Chapter Eight #2
"The dress code is formally described as 'coastal elegance,' which basically means everyone tries to outdo each other while pretending they didn't try at all," she explains, sipping her color-shifting cocktail.
"Last year, Mira wore a gown made entirely of sea-through fish scales over a fishnet bikini.
She looked amazing, but I'm pretty sure three different husbands slept on the sofa for a week after staring at her for too long. "
I laugh, relaxing into the evening. The second round of drinks arrives, and Sylvie twirls her cocktail umbrella with the studied nonchalance of someone sitting on a question.
"So. Your brother is living with you."
Oh, no! I should have known Chase would make a lasting impression on Sylvie. He always does.
"Charming, broke, and between jobs," I say. "As always."
She hums. There’s something in her expression I don't quite trust.
"Don't," I say. “My brother is a pain in the ass. You don’t want to ask me anything more about him.”
"I didn't say anything." She rolls her eyes, staring way too hard at her drink.
"You were thinking it very loudly."
Sylvie's wings flutter with unconvincing innocence and she takes a sip of her drink.
Time to change the subject to something way more interesting than my red-flag brother.
"Can I ask you something weird?"
Sylvie leans forward, wings perking up with interest.
"Weird is my specialty."
I take a fortifying sip of my drink. "It's about Orvik."
"Now we're talking!" She claps her tiny hands together.
"Have you ever noticed that his skin glows?"
Sylvie freezes mid-sip, her eyes widening to anime proportions. She looks seriously cute, if mildly crazy.
"You saw his skin glow?" Her wings flutter nervously. "When did you see this?"
"Only every time I see him," I admit, feeling ridiculous. I don’t know much about krakens and the little online research I did more than confused me, stating it could mean anything from Orvik’s undying love for me to his total and utter disgust. With the interactions we’ve been having, I’d lean toward disgust. "Every time we touch, even accidentally, these patterns light up all over his skin.
And recently, I noticed something even stranger.
" I lower my voice and lean over the table.
"Last week, when I was treating his hand after Captain Peck bit him, I swear I saw faint patterns appearing on my own skin too. Right where we were touching."
Sylvie nearly chokes on her drink, sputtering dramatically before setting it down with a thunk.
"Oh. My. Gods." Each word is punctuated by a wing flap. She stares at me like I've just announced I'm secretly mermaid royalty.
"So it does mean something," I press when she doesn't elaborate.
Sylvie takes another large gulp of her drink, clearly stalling.
"It means something. Yes."
"Something like what?"
And why am I the only one who seems to be so ignorant of kraken culture? Is there a rule book of social interaction with deep-sea Others that I should check out at the library or something?
"Something significant." Her eyes dart around the room as if looking for an escape route.
"Sylvie." I fix her with my best no-nonsense stare, the one I used when my dad tried to skip his medication. "What does it mean?"
She fidgets with her cocktail umbrella, opening and closing the tiny device in fast succession.
"Look, it's really not my place to explain. It's a kraken thing, and it's… personal. Very personal." She reaches across the table to pat my hand. "If you want to know what it means, you should ask Orvik directly."
I groan with frustration.
"I've tried! He either changes the subject or just flat-out leaves."
"There's probably a reason for that," Sylvie says cryptically, then immediately brightens. "Oh look, they've added spicy squid rings to the menu! Should we order some?"
I'm about to press her further when the tavern door swings open, bringing a gust of cool sea air. The conversation momentarily dies as heads turn toward the entrance.
And there he is.
Orvik steps inside, and my breath catches in my throat.
Gone is his crisp uniform. Instead, he wears dark jeans that hug powerful legs and a simple black t-shirt stretching across his broad shoulders.
His tentacle hair is loose, flowing freely around his face in relaxed waves that reach past his shoulders.
The tentacles of his beard curl gently around his strong jaw, moving slightly with each breath he takes.
He looks magnificent. He looks like a creature that should be worshipped at an altar.
Oh, for goodness’ sake, I sound like a horny groupie.
My heart races, and heat flushes through me as I take in every detail: the way his webbed hands casually push back a stray tentacle, the slight gleam of moisture on his blue-green skin, the powerful confidence in his stance.
Our eyes lock across the crowded room, and he stops moving. For a moment, everything else falls away. The electric connection between us is so palpable I wonder if everyone else can feel it too.
Then the moment breaks. Orvik gives me a curt nod, just enough acknowledgment to be polite, before turning toward the bar.
I feel a stab of disappointment so sharp it surprises me. What was I expecting? That he'd cross the room and sweep me into his arms? That he'd announce to everyone that I'm the sexiest woman in the room? Ridiculous of me to even think he would want to spend his free time with a puny human woman.
"So that's how it is, huh?" Sylvie's knowing voice pulls me back to our table.
"I don't know what you mean," I say, taking another sip of my drink to hide my flushed cheeks.
"Yeah, you do." She glances meaningfully between Orvik and me. "You know, for someone who works with wildlife, you're terrible at recognizing mating behavior."
I nearly spit out my drink.
"There is no mating behavior. We work together. Sometimes. When necessary."
"Mm-hmm." Sylvie's smile is infuriatingly smug.
I'm saved from further teasing when the band starts a new song, something with a driving beat that has several patrons moving to the small dance floor. I try to focus on Sylvie's renewed chatter about the gala, but my attention keeps drifting to the bar.
Two women have approached Orvik, a mermaid with teal-streaked hair and a human with flowing red locks. They're clearly flirting, touching his arm and laughing at whatever he's saying. One of them runs a finger along his forearm, precisely where I know those glowing patterns emerge when I touch him.
Nothing happens. No glow. No tentacles reaching toward her.
I pretend not to notice while watching from the corner of my eye. Orvik seems to enjoy their attention, his usually stern expression softening into something almost like a smile as he accepts a drink from the redhead.
A hot, ugly feeling curls in my stomach. Jealousy. Which is ridiculous because I have absolutely no claim on Orvik Fenmoor. He's free to flirt with whoever he wants. It's not like we're dating. We've never even kissed. We barely tolerate each other.
So why does watching those women touch his arm make me want to march over there and… and what? Mark my territory?
More like lick him all over in front of them. Show them all he’s taken.
I shake my head against the intrusive thought. Am I devolving into some crazy stalker or what?
"If you stare any harder, you're going to burn a hole through his head," Sylvie comments, clearly enjoying my discomfort.
"I wasn't staring," I insist, tearing my gaze away. "I was just looking at the band."
"Uh-huh. And I'm secretly an ogre."
I drain my cocktail. "I'm getting another round. Same for you?"
"Yes, please!" Sylvie beams. "And maybe bring back some of that unresolved sexual tension you and Orvik are brewing. It's delicious."
“Ha, ha.”
I roll my eyes and make my way to the bar, carefully positioning myself away from where Orvik stands with his admirers. The bartender, a burly satyr with impressive curved horns, is busy with another customer, so I wait patiently, trying not to let my gaze drift down the bar.
“Hey there, lovely,” a male voice says beside me. “I couldn't help but notice you at the bar.”
I turn to find a well-dressed human man in his forties, his smile a little too wide and his posture a little too slumped as he leans on the bar. Ugh. He’s drunk.
"I'm sorry, have we met?" I ask, though I'm certain we haven't.
"Not yet," His speech is slurred and he takes a long look down my body in a way that makes me shiver. And not in a good way. "Let me buy you a drink. A beautiful woman shouldn't drink alone."
"No, thank you," I say firmly. "I'm just getting drinks for my friend and me."
I try to move past him, but he places himself directly in my path. He's hovering over me, trapping my body between his and the bar.
"Come on, just one drink," he persists, his torso leaning just a tad too much over me, making me eager to get out of there as fast as I can. "I promise I'm good company."
"I'm not interested," I say, my anxiety rising. "Please leave me alone."
I turn away, heading for the hallway that leads to the bathrooms and side exit, desperate to escape the uncomfortable interaction.
The man follows, catching up to me in the narrow corridor.
"Playing hard to get? I like a challenge."
My heart hammers against my ribs as he positions himself in my path again.
"This isn't a challenge," I say, raising my voice without intending to. "This is me telling you I'm not interested. Now please, step back."
He reaches for my arm. "Just give me a chance, sweetie."
"I believe the lady said she's not interested," a deep voice interrupts, resonating through the narrow corridor.
Orvik materializes beside me, his presence imposing and protective. His tentacle hair has darkened to nearly black, writhing with obvious anger. His eyes, normally the color of deep ocean waters, now flash with dangerous intensity.
"This is a private conversation," the man says, though he takes an instinctive step back.