Chapter 3 Kara
FOR EXACTLY ELEVEN AND a half minutes after I left Suctions & Serenity, I was convinced I had died on that massage table. It was the only explanation that made any sense, because there was no earthly—or, given this town, possibly unearthly—reason my entire being should have felt this light.
All the stress that had been lodged in my chest since I made that stupid decision to help my ex—the same decision that chained me to a contract with Zavier, that turned every day into survival mode in that hellhole gambling den—had followed me here.
Until now.
Because now... it was gone. Completely gone.
People in town hadn’t been exaggerating when they talked about Octavius’s magic hands, or more accurately, his tentacles. Tentacles that somehow unraveled years of tension like it was nothing. Tentacles that made me feel calm, like my body had finally remembered what it was supposed to feel like.
Tentacles I absolutely could not stop thinking about. Or imagining.
They moved with a sort of synchronized grace, each one like an extension of his thoughts rather than just his body.
When they brushed against my skin, the sensation was nothing like I expected.
Not slimy or unsettling, but soft—almost velvety, as they glided over me.
The suckers didn’t grip or pull. Instead, they pressed in gentle pulses, each touch intentional, like he knew exactly how much pressure to use and never more than that.
Yeah, there was no way I was getting that out of my head anytime soon.
Because... wow. Him.
I mean, obviously him. It would’ve been impossible not to notice his presence.
At first glance, he looked like some pretentious, man-bun-wearing yogi, but that impression didn’t last. There was a quiet intensity about him that completely erased the cliché.
Even without the whole magical tentacle thing, he would have been memorable.
Tall and built in a way that made the room feel like it adjusted around him, his dark hair and black clothing making him seem like a shadow that swallowed the space.
And then his voice. Fuck, he could read the dictionary and I would hang onto every word. Gruff but smooth and paired with a stoic expression that made it seem like smiling was optional and probably not worth the effort.
And yet, he had been kind. Well, kind enough, I supposed. He had taken me last minute when he could have just said no, and still he agreed. And now I felt like this, like I was finally free from it all.
He wasn’t the kind of person who would wrap you in comfort and tell you everything was going to be okay.
That much was obvious. But there had been something about him that was very attentive, like he noticed too much and said too little, which in my experience meant one of two things: a very dangerous man or a very careful one.
Possibly both, and I wasn’t sure which intrigued me more.
“You are not going there, Kara,” I muttered to myself, shaking my head as I trudged up the path.
“This is how women make bad decisions, something I thought we had already learned from,” I scolded myself again.
A stupid man was the reason I was hiding to begin with, so I was not about to develop a crush on the broody octopus shifter who very clearly had boundaries and had probably had to enforce them more than once.
He was a professional. A very attractive, very moody professional... but still.
I wasn’t special, and I knew I was absolutely not the first person to walk out of that place feeling like this, which meant I needed to get a grip.
The walk back up the cliffside path should have been miserable.
Between the incline, the wind, and the general state of my physical fitness—which I was choosing not to evaluate too closely—it should have been slow, fueled by poor life choices and regret.
Instead, I practically had a bounce in my step.
Even as my cottage came into view, leaning slightly to one side like it was reconsidering its commitment to existing, I couldn’t find it in me to feel anything but...
good. Not even the looming list of repairs waiting for me inside could drag me down.
Not the warped floors. Not the suspicious noises.
Not even the bag of groceries I was carrying, filled with ingredients I didn’t entirely know how to use in a kitchen that may or may not actually function.
No, I was floating, and with the ocean practically in my backyard below, nothing felt like it could touch me, let alone bring me down.
I stopped because it hit me all at once.
I couldn’t remember the last time I had walked home without checking over my shoulder every few seconds, without listening for footsteps that didn’t belong to me, without silently calculating distance, escape routes, the fastest way to disappear if I needed to.
Now, when I turned, it wasn’t out of fear—it was to take in the sight and beauty around me.
When I reached my cottage, I made my way to the back, past the porch and out to the edge of the cliff that overlooked the water below. It was slowly becoming a nighttime routine. I stood there, watching the lights dance across the surface, shifting with each movement of the tide.
It was like this every night, and every night I couldn’t help but stop and stare, completely hypnotized by the colors.
I had heard of bioluminescence before, but this felt like something more.
Like the magic here didn’t just exist, it lived, threaded into everything in a way that made it impossible to ignore.
I could have stood there all night, staring, until the wind picked up and reminded me I should probably go back inside my fixer-upper and do the responsible thing—like figuring out if I could cook something without accidentally setting the place on fire.
That was assuming, of course, the stove actually worked after I’d tinkered with it that morning, which, if I was a betting woman—and I clearly was—my guess was no.
THE NEXT MORNING, I woke up feeling like an entirely different person.
For a few seconds, I just lay there, staring up at the slightly crooked ceiling, waiting for something to feel wrong, waiting for the familiar weight to settle back into my chest and the constant hum of anxiety to remind me it was still there.
Instead, there was just... quiet.
I exhaled slowly, sinking deeper into my lumpy mattress that was anything but comfortable and yet somehow still the best sleep I’d had in years. Then my stomach growled, reminding me I couldn’t just lie there all day and needed to do the adult thing and feed myself.
The stove had, in fact, not worked last night, which was how I ended up giving up entirely and heading back into town for something edible today. I’d found a small café called Toast & Tide. The food had been simple but perfect, and the latte... damn. That latte had been something else entirely.
At first, it tasted like a regular vanilla latte.
Then it began to warm me in more ways than one, in a way that felt almost magical, which, considering where I was, I was sure it was.
I was fairly certain the owner, a man named Maverick, had mentioned it helped people relax when he guided me to the perfect drink.
Not that I needed it. I was already relaxed, still riding the lingering high of Octavius’s magic tentacles, and the latte only gave it an extra boost.
Plus, it was delicious.
While I was in town, I picked up a few more supplies for another attempt at home improvement, my arms already full of things I only partially understood how to use.
But I needed to do it on my own. I couldn’t risk inviting anyone from town into my space, letting them linger.
It was part of my whole low-profile plan, only mingling just enough with the town and its people to avoid raising suspicion.
Now that I had food and supplies I’d probably have to watch YouTube tutorials to figure out how to use, it was time to head back, but of course, life had other plans. The second I turned the corner toward the path leading up to my cottage, I ran straight into a solid figure.
Everything in my arms—wood planks, a small box of screws, and a bundle of tools I had absolutely no business owning—went crashing to the ground in one loud, deeply humiliating clatter.
I froze for half a second, then dropped into a crouch, scrambling to gather everything before the embarrassment could fully set in.
“Looks like you were carrying too much,” a familiar, husky voice said, calm and dry as ever. He was already bending down to help, picking up the scattered screws before they could roll too far.
I glanced up, and of course it was him. The octopus shifter I had been fantasizing about before bed last night as I touched my... no, don’t even think about it, I told myself, just in case he could read minds too. No, I just had to play it cool.
“Carrying too much?” I said with a nervous laugh as I reached for the screws he now held. “Not anymore, thanks to your magic touch.”
“No,” he said flatly. “I meant literally.”
He didn’t smile as he handed them over, and I couldn’t tell if he was annoyed or if this was just... him.
“Why are you carrying all of this yourself?” he continued, already reaching for one of the boards as his tentacles slipped free from his back, gathering the loose pieces far more efficiently than I ever could. “You could have it delivered, you know.”
Ah, right. Delivered. Which would require people, people coming to my house, people looking too closely at the mess of my life and, more importantly, at just how human my lifestyle actually was.
“Hey,” I said, lifting my chin slightly as I took the board from him. “I’m an independent woman. I can handle it.”
“I’m sure you can,” he said dryly. “That doesn’t mean you should.”