Chapter 4 #2
My stomach drops. "The harbormaster? As in…"
"Orvik, yes." Mira gives me a look that leaves no room for arguments. "He's the best sailor in Saltford Bay, and we need him if we want to get to Thorn Rock. No hard feelings, okay?"
I nod, swallowing my discomfort. A seal pup's life is at stake, and my personal embarrassment doesn't matter. We gather additional supplies: cutting tools, towels, a portable stretcher. Then it's go time, and we hurry out.
The dock comes into view, and with it, a sleek patrol skiff.
Standing at the controls is a tall figure in a dark-blue uniform that hugs broad shoulders and a narrow waist. His tentacle hair is bound tightly at the nape of his neck, giving him a severe, controlled appearance vastly different from the wild creature I encountered at the lighthouse.
He looks nothing like the man from last night and exactly like him at the same time. The uniform should make him less striking, should box him into something ordinary and official. It doesn't.
I try not to notice how yummy he looks, with all those tight muscles under that crisp uniform and that scowl on his handsome face. I really do. I just don't manage it, and a weird little flutter starts in the pit of my stomach as we approach.
Orvik's gaze locks on me as I run behind Mira down the long dock, but his expression remains completely unreadable.
"Mira," he acknowledges with a nod, then turns his steel-blue gaze to me.
"This is Jackie Durand." Mira points to me as she hands him the stretcher. "She's our new wildlife rehabilitator."
"Ms. Durand." Orvik inclines his head to me in what could barely pass as a polite salute. "I see you have another profession besides trespassing."
"Harbormaster Fenmoor," I reply, putting as much sass as I can behind the word. "Nice to see you work with a shirt on when you're not busy being rude to strangers."
I know I shouldn't be like that. I really do. But the jerk is too handsome and too self-absorbed, and I can't help myself.
I like to poke the bear. Or the kraken. Sue me.
He narrows his eyes at my jab, then jerks his chin toward the boat.
"Equipment goes in the stern," he instructs, his deep voice carrying over the sound of waves slapping against the hull. "We need to move quickly. Weather's changing."
Mira and I load our gear, and I settle on a bench, gripping the railing as Orvik fires up the engine. The boat leaps forward, cutting through increasingly choppy waters with impressive speed.
It's happening. All this time I've been preparing for this, and it's happening.
"Approach from the east," Mira calls out to Orvik over the engine noise. "Wind's coming from the southwest."
As a mermaid, it doesn't surprise me that Mira knows the ocean just as well as Orvik.
He nods once, adjusting course without comment.
They have the shorthand communication of people who've worked together for a long time, and I feel a momentary pang of being the outsider on top of the only human aboard.
The skiff bounces over a particularly large wave, and I grip the railing tighter, determined not to show weakness.
I can't help watching Orvik as he navigates.
His large hands rest confidently on the wheel, tentacle hair secured but still visibly shifting beneath their restraint, as if eager to be free.
The tentacles on his chin are shorter and move faster, like they're enjoying the spray of ocean water.
His profile is sharp against the gray sky, strong jaw, straight nose, blue skin coated with a fine layer of sea mist.
My belly quivers and squeezes as I look at the strong muscles down his arms, at the long, strong webbed fingers holding the wheel. Then his gaze turns to me, blue and iridescent.
Shit. He caught me staring.
"Are you going to be sick?" he asks, his unreadable eyes going back to the ocean.
"No," I answer firmly. "I'm fine."
He nods without looking back my way, and for some reason, it irritates me.
"There." Mira points as we approach a cluster of jagged rocks. "On that flat stone just above the waterline."
Orvik cuts the engine, allowing the boat to drift closer. I spot the seal pup immediately—small, mottled gray, its body wrapped in fishing line that cuts into its skin from all the struggling he's been doing. Even from this distance, I can see blood.
My jaw tightens at the sight. A wave of anger at the carelessness that did this to him rolls through me, sharp and clean, burning away everything else. This is what matters. This is what I'm here for.
"Poor baby," I murmur.
"I'll go in first," Mira says, already removing her jacket. "Orvik, can you position us closer to that southern outcropping?"
He nods, using a small auxiliary motor to maneuver carefully among the rocks. The waves crash against the stones, creating swirling, unpredictable currents that make me nervous just looking at them.
I'm a strong swimmer, but nothing like a mermaid. And certainly not even close to a kraken.
I roll my shoulders as I bend over the edge, looking at the deep, dark water below.
"Jackie, stay in the boat and prepare the stretcher and cutting tools," Mira commands from her position at the front of the boat. "Once we have the pup, we'll need to move quickly."
I open the rescue kit, laying out scissors, specialized cutting tools for fishing line, and antiseptic wipes.
I prepare the stretcher, then watch as Mira slides gracefully into the water.
Unlike humans who would flounder in such conditions, she moves with the currents, her mermaid physiology perfectly adapted to the environment.
The seal pup spots her approach and barks weakly, trying to shuffle away but clearly too entangled and exhausted to escape. It doesn't take long for Mira to signal back to the boat that she needs help.
Without hesitation, Orvik removes his uniform jacket and boots.
God, I wish I could say I didn't gawk, but I feel my jaw flapping against the bottom of the boat as my eyes are glued to the kraken masterpiece of a man.
He looks like a sculpture, all smooth skin and muscles. There are long slits along his ribs with tiny frills poking out in a darker shade of blue.
Then he turns to me, still gawking like he's some succulent cupcake I'm about to gobble up. My cheeks instantly burn with shame and I look away, but not before he dives into the water with barely a splash, moving with astonishing speed toward the rocks.
I force myself to focus on my task, but I still watch from the corners of my eyes as he emerges near the seal pup. His tentacle hair unfurls, rippling with water. His skin shines when wet, like it changes texture just by being submerged.
Magnificent doesn't even begin to describe him.
What happens next changes something in me.
The intimidating, rule-obsessed harbormaster transforms completely as he approaches the panicking animal who growls at his approach.
His movements become gentle, almost tender.
He speaks to the seal in a low, soothing tone that carries across the water, not in words that I can understand, but meaningless sounds that seem to calm the creature.
The seal stops struggling and makes a series of pitiful little barks as Orvik carefully places one large hand beneath its body for support.
Together, he and Mira begin moving the seal pup through the water toward the boat as the animal barks and whines. I lean over the side, stretcher already in the water, nearly losing my balance as the boat rocks with a sudden wave.
A strong, wet hand steadies me and our eyes meet briefly. I swear I see a faint glow beneath his wet skin before he pulls his hand away.
"Let's secure him on the stretcher," he says, lifting the seal pup carefully and placing it over the submerged stretcher.
I guide the small body onto the stretcher, immediately assessing its condition. Male, very young, severely underweight, with fishing line wrapped tightly around his body, cutting into his left flipper and torso.
"Looks like he's been tangled for a few days," I say, already cutting away at the line while Mira stabilizes the trembling animal.
"He's undernourished and dehydrated." Mira's voice is even and calm, but I hear the concern underneath. "These wounds are infected."
Orvik hoists himself back into the boat with impressive strength, water streaming from his body as he immediately returns to the controls. He starts the engine, just as Mira joins me at the seal's side and we get to work strapping him on the stretcher.
"How bad?" he asks, his deep voice carrying over the engine.
"Bad enough," I answer, focused on my task. "But he's a fighter. I can feel it."
I administer a mild sedative to keep the seal calm, then clean the worst of the wounds with antiseptic. The pup whimpers, his large dark eyes reflecting pain and fear. I speak to him continuously in a soft, reassuring voice as I work, the way I would to any frightened patient.
"You're going to be okay, little one," I promise. "We've got you now."
Rain begins to fall as Orvik pushes the boat to top speed. I pull out my phone and call the center.
"Dehydration protocols, wound cleaning station, possible IV antibiotics," I tell the volunteer on the line. "Weighing approximately fifteen kilos, male. I estimate him to be four to five weeks old."
When I end the call, I notice Orvik watching me before he turns back to navigating.
At least I'm not the only creep who's gawking. Although gawking might be pushing it. Still, there's a flutter in my belly at the thought that he's looking at me.
"What are his chances?" he asks after a moment, his voice gruff but undeniably concerned.
"Good, now that we've found him," I answer honestly. "The wounds are infected, and the line cut pretty deep into the flipper, but with proper care, he should recover."
Orvik nods once, seemingly satisfied, then returns his attention to driving the boat back to the center. The rain intensifies as we approach the dock.
"Let's carry him inside," Mira says to Orvik as we dock.
He nods without hesitation, carefully lifting the stretcher with the sedated seal. His strength makes the burden look effortless as we hurry through the rain toward the treatment room.
Inside, under the bright clinical lights, Mira immediately begins her examination while I assist her. Orvik remains in the doorway, dripping wet but clearly unwilling to leave just yet.
"You're not useless in a crisis," he says, his face unreadable. "That's rare in a human."
Before I can decide if that was a compliment or an insult, he's gone, leaving me staring after him with a puzzled expression.
"Still handsome," I mutter to myself, returning my focus to cleaning the pup's flipper wound. "Still a jerk."
But the image of his gentle hands cradling the frightened seal pup stays with me long after he's gone.