apology for stabbing him— twice —even though he seemed grateful for it.

Ordus’ eyes bore into mine.

He tentatively raises his hand like he’s unsure whether he should.

My gut sours. He’s looking at me the same way I do when Tommy asks me to come closer, and I don’t know if I’ll walk away with a new bruise.

I don’t like that Ordus is looking at me like that.

It doesn’t sit right with me.

I lean forward and pull the scrunchie onto his wrist. “For your hair.”

His throat bobs as he stares at it like I’ve just given him the moon.

The corners of his eyes crinkle, body utterly motionless, as he stares at the little green scrunchie around his thick wrist. Slowly, almost like he’s afraid it’ll disappear if he moves too quickly, he brushes his fingers over the fabric.

In his distraction, the stray tentacle breaks free and joyrides straight to me, curling around my leg.

Ordus shudders at the contact, and something innate settles in my soul.

He isn’t going to hurt me.

“You can…” I start, wanting to break the pregnant silence.

I feel like I’m going to choke from how heavily he’s looking at the scrunchie.

“You can braid your hair back if it, um, gets in the way.”

What a stupid thing to say.

What the fuck else would he use the hair tie for?

I don’t need to mansplain it when I did a demonstration not sixty seconds ago.

He probably uses seaweed or something to keep his hair out of his face.

I’m pretty sure krakens have figured out their hair business, and I’m being a dick for running my mouth.

I twist my hands in my lap, waiting for him to say something.

Anything. Maybe resume whatever it was he was doing.

This whole exchange has gotten weird.

With nothing better to do, I reach for a dress to begin folding my clothes.

“How?”

Huh? I flick my attention up to him and raise a questioning brow.

“I braid flax and seaweed into rope or a basket. Krakens do not…” He trails off like he’s embarrassed, eyes lowering in dejection.

“Krakens do not have hair.”

My chest pinches at his tone.

He’s tense, as rigid as the stone walls around us.

I’d get like that whenever I said something I knew might upset Tommy.

It’s not obvious. Someone like Nolan might notice the flicker of fear, but no one else would, not unless you’ve been in that position—like you’re waiting for hurt.

“You have nice hair.” I’m not sure why I say it.

It just feels like I should.

But it’s true all the same.

Ordus’ hair looks like the smoothest silk, even though he’s spent all his life in saltwater.

Mine feels like a nest birds wouldn’t dare go near.

His eyes dart up to me, disbelieving.

He’s braced for an attack.

Hell, something in my chest shatters at that.

“May I?” I point to the scrunchie around his wrist.

His brows lower, and his lip twitches, like I’m trying to steal his toy.

It’s animalistic. Eventually, he relents, albeit extremely reluctantly.

His muscles are bunched, movement sharp, acting like it physically pains him to give it back.

My legs protest and groan as I rise back onto my feet.

It takes me a second to stop wobbling and straighten my legs completely, but I get there eventually.

It’s like I’ve ran a marathon twice over.

Ordus stalks my movements, tensing the nearer I get, so much so that even the tentacle around my ankle tightens.

I swear he stops breathing when I settle behind him.

Why am I doing this?

What if that was a manipulation tactic?

He’s pretending to be afraid so I lower my guard and—I don’t know.

Be an easier prisoner?

Fight him less? I find that hard to believe.

I take a deep breath.

Even sitting, the top of his head reaches the bottom of my chin.

Steeling my spine, I use both hands to pull his hair behind his ears, onto his broad back.

He visibly shudders.

I pause to study him.

There’s a slight bulb on his breeding arm, but it’s not as thick or leaking as much as it was when we were talking about my dildo.

It’s heady knowing such a simple act has goosebumps pebbling over his flesh.

His skin itself seems to shiver—I’m not sure if that’s the right word for it.

The pores kind of flutter, changing his coloring to make the iridescent blues in his skin glow.

I pull his hair over his shoulders once more, and his skin ripples, rapidly changing between brown and blue.

It continues as I comb my fingers through his hair.

It’s softer than anything I’ve ever felt—even smoother than silk.

What…what would it feel like against my cheek?

His skin is already so soft and velvety.

Everything about his appearance does things to me.

Even the scar on his ribs has my heart pitter-pattering because it accentuates his rugged appeal and ups the fear factor at the same time it calms my senses that such a frightening, domineering being has become my protector—of sorts.

Unable to stop myself, I brush my fingers over the gills on his neck.

He makes a sound close to a hiccupped groan that sends a line of fire down my spine.

His responsiveness has me on a power trip.

Ordus’ breaths are coming out strained, the tentacle around my ankle frozen.

He’s so tense, I’m afraid he might snap in half.

I’m no kraken, and I swear I can smell his unease.

I’m not sure what compels me to take my time doing the best French braid I’ve ever done instead of parting his hair into three and getting it over and done with to release him of his misery, but I do.

His breathing never evens out, though, slowly—so painfully slowly—his tentacle relaxes and pulses, warming my body from the inside out.

My hand and elbow are cramping like a bitch by the time I finally get down to his mid-rib.

I finish off the braid with the scrunchie, then lower it over his shoulder so he can see my work.

Retaking my position back on the floor in front of the luggage to busy myself with folding, I tell myself it’s no big deal.

I just braided his hair.

It’s stupid. It’s whatever.

His silence doesn’t mean anything.

I don’t need to look at him.

But I do. I keep stealing glances at him holding the long braid in both of his hands.

He’s staring at it like I gave him not just the moon this time, but the sea and the stars, plus the clouds that bring reprieve on the hottest of days.

It has to be more than a minute before he finally looks at me.

My cowardice takes hold, and I keep my gaze fixed on my work, folding and refolding just to keep from looking up at him.

The shelving is probably for my things, but I don’t want to assume or get comfortable by unpacking my suitcase.

This is temporary. It’s just until I can come up with a plan on how to escape.

My nerves stutter when he rises to his normal height, but I don’t dare look up until he says my name.

“I would like to show you something, Cindi.”

Oxygen leaves me in a rush.

He’s stunning. His jaw is sharper with the hair off his face, the shadows of his cheeks more lethal.

The gills on the side of his neck are more obvious now too, and it’s weird how well they suit him.

The tentacle does an excited little tap on my knee when I stand on shaky legs.

One of Ordus’ limbs dips into the pool to scrape algae off the walls.

Then he smears it over his shoulders and onto the piece of driftwood I was wielding the other night, handing it to me.

I take the makeshift torch from him and follow the kraken into the pitch-black tunnel I tried escaping through on my first night.

“I will grow algae in here too,” he says, more to himself than to me as he moves into the darkness.

The torch and his glowing shoulders offer a surprising amount of light that reflects off the mildew on the walls.

My steps are still slow going, because the last thing I want is to trip again—which seems to be a possibility, even if the stray tentacle has moved its residence around my waist. My wounds have miraculously healed so only a scar remains, but I’d rather not go through the pain again.

Between focusing on not breaking my leg and moving forward, there aren’t many openings to ogle Ordus’ muscled back.

I half wish the braid would stop swinging so I can study every inch of his exposed skin and engrain it into memory for me to enjoy later with the tentacle dil?—

Bad.

Very, very bad.

Ordus’ body is none of my concern.

Absolutely none. I’m his temporary housemate who can’t leave without his escort.

I’m sweating by the time we get to the dead end that turned me around.

Only this time, I can see the symbols etched into the walls like the boulder in the underwater tunnel.

“ Buka ,” Ordus whispers.

The sigils glow the same shade of blue before the stone groans, rolling to the side.

Natural light seeps into the damp space, opening to a clearing with a…

a cottage? Shed? How did I miss this when I was running around the island the other day?

I check over my shoulder and between the trees for evidence of the Gallaghers, and I blink back surprise when my brain is put at ease with only a single survey.

It’s a small structure about twenty square feet, elevated off the ground, with unvarnished wooden walls and a straw roof held up by logs.

There are windows and a tiny door that looks ridiculous against the twelve-foot-tall wall.

It appears structurally sound, I guess, but it’s a far cry from the level of acceptability by any architectural measure.

It’s not exactly the most visually appealing thing either, with its lack of symmetry.

I don’t need a leveler to know everything is off by at least a couple of degrees.

“How did this get here?” My forehead pinches when I inhale, and a familiar smell makes my nostrils twitch.

“I built it.”

“By yourself?” Surprised is an understatement.

But also, yeah, I guess that checks out with how it looks.

“How? Where did you get all the supplies?”

“Mainland.”

He’s really not chatty today.

Is it because I refused to marry him?

Can he really be shocked by that?

I shake my head. His silence is a good thing.

It means…I get my space?

I can’t think of any other benefit.

I circle the property and come face-to-face with the answer to my earlier question of how he brought the supplies over.

A boat. Well, more of a dinghy with two lengths of rope hooked onto the keel.

A log is hanging on either side of the vessel like a double rigger to help stabilize it.

When he said he brought my things by boat earlier, I stupidly imagined him messing around with an engine, hunched down behind a steering wheel, or using his tentacles like propellers to push it across the sea.

Pulling it makes a lot more sense.

I can’t imagine it’d be easy, but it’s far more logical.

I eye Ordus curiously.

He built a shed by himself, modified a dinghy, fixed my generator, chair, and fridge, yet he had no idea how to keep me alive?

I’m having a hard time wrapping my head around that.

Ordus glides easily up the wonky steps onto the fenceless porch, then into the shed.

He holds the anti-insect netting aside for me to enter first. The inside is much the same as the outside—plain, functional, no aesthetic, the same mismatched wooden walls.

The smell of cooked fish assaults my nostrils, but I’m too distracted trying to figure this place out to follow my nose.

I was wrong to call it a shed.

It’s a shed—or, more accurately, a workshop.

There’s a running ceiling fan tied to various rigs, tubes and plastic bottles powered by a watermill to circulate airflow.

A DIY’d bench in the corner is tall enough for him to comfortably use.

There are random bits and bobs he collected from humans, what looks like half-made creations lying around.

A wheelbarrow made from flax.

A spade fashioned from steel sheets.

There’s a transmission part from some kind of car, hooked up to a series of wires, ropes, and pieces of wood—no idea what for.

And no sign of the Gallaghers, my brain helpfully supplies.

I turn to survey the area behind me, lighting up at the surfboard leaning against the wall with a green-and-pink hammerhead shark Deedee painted for “Cindi’s” first birthday.

As for the organized mess on the homemade shelving beside my board?

Ordus didn’t just move my bedroom—he brought my whole damn kitchen to the island.

There’s salt, pepper, bay leaves, tamarind concentrate, Sambal Jempol , a whisk, tongs, cupcake tins—the list goes on.

The kraken managed to fit almost my entire life onto a dinghy.

If I ruminate on that, it’ll make me sad.

My eyes narrow on the other workbench that comes up to my chest. A portable camping stove and one of my pans sits atop it.

It’s the source of the smell.

Fish.

Cooked fish.

Fucking warm, pan-seared fish.

Wait. “Did you kidnap a chef?”

Ordus’ eyes flare in alarm.

“No?” He looks around the hut like he’s double-checking.

Well, I haven’t seen anyone else around.

Based on the purple spatula handle hanging over the edge of the pan, I’m going to guess no professional was involved.

“You made it?” It’s somehow a more ridiculous statement-question.

Hold up — “You had this the whole time?” I point accusatorially at the stove, my anger rising.

What the fuck was the point of almost killing me?

“Because it most definitely didn’t come from my house.”

The stray tentacle that dropped down to my ankle frantically rubs what’s meant to be comforting circles over my leg.

“I brought the—stove, I think it’s called—this morning so you may eat fish.” He picks up a pot from the shelf.

“The pan is from your home. See? I was not hiding it from you. What’s mine is yours.”

I gape at him.

This ten-foot giant really learned how to cook for me?

Traveled hours to get me my things and everything I might need to eat and…

entertain myself?

“Why?” I demand.

His ocean-blue eyes cast to the pan before fixing back on me with a questioning look.

“So you can eat,” he says, like it’s the most obvious thing.

A dangerous warmth slithers into my stomach.

I feel my eyes burning with pathetic, unshed tears.

The only person who ever put in any effort for me was my dad.

It’s been years since anyone has done something solely for my benefit without wanting anything in return.

But that’s not true, is it?

He does want something.

An exchange, of sorts.

He wants me alive and to accept being his mate, to end the Curse.

It’s as much for him as it is for me.

Even so, he didn’t need to bring me my surfboard to keep me alive—in fact, it’s putting my life more at risk.

He brought spices, books, more clothes, skincare, a fucking dildo, all so I don’t have to survive off bare necessities.

My throat bobs. At no point while I was packing did I point the gun at him.

I had countless opportunities to put a bullet in his head while we were still on the mainland, and I didn’t.

I let him live. I let him bring me here.

Giving him the side-eye, I amble over to the bench to peer at the source of the smell.

Right there, in black and off-white, is the fish my nose picked up, skinned, filleted, and deboned.

“It’s for me?”

What?

Like he’s about to eat it?

Think before you talk, Kris— Cindi .

He nods, giving me the universal “try it” look.

My stomach rumbles at the thought of food.

My lips press into a thin line as I grab the handle.

I mean, it looks legit?

Seared on both sides.

A little burnt, if anything.

If the waft of pepper is any indication, it’s seasoned as well.

Maybe overly.

“Did you wash it?” I grill him.

Ordus hesitates. Nods.

Fuck it. I don’t care.

We’ll find out later if I’m poisoning myself.

I cautiously scoop a bite into my mouth.

My body’s rejection of it is instantaneous.

Out of pure stupidity, or a misguided affront to make him feel good about his cooking, I swallow the salt-and-pepper-drenched fish and start hacking up air like I’m Vasz after he drinks half the ocean.

I sputter and cough, eyes watering from the pepper in my eustachian tubes.

Ordus is on me in a second, clutching me to him, rubbing my back, voice panic-stricken.

“Tell me what is wrong, Cindi.”

“I’m fine,” I rasp.

He passes me two of the Aqua cups I point to, and I down a whole one in a single go.

Oh, motherfucker, I already feel my indigestion coming on.

I lean back to catch my breath.

I can’t help but laugh at the ridiculousness of what just happened.

It’s the sweetest thing anyone has ever done for me that has failed so horrifically.

“Next time, less seasoning, ‘kay?” I chuckle hoarsely, glancing up at him. The corners of my lips twitch up, because his head is lowered, all bashful.

“Seasoning?” Ordus’ hand goes firm on my hip, claws grazing me over my tank top. He sheepishly scratches the back of his neck and stills, as if suddenly remembering his hair’s been braided. He drops his hand to his side, a slightly panicked look in his eyes, like he’s worried he’s ruining it.

I point at the jars and bottles on the shelf he no doubt used. Ordus takes the pan and spatula from me with his spare hand and a tentacle. He breaks off a piece only slightly bigger than I did and slowly brings it to his mouth.

Has he ever tried human food before? Maybe I should warn him what he made is lethal.

But I don’t, because I’m a sadistic bastard who wants to see how a monster reacts to over-seasoned food.

My lips curl into an excited little grin, and dare I say it, he becomes both alarmed and downright gleeful at the same time. Blue orbs glint like a misty-teal sea against a cloudless sky.

This is the most at ease I’ve felt in…in a long time. It’s foreign, not feeling compelled to check out of each window every few seconds, not feeling like there’s a gun trained on my head, or that I’m perpetually running. God, I can’t remember the last time I felt comfortable with my guard this low.

Whatever Ordus sees in me gives him a boost of confidence to take a bite. Barely two seconds pass before he’s choking and sticking his pointed tongue out.

“Vile,” he spits.

Laughter tumbles out of me.

It’s absurd to watch this monstrous giant gagging over his home-cooked meal.

He repeatedly swipes the back of his hand over his tongue to get rid of the taste, gagging and making pained sounds.

“It burns,” he hisses.

I rip open the plastic seal of the water cup and shove it into his hand.

He gurgles and gulps it down before agreeing, “No seasoning next time.”

“ Less, ” I correct, grinning up at him.

His eyes drop to my lips, and his own curl to match mine. “Less. Next time.”