CHAPTER TWO
ELLIOT
“Hey, buddy,” I murmur, smoothing another layer of salve over the thin crack along the edge of his shell. “You’re gonna be fine. I’ve got you.”
My hands move over the slick surface, slow and careful, checking for anything I might’ve missed the first time.
The clinic smells like salt and antiseptic, the ocean drifting in through the open bay doors, sharp and clean, tangled with something more clinical.
Not exactly natural, but necessary. The last thing we need is bringing in one patient and losing three more because something spreads.
“Not exactly how you planned your day, huh?” I add, glancing at his dark, steady eye. “It’s okay. I’ll stay. We’ll get you fixed up.”
It’s not as though you don’t already overwork as it is. We should be out in the sun. In the water.
My inner sea lion’s voice cuts in, impatient in a way he hasn’t been before.
I huff out a quiet breath, shifting slightly on the stool. He’s usually content to linger somewhere beneath the surface of my thoughts, present, steady, part of me without needing to say anything. We move together. Work together.
Lately, though?
Not so much.
There has been something restless in the air and water around Crescent Cove, and I’m determined to figure it out.
I glance toward the window. The sun’s still high, casting long gold streaks across the water outside. Most of the staff had cleared out early after the long day—the vet, his tech, even the interns who usually linger for the experience. The clinic feels bigger when it’s quiet. Emptier.
But there’s still work to do.
And I’m not leaving him like this.
“I know.” I return my focus to the turtle, smoothing one last careful pass of salve along the edge of his shell. “We’ll get you back out there soon enough.”
Sooner if you stopped hovering like a mother hen, my sea lion mutters.
I ignore him.
Instead, I fall into the same rhythm I always do, the one that makes everything else fade away. The hush of the ocean. The soft scrape of my gloves. The slow, steady rise and fall of a creature that hasn’t given up yet.
For a moment, the world narrows to just this.
Steady hands. Quiet voice.
And the stubborn, fragile act of something choosing to heal.
“Before you know it, you’ll be back out there swimming in the big blue sea again.” I grab a jar of disinfectant and sterile gauze before cleaning the shallow lacerations on his forelegs. “You’re going to be just fine, little dude. I think I’ll call you… Captain Barnacle.”
A small snort erupts behind me, too quiet for a human ear, but with my enhanced shifter hearing it’s loud and clear. I spin around in my chair, the corner of my lips quirking into a grin.
“What was that?”
Tempest freezes beside the large stainless-steel fridge, a bucket in one hand, the other wrist-deep in a container of feeder fish.
“You’re supposed to rescue them, not get attached. They belong to the sea,” Tempest says as she tosses a handful of silver fish into a large quarantine tank where a curious baby seal we rescued last week from a fisherman’s net swims impatiently in circles for his dinner.
I hold up the juvenile sea turtle we picked up early this morning. He kicks his hind feet as though he’ll somehow get traction in the air.
“But look how cute he is.”
She shakes her head in disbelief at my antics, but not before I catch a glimpse of the dimple in her cheek.
Elliot one, Tempest zero.
I set him back on the exam table and continue applying a salve of Manuka honey and beeswax to the shallow lacerations along his legs as he returns to munching happily on a pile of fish.
Some tourists discovered him on the beach uptown, ensnared in old fishing line and plastic bags.
We’d headed up as soon as we got the call.
He’s lucky he was in good shape. Others aren’t so lucky.
Thankfully, there are groups working to keep the beaches clean of litter, especially during the busy tourist season.
I volunteer when I can between shifts, surfing, and patrolling the beach.
The real reason I’m here.
Sea lions are West Coast creatures, but after finishing my graduate degree focused on marine biology, the job landed in my inbox and I just knew I was destined to move to this cozy little beachside town on the East Coast, hundreds of miles away from family and friends.
But I soon found out that wasn’t an issue. Not only was the town full of magical beings and shifters, there was a small local herd of sea lions that had ended up in the cove and made a nest here.
I only wish I could speak to the animals and find out what brought them here.
“Hey, I’m headed out,” Tempest calls as she washes her hands in the large industrial sink. “You okay closing up?”
I glance up. I’d nearly forgotten she was still here while I focused on my work.
“Yeah, I’ve got a few things to finish up here and some paper—”
“Okay, great. See you tomorrow.”
She grabs her purse and keys, pausing a moment as though she’s going to say something else before turning on her heel and heading out with barely a wave.
The door shuts with a resounding click, leaving me with only the crunch of vegetation and the rhythmic sound of waves crashing along the shore outside the clinic.
“Don’t worry about her, bud. She’s great.
Just not one for small talk.” I stare at the closed door.
She’s pretty, as far as women go, but not my type.
Nor is that why I came to Crescent Cove Maine Animal Rescue and Rehabilitation a decade ago.
She’s married to her job, though. You can really see her dedication to the animals and her love for the sea.
It’s the reason I don’t mind working long shifts with her; I know she’ll have my back no matter what we run into.
As if that’s an issue. You talk enough for both of you.
“Well, I’m just trying to make her feel comfortable. We have to work together.” I shrug before pushing back from the table to examine my handiwork. He’ll heal quickly and be back at the sea turtle sanctuary before the end of the week.
When I first came to Crescent Cove, I went on exactly one date—a cousin of one of my now close friends, Selena.
She was kind, easy to talk to, the sort of person who made silence feel comfortable instead of awkward.
But somewhere between polite smiles and shared stories, we both realized the same thing: whatever spark we’d hoped for just wasn’t there.
We laughed it off, agreed we were better as friends, and left it at that.
Afterward, I told myself I was fine focusing on work instead of relationships.
It was easier that way. Clean. Uncomplicated.
Of course, that didn’t stop Selena and the rest of them from pulling me into their lives as if I’d always belonged there.
They invited me to family carne asadas where laughter carried long into the night, dragged me out to surf even when I insisted I had work to do, and somehow convinced me that my “free time” should be spent volunteering at the turtle sanctuary.
Not that I minded. If anything, it felt…
right. My work already revolves around rescuing and rehabilitating injured wildlife, but the sanctuary gives those efforts a sense of completion I hadn’t realized I was missing.
It’s not just about saving them; it’s about giving them a place to return to, somewhere safe.
Watching the turtles make their slow, determined journey back to the ocean, knowing they can come ashore again one day to lay their eggs without fear, settles something deep inside me.
Captain Barnacle turns his head toward the open bay doors as a particularly large wave crashes against the shore. “Back in the tank with you, my friend. You’ve got some healing to do before I can let you go.”
I push to my feet and stretch, my back protesting after hours hunched over stainless steel and stubborn hope. “Yeah, yeah,” I mutter, rolling my shoulders before slipping my hands beneath the sea turtle’s shell and lifting him carefully. “We’re both done for the day.”
He’s heavier than he looks, solid and warm in my grip as I carry him over to his tank. The water laps softly against the sides as I lower him in, releasing him slowly so he can find his balance. For a second, he just floats there, still, uncertain. Then one flipper moves. Then another.
“There you go,” I murmur, leaning against the edge as he takes a few tentative strokes before settling into an easy, lazy circle along the perimeter.
The lacerations will sting for a day or two, but the salve should help. Infused with magic from a local green witch coven. Good stuff. Speeds up healing without forcing it. Lets the body do what it’s meant to do, just… faster.
If only everything worked like that.
I stay there a minute longer than I need to, watching him glide through the water. Making sure. Always making sure.
He’ll be fine, my sea lion hums, a low, satisfied note beneath my thoughts. You did good.
“I know,” I say softly, though I don’t move.
Still doesn’t fix the bigger problem.
I exhale through my nose, straightening and stepping back from the tank. “We’re not doing this right now.”
You’re lonely. We’re lonely.
The word lands heavier than it should.
I turn away, brushing my hands together as if I can shake it off. “I’m busy.”
You’re always busy.
There’s no accusation in it. Just fact.
I cross the room, scanning each tank, each enclosure, checking locks, filters, the small details that keep everything running. Everything is pristine. In order. Exactly how it should be.
It’s easier that way.
“I’m dedicated,” I correct under my breath, flipping off a light in one corner before moving to the next.
You’re avoiding.
I huff a quiet laugh, dropping into the chair at my desk and flipping open my laptop. “Same difference.”
The screen flickers to life, the loading icon spinning in slow, indifferent circles. I drum my fingers against the desk, already feeling the itch of impatience crawling under my skin.
Paperwork.
The worst part of the job.
But necessary.
I start typing, logging the day’s intake—location, condition, treatment plan. Keeping it clean. Objective. Clinical. No room for the part of me that names them or talks to them or promises things I can’t always guarantee.
Captain Barnacle. Stable. Responsive. Lacerations treated. Prognosis: good.
I rub at my brow, clicking through to input his vitals, my gaze drifting toward the open bay doors. The sun is lower now, dipping toward the horizon in slow, golden surrender.
Summer means later sunsets.
Still not late enough.
We could already be in the water.
“I’m finishing,” I mutter, typing faster.
You always say that.
I pause for half a second, staring at the screen.
You keep waiting. For what?
I swallow, jaw tightening slightly as I hit save.
“For nothing,” I say, lower this time. “Finding a mate isn’t exactly something you schedule between shifts.”
But it happens.
“Rarely,” I counter, shutting the laptop with a soft click. “And not to people who have actual responsibilities.”
Excuses.
I push back from the desk, grabbing my keys from the locker with a little more force than necessary. “Priorities.”
The clinic feels too quiet as I move through it, shutting down lights, checking locks one last time before pulling the bay doors closed. The echo of it seals something in my chest I don’t feel like examining too closely.
I set the alarm, lock the front door behind me, and step out into the warm evening air.
Finally.
Finally, my sea lion echoes, brighter now, restless energy snapping just beneath the surface.
I glance up at the roof of my SUV, where my sleek teal-and-green surfboard is strapped in place, a sea lion etched in clean, simple lines across the center. A gift from my brother after I moved. So I wouldn’t be the only sea lion on the East Coast.
The parking lot is empty.
It usually is when I leave this late.
I don’t think about that as I climb into the driver’s seat and start the engine, pulling out onto the darkening road that leads away from town.
Toward the ocean.
Toward something that, at least for a little while, doesn’t feel like I’m the only one in it.