Chapter 7 Kara
THERE WAS AN OCTOPUS shifter cooking in my kitchen.
That should have felt strange, like something out of a dream I hadn’t quite woken up from yet, or the beginning of some ridiculous, slightly inappropriate joke.
A few weeks ago, it absolutely would have.
But now? Now it just felt normal. Comfortable, even, as I stood there watching his tentacles move with effortless precision, taking over my kitchen like he had done it a thousand times before.
I leaned against the counter, watching him work. Each tentacle seemed to have a task of its own, moving in tandem in a way that was almost hypnotizing—one stirring, another chopping, while another adjusted the heat on the stove, all in perfect rhythm.
And I didn’t exactly mind the view as I watched him work.
When he had shown up earlier, I had been fully prepared for another round of repairs.
Instead, he arrived without any supplies, claiming the store had closed early, and showed up with grocery bags instead, saying he didn’t want to come empty-handed.
A part of me wasn’t buying it, because if there was one thing I had always been good at, it was reading people and knowing when they were bluffing.
And something told me he didn’t want this whole “fixing Kara’s cottage” situation to end any more than I did.
I didn’t call him out on it, though, because a home cooked meal sounded too good to question.
Rice steamed in a pot, while a pan sizzled on the stove where he worked on something he had called teriyaki salmon, the scent already having my stomach grumbling and excited for something that wasn’t a microwavable entrée.
I shifted slightly, my hip pressing more firmly into the counter as I watched him, my gaze following the ease of his movements and the quiet confidence in everything he did. And somewhere in the middle of it, I realized I was going to miss this.
The repairs were almost done, and the house was livable now. Once it was finished, once there was nothing left to fix, he wouldn’t have a reason to come back.
The realization settled deep in my chest, because as much as I knew I needed to continue my incognito life, which meant being alone in fear of getting caught, the truth was I was enjoying this. I was enjoying him.
Plus, he was hot as hell, a fact I couldn’t deny even if I wanted to.
Every time he swung a hammer or drove a screw into place, I felt that familiar drop in my stomach, the way my attention snagged on the movement of his muscles as they flexed.
I was attracted to him, obviously. I mean, I was sure everyone in town was.
But even beyond that, with him here, I didn’t feel alone, and that was such a new feeling I hadn’t felt in so long.
For the past few years, even when I’d been surrounded by people—crowded gambling dens, loud voices, constant movement—I had still felt that deep, lingering loneliness, no matter how much noise tried to drown it out.
But right now? Standing here in this newly functioning kitchen, watching an octopus shifter cook me dinner, I didn’t feel that way anymore, and I just wanted to hold on to that feeling as tightly as I could.
He moved about the space, plating the food with a level of expertise that made it look like he’d worked in a restaurant at some point. He set a plate in front of me before fixing his own, then joined me at my newly sanded table, courtesy of eight very efficient tentacles two days ago.
“Careful,” he said, sliding the plate closer. “It’s hot.”
“I gathered that from the steam,” I replied with a small laugh. I gave the salmon a quick blow before taking a bite, and the moment the flavor hit, I froze. “Oh,” I breathed, the word slipping out before I could stop it.
“Is that a good ‘oh’ or a concerning one?”
“It’s a very good ‘oh,’” I said quickly, already going in for another bite. “Like, almost suspiciously good.”
“I’m not sure how that’s a logical conclusion,” he said skeptically.
“Well, you’re good with your tentacles, you show up and fix my house, and now you cook like this? That’s too many skills for one person. That’s why it’s suspicious.” I took another bite, a moan escaping my lips at the taste. “Seriously, this is incredible.”
A small smile tugged at his mouth as he watched me before taking a bite of his own food. “I’ve always enjoyed cooking. It’s something I find relaxing, and if I hadn’t gotten into the massage business, I probably would have been a chef, opening my own little Japanese restaurant here in town.”
“I’d probably eat there every night,” I muttered, my mouth full of rice. “So where did you learn to cook like this?”
“Back home, I learned how to cook a lot of traditional meals at a young age.”
“Really? What else can you make?”
“All kinds of things. Miso soup, for one,” he said. “Proper dashi takes time, but it’s doable. Okinawan soba. Grilled fish, prepared in different ways depending on the season. And pretty much any sort of rice dish.”
I wasn’t even sure if some of what he said were actual words, but they all sounded delicious. “You’re just casually listing things that already sound better than anything I’ve eaten in the last six months.”
“They aren’t too complicated, but it definitely takes patience and precision to get the dishes right,” he said simply.
“Well, whatever you’re doing, it’s working. This is incredible.”
“I figured you’d like it. That’s why I picked this dish. Had to put those microwavable, flavorless meals to shame and show you how real food is supposed to taste. When given attention and care, food can be just as much of a comforting experience as a massage.”
I let out a soft laugh and took another bite, slower this time, letting myself taste every bit of it.
Every spice, every layer, every ounce of care that had gone into it.
The richness of the glaze, the way everything balanced so perfectly, like it had been thoughtfully crafted instead of thrown together in a rush.
It was the best thing I had ever tasted, and suddenly I felt overly emotional as the realization began to sink in.
Because it wasn’t just the food. It was the fact that someone had made it... for me.
No one had ever done that for me before.
I mean, sure, Aaron had ordered me a burger and fries here and there, but he never actually cooked for me.
Not even in the beginning, when I had been so head over heels for him, when I would have done anything for him...
when I did do anything for him, which had ultimately landed me with Zavier.
A man who only ever did nice things when he expected something in return, like kindness was a transaction and I owed him for every scrap of it.
It had always been a trade. A give and take that never felt equal, that left me feeling smaller every time I played along.
But I hadn’t really had a choice. I had signed my life away, and after that, it had just been about surviving.
But this... this was different.
Octavius didn’t ask anything of me. He just gave. He gave me his skills, his time, and maybe most surprising of all, his patience. Because I knew I could be a lot sometimes. Still, he showed up every day, and he never asked for anything in return.
My grip tightened slightly around the fork as something shifted in my chest. My breathing hitched, just enough to give me away, and before I could stop it, I felt a tear slip free.
Octavius’s gaze snapped to me immediately, like he had felt the exact moment it happened. “I’m sorry,” he said at once. “Is it the spices? Did I add too much?”
I shook my head quickly, swiping at my cheek. “No. No, it’s—” I let out a shaky breath. “It’s perfect.”
“Then why are you crying?”
I let out a weak, breathy laugh. “It’s nothing. It’s silly, really.”
“You living in this cottage is silly,” he said evenly. “Yet that didn’t stop me from helping you. So let me do that now.” His eyes searched my face, and everything about his expression felt so honest and sincere that I knew I couldn’t lie to him. “Kara, why are you crying?”
“It’s just... it’s just no one’s ever done this before. Cooked for me, I mean, and taken care of me. Not like this, anyway.”
His expression shifted, just slightly, something tightening beneath the surface like he was piecing things together faster than I wanted him to.
“Not that I think you’re—” I cut myself off, shaking my head quickly. “I know you’re not taking care of me or anything. I just... it’s been nice. You helping me with the house, showing up every day, and not asking for anything in return. I’m just not used to that, I guess.”
“Is that...” He hesitated, like he wasn’t sure if he should push, before clearing his throat and continuing more carefully. “Is that something from your past? Have you always been expected to give something in order to receive something in return?”
I didn’t answer, and somehow that silence said more than anything I could have.
I watched as his hand curled slightly against the table, his jaw tightening like he already knew the answer and didn’t like it.
“Kara, I’m not here to judge you. But before Crescent Cove... your life before this...” He paused for a moment as I could see an uneasiness wash over him. “Were you forced to do things that made you uncomfortable?”
I glanced down, suddenly afraid that if I looked at him for too long, everything would spill out right there.
Because he was already too close to the truth, there was no denying that.
But I couldn’t just tell him. I couldn’t lay it all out, couldn’t let him see just how bad it had really been.
So I did what I always did and put on my poker face. Or at least, I tried to.
“It’s fine,” I said quickly, turning my head away to brush it off like it was nothing. “It doesn’t matter.”
I tried to keep my expression neutral, but I couldn’t stop the tears that continued to fall anyway. I couldn’t stop the way my body trembled as everything I kept buried pushed too close to the surface.