Chapter 5 #2
"Mother and babies are fine, but Mira will be gone for at least three weeks." Callum runs a hand through his damp hair. "Which means, Jackie, you're our primary rehabilitator until she returns."
Jackie nods, accepting the responsibility without hesitation, although her face turns a paler shade of pink.
"I can handle it."
"And I will need you to be on hand for rescues and releases." Callum turns to me. "I'll take as much of Mira's share as I can, but with the Elven Court grant I'm working on, I don't have much time and Jackie can't pilot the skiff on her own."
The implication is clear: Jackie and I will be working together, closely and regularly, for the foreseeable future. My gills flex beneath my uniform shirt in an involuntary stress response.
Jackie glances at me, her expression unreadable. There's a quiet challenge in her eyes, almost daring me to object. I remain silent. I don't think I could speak a clear thought if I wanted to.
"Perfect," Callum says, clapping his hands together. "Now that that's settled, I need to call the aquarium about a potential otter transfer. Jackie, do you need anything before I go?"
She shakes her head. "I'm about to feed Rumple his first meal since arrival. We'll be fine."
"I should get back to the harbor," I say, seizing the opportunity to escape.
"Actually," Jackie interjects, "an extra pair of hands would be helpful for the first feeding. Especially if those hands belong to someone Rumple has already encountered."
Callum doesn't bother hiding his grin.
"She's right, Orvik. First feedings can be tricky with traumatized seal pups. And you did help rescue him."
My jaw tightens. There's no reasonable way to refuse without appearing callous about the animal's welfare.
"Very well. What do you need me to do?"
Callum excuses himself with a poorly disguised smile, leaving Jackie and me alone with Rumple.
"I need to prepare his formula," Jackie says, moving to a stainless steel preparation area. "Could you stay by the tank and keep him calm? He seems to respond well to your voice."
I raise an eyebrow. "My voice?"
"Yes. During the rescue, you were making those low, rumbling sounds. I noticed they settled him when he was panicking."
I'm surprised she noticed. Those vocalizations are instinctive for krakens. I didn't think human ears could detect the subtleties.
I position myself near the tank, tentatively reaching a hand into the water. Rumple approaches cautiously, his whiskers twitching as he investigates my fingers. I begin the low, gentle rumble deep in my chest, barely audible but vibrating through the water.
Jackie returns with a syringe filled with fish formula and kneels beside me at the tank's edge. Her shoulder nearly touches mine, and I shift to maintain distance. She either doesn't notice or pretends not to.
"Hold him like this"—she demonstrates with empty hands—"supporting his body while I get the syringe in."
I follow her instructions, carefully lifting Rumple's front end slightly out of the water. The seal is surprisingly heavy for his size, dense muscle beneath the blubber layer. He squirms briefly, then settles as I continue my subsonic humming.
Jackie works with impressive efficiency, slipping the syringe past his whiskers and into his mouth, slowly dispensing the formula while monitoring his swallowing. Her hands are small compared to mine but move with confidence. There's nothing tentative in her technique.
"Good job, little man," she murmurs as Rumple takes the last of the formula. "Now for your medicine."
She repeats the process with a smaller syringe containing antibiotics. Throughout the procedure, her focus never wavers from the animal, her expression one of total concentration. It's… oddly compelling to witness.
When we finish, Rumple barks once, then swims a lazy circle in the shallow water before settling on the submerged platform to rest.
"Successful first feeding," Jackie says, satisfaction obvious in her voice. She stands, washing her hands in the nearby sink. "Thank you for your help."
I nod, feeling strangely reluctant to leave. I know I have no reason to stay now. I know I should retreat to my harbor and keep our contact as low as possible.
Still, I stand there, awkwardly staring at her.
"You're good with him. He's not even scared of you."
"I've been working with animals since I was a girl. First it was rescue dogs, then rescue horses, and now marine animals." She dries her hands on a paper towel, then turns to face me fully. "Look, Harbormaster Fenmoor—"
"Orvik," I interrupt, surprising myself. I'm not even sure why. Maybe I just want to hear my name from her lips. "If we're going to be working together regularly, you might as well use my name."
Surprise flickers across her face, followed by a cautious smile. A smile I like way too much.
"Orvik, then. And I'm Jackie, not Ms. Durand."
"Jackie," I repeat, savoring the feeling of it in my mouth. It feels intimate and soft.
And I know I shouldn't like it. I know. But I adore it.
"Maybe we could just start over?" She tilts her head and gives me a shy smile that does nothing good to my sanity. "Forget the lighthouse incident and the awkwardness. Clean slate."
It's a sensible suggestion. If only she knew how impossible it is for me to forget the moment her skin touched mine.
How utterly and devastatingly impossible it is for me not to yearn for her touch, even now.
But, of course, saying this would be crazy. Touching her again would be crazy.
And I'm not crazy. Am I?
"That would be acceptable," I concede.
"Great." She smiles broader, and the simple gesture lights up her face in a way that makes my tentacles stir beneath their binding. "Then let's make it official."
To my horror, she extends her hand for a handshake.
I stare at her outstretched palm, frozen in indecision. Physical contact will almost certainly trigger my bioluminescence. But refusing would be both rude and suspicious.
"Is something wrong?" she asks, her hand still extended.
"No," I manage, steeling myself. "Nothing at all."
I take her hand in mine, enveloping her smaller fingers in the grasp of my webbed hand. The effect is instantaneous.
Blue-green light races up my arm from the point of contact, illuminating the patterns embedded in my skin. The glow intensifies, pulsing in time with my quickening heartbeat, casting strange shadows across the clinical white surfaces of the room.
Jackie doesn't pull away. Instead, she stares at our joined hands, then up at my face, her blue eyes wide with wonder.
"Does that always happen," she asks softly, "when you touch someone?"
The truth hovers on my tongue.
No. Never. Only with you.
But admitting that would require explanations I'm not prepared to give. Instead, I grunt, then with a supreme effort, release her hand and turn away from her.
And as I pass Callum in the hallway, he stares at my glowing pattern with a stupid, stupid grin on his face.
Damn Callum and damn my bioluminescent glands.
Damn all of it.