My distance will be my gift to Cindi. She’ll be happier if she forgets I’m there. I’ll keep my silence—even if it eats me alive.

It’s one of the only things I can do for her.

OceanofPDF.com

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.