“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.