Page 22

21

Cindi

I bat a fly away from the properly cooked fish before dipping it into sambal, letting my bad arm rest at my side.

I showed Ordus how to make it properly this morning, then supervised his dinner attempt.

Then he grabbed a deck chair, and we made a ten-minute trek through the forest to the beach to watch the sun set beneath the shore.

I’ve bathed, moisturized, cleaned, and de-matted my hair.

My organs still feel a bit rough from the whole dehydration thing, but I’m feeling exponentially better.

Refreshed—at ease.

The breeze is cooling my face, the sand soft beneath my feet, I have good food, and no human could be hiding behind any tree—I cast a brief look around to be sure.

The fear is still there, but I haven’t felt this truly at peace in so long, I forgot this feeling existed.

Ordus’ stray tentacle has been wrapped around my bad arm every chance it gets.

I should probably hate it, but whatever magic it is that Ordus has, his little ministrations make the pain in my arm subside enough for me to have a coherent string of thought.

We spent the day setting up containers around the island to collect rainwater.

Ordus never asked why, or what the purpose of the containers was.

He just did it happily without question.

But when I explained to him what it’s for and how it’d work, I half regretted it.

The only time Ordus left my side was for about half an hour, when he came back with three big drums. I felt like throwing my bachelor’s degree out the window when he was the one who suggested a filtration system with mesh from the mainland.

I am equally impressed and mortified that a kraken out-engineered me.

I’m pretty sure he picked up on it, so he took the back seat and let me order him around as we put it together—not that I was much help, since my elbow decided to become completely useless after I made lunch.

At least the rain saucer was my idea.

I peek at Ordus out of the corner of my eye.

His braid falls over his shoulder, and he carefully touches the green scrunchie as if it might break.

Every time I see him looking down at the hair tie like it’s the most precious thing he’s ever seen, my stomach does a flip.

He looks at me the same way, I realize.

That same awe, like I’m more than just a body he needs to marry to end a curse.

Like he might want me for me, not because I’m something a divine being threw his way—or out of a sense of duty.

It doesn’t matter whether I like it or not.

My feelings mean nothing.

I won’t stay here permanently.

I need to figure out a way to leave so I can keep running until my eventual death.

But…would it be so bad if I hung around here for a while to catch a break?

Whoever was at my place will probably think I did a runner again and be looking for my trail in the wrong direction.

It’d be a chance for me to regroup and recover, make a plan, then go for it.

Just the thought of needing to start again makes me sick.

But when I think about the Curse…

it doesn’t make sense.

How could the fate of all krakens possibly be on my back?

I’m a random human plucked off the street.

There’s no way a Goddess picked me to be the supposed savior.

“There’s no…back door?” I think out loud.

Ordus casts his attention to me.

“For the Curse,” I clarify.

“You can’t use reverse psychology on the Curse and make it take someone else’s land—okay, not like that. But, I don’t know? Maybe bounce the Curse to a parcel of land not being habited. Like…like the space cemetery in the South Pacific Ocean by…” I click my fingers.

Where was it? “Point Nemo!”

“Uh…” He glances to the side, like he’s finding a way to nicely tell me I’m insane.

“I…do not know where that point is…or a space cemetery.”

“It’s where countries dispose of their spacecrafts like satellites and space debris.” I read an article back when Dad was alive, when I still had interests outside of pleasing Tommy.

“There are no oceanic currents in the area or something like that, so there’s no marine life. If there is, there would be even less life caused by the chemical spillage, radioactive material, general waste, and collision shock. If you deflect the Curse to the cemetery, it would be perfect .”

Ordus scratches the back of his head then snatches his hand away like he doesn’t want to ruin the braid.

I bite back a smile—another foreign feeling.

Did I smile or laugh with Deedee and Nat?

He frowns. “Even if that was possible, I wouldn’t have the slightest inkling on how to do it. Any kraken who may have ideas are either dead or have gone to seek sanctuary elsewhere.”

“Fuck.”

“I do not have the magical capabilities to wield that type of power,” he adds.

I tip my head back and squeeze my eyes shut.

I can’t have the fate of all krakens in my hands.

I just can’t. How many krakens are out there?

A hundred? Three hundred?

Thousands?

“May I ask you a question?”

“No,” I say immediately.

Ordus’ face falls, and my gut constricts with guilt.

“Maybe,” I amend.

“Who is after you?”

I take a deep breath.

It’s the question I’ve been dreading.

I figured he’d ask sooner rather than later.

My hand wraps over the scar on my wrist like it might hide the evidence of my past. As I rub it, pins and needles pierce my flesh from my elbow down to my fingers at the thought of Tommy.

There’s not a single person who knows who and what I’m running from, or even my real name.

A name carries weight.

The moment I say his name, Thomas Gallagher, people will start connecting the dots.

But who would a kraken know?

Yes, he’s a king, but he had no idea what a scrunchie was.

He thought my skincare products were potions, that humans drink seawater.

I could scream my ex-husband’s name, list every single person in his family, mention every company they own, and Ordus still wouldn’t know who the hell they are, because this is another universe.

I’m on Earth, but in another realm entirely.

“Tommy Gallagher.” I haven’t spoken his name out loud in over a year.

It tastes bitter and liberating.

I stop myself from mentioning pirates, because that probably has a different meaning to him.

Ocean blues turn stormy as a vein in his temple ticks.

“Did he harm you?”

I flinch at the memory of my marriage.

Ordus knows the answer.

I think he figured it out long before I uttered my demon’s name.

“I will kill him,” he snarls, teeth bared, incisors on show.

It’s…touching. I forgot what it’s like to have someone in my corner.

The only person to slay my demons has been me.

“Too late. I beat you to it.” I don’t mean to sound sad, but it’s the first time I’ve confessed my sins out loud, and it’s like this great big weight has been lifted off my shoulders.

I can finally breathe again, release a hand off the reins and let someone else grip them for dear life with me.

It’s a premature feeling, but it’s there all the same.

“My mate is deadly.” Ordus dips his head in appreciation.

Our gazes clash, and the glint of pride in his eyes makes me want to crawl into a ball and cry.

“You will not need to kill again—not unless you enjoy it, in which case I will bring you many bodies.”

I blanch.

Right, I forgot we both have a different set of morals and ethics.

“You aren’t meant to condone murder, let alone enable it.”

No, the giddy feeling in my chest isn’t because his declaration of bloodshed is kind of romantic.

If I’m swooning, it’s from the heat and the many near-death experiences I’ve had as of late.

“I would kill every male alive for you—monster and human. It makes no difference to me whether you take their last breath or I do.” I inhale sharply and still when he trails a finger down my jaw.

“Ask, and I will make it so.”

“You—” I shift in my seat and clear my throat.

He lowers his hand back to his side, disappointed.

“You don’t need to kill anyone for me.”

Kill all the Gallaghers for me, and make it hurt , is what I want to say.

“I have done it many times before. There is no version of existence where I wouldn’t do it all again for you.” His voice is a deep rumble that sends a dark thrill through me.

Tommy killed in my name before, but it was never for me .

The wounds he left behind have scraped and reopened a hundred times.

They’ve been infected, inflamed, bloodied, and bruised, but they never healed.

The best is a moderate itch begging to be scratched.

Because I lied when I said I’d sleep peacefully after killing Tommy.

I haven’t known a moment of peace since I shoved that knife into his neck.

I’m afraid it’ll never get better.

“How do you sleep with all the blood on your hands?” I whisper, staring at my plate.

I’ve lost my appetite.

“Alone.” Ordus’ face betrays nothing.

It’s only the tightening of his tentacle that tells me our words have any impact.

I watch him soften when he looks back down at the braid, and my tummy does a low whoop despite the somber shift in atmosphere.

“Sometimes, I rest still feeling their blood on my skin.”

My fingers twitch, remembering how it felt to pierce skin and sinew, how the warmth of his blood felt splattered on my face.

“Sometimes,” I start, thinking of the nights I’ve spent staring at my hand and the two-and-a-half-inch scar on my wrist. “Sometimes, it’s a blanket that warms you to the core.”

“Other times, it leaves you cold,” he finishes for me.

My injured arm prickles under the heat of his attention.

His hand covers mine, engulfing the scar and each of my sore fingers in his protective embrace.

“But you are not alone anymore. You have no need to fear.”

Inhaling deeply, I explain.

“His family will not rest until they’ve captured me.”

“No one will find you here.”

I know that.

More than anything, I know that in my very soul.

John and the rest of the Gallaghers won’t, but Tommy’s ghost will follow me wherever I go.

The second I think it, a knife twists in my stomach.

It’s like a premonition.

I’m setting myself up for failure.

I want so badly to not see Tommy in every man I encounter, to stop running and hiding.

Just being able to mention his name without fear of repercussions is like having a stream of light break through the cracks so there’s one corner of the world where his ghost can’t touch me.

Ordus is nothing like the Gallaghers, who all hide their faces.

Ordus sometimes wears his heart on his sleeve, and maybe I might have thought it was manipulative before, or a mask, but it’s clear this is just who he is.

There’s nothing hiding in the closet.

He’s just…sad.

“He was my husband,” I whisper, unsure whether I want Ordus to hear.

I wince when I move my elbow to get more comfortable.

Ordus freezes and snatches his hand away, like he’s worried he’s the issue.

“It’s a…an old injury,” I assure him.

“I’ve had it for years.”

The muscles in his jaw pulse.

He touches the scar on his ribs, and a flicker of rage crosses his face.

My heart sinks. It really is like holding up a mirror.

When you survive certain things, you develop a knack for recognizing other survivors.

“Does it still hurt?” I ask, nodding at his rib.

He drops his hand, lips set in a grim line.

“Only when I remember.” His throat bobs as he fixes attention back on my scar.

“One day, I hope I can help you forget.”

My chest swells with that dangerous feeling.

I hope you can forget too.

“One day,” I agree.

It’s a dream.

Hope is as deadly as a gun, but one will hurt far more.

Soft snoring filters through the cave as Ordus’ chest rises and falls beneath my hand.

Suckers pulse against the skin of my arms like a heated massage.

Fingers are threaded in my hair, at the nape of my neck.

Tentacles are wrapped around my legs and my waist. The moisture from his breath kisses my forehead as he dreams of—do krakens dream?

They probably do.

Lord knows where Vasz is.

Probably harassing a poor, innocent fruit.

Ordus has been asleep for an hour already, I think.

He’s been falling asleep well before I do since I’ve voluntarily returned to the island.

Ever since we had our talk a few days ago, things have been…

tense. Not tense tense, but more like there’s a strange rift between us that almost feels forced.

It feels like I’ve done something wrong, except all he’s done is give me space to explore and do things at my own pace—except sleep.

Hell would freeze over before Ordus imposes a cuddle-free sleep routine.

Slowly, with the precision and finesse of someone defusing a bomb, I try to extract myself from the gentle giant.

Like every other night I’ve tried to escape, it doesn’t matter whether it’s the blue wire or red—it blows up on me.

His soft purrs pour into the small cave, and it’s like a switch that instantly changes the chemicals in my brain to turn me into mush.

Suckers glide over my skin, warm and nice.

Very nice. Too nice.

Sliding up my leg, close to my core—too close.

Molten heat spreads from my stomach, out to the tips of my fingers and my toes.

My lungs constrict as his thick appendage parts my legs in its pursuit to climb higher, closing in on the apex of?—

I gasp, snapping my eyes to his sleepy face to check if he’s aware of what he’s doing.

His solid limb grinds against my pussy over the thin cotton fabric of my sleep shorts, sneaking higher to wrap around my hips, holding me firmly in place as his suckers pucker over my clit.

Pure, raw desire shoots up my spine, and I clamp my lips together to stop my moans from breaking loose.

My hand stiffens over his hard abs, and it’s like his scent has seeped into my bloodstream to make me see double.

The sudden pressure and sensations have my nipples hardening, and I’ve lost the ability to breathe, too scared I might make noises that will wake Ordus.

Goosebumps rain over my flesh.

Something momentarily turns off in my brain, and my body develops a mind of its own; back arching, hips bucking up to meet the length of hard muscle.

It’s like I’m seeing God.

The forbidden, delicious heat curls through me, and I bite the inside of my cheek to stop myself from doing it again as the thick appendage continues to glide over my center.

Each sucker is like another nail in the coffin of my undoing, because I woefully fail.

My hips shift to grind against him—one more time.

The need to be filled is all-consuming.

By him. My dildo. I don’t care which.

His tentacle halts its travel up my aching body, but my panties are already saturated.

My core is aching with need, and every fiber of my being is begging me to ride the tentacle nestled between my thighs.

I breathe hard through the fog in my brain and nuzzle my face against his chest like I can hide from the world.

How does one level up from a tentacle dildo?

By graduating to the real deal, of course.

Because completely and undeniably, I have the hots for a kraken.

I have no idea how to unpack that with a therapist.