I made it back to my bedroom, closing the door behind me and leaning against it for a moment, my heart beating just a little too fast, my thoughts still tangled in everything that had almost happened.
I pushed myself off the door and crawled into bed, pulling the blankets around me as the storm continued outside. I stared up at the ceiling, listening to the rain and the faint, almost imperceptible movement from the bathroom down the hall, and my thoughts refused to settle.
Because no matter how hard I tried not to, all I could think about was the octopus shifter sleeping in my bathtub, how close he had come to kissing me, and how much I had wanted him to.
Chapter 6: Octavius
THE MORNING AFTER I stayed the night, I slipped out before she woke, and it felt irritatingly like a walk of shame. I shouldn’t have been there in the first place, and yet, after seeing what her fate could have been, I couldn’t bring myself to regret it. Still, when morning came, I told myself my time there had been complete and that leaving was practical, with no reason to linger any longer. I convinced myself I had already overstepped, that my lack of restraint in ensuring her safety had crossed a line. I told myself it had been about uncovering her truth, about understanding what she was hiding so I could protect the town.
A noble justification, of course.
Though, truthfully, I found I no longer cared about that reasoning at all, and perhaps I should have stepped back entirely.
Instead, I returned the following day. And the day after that. And then again the next. What began as a single lapse in judgment became something far more, though I refused to name it as such.
Two weeks later, her cottage was no longer a hazard waiting to collapse in on itself. It wasn’t perfect—not by any reasonable standard—but it was livable. Safe enough that I could finally get some rest at night after leaving her there each evening, no longer wondering if the structure would still be standing by morning. That alone should have been enough reason to stop seeing her and marked the end of my involvement. And yet, I kept returning.
I usually arrived in the afternoons after my work was done, and earlier on my days off under the guise of efficiency, or with the excuse I convinced myself of that I needed to drain the emotions in the cove—the one that conveniently sat below her home—though I knew that wasn’t the truth. There was a pull there, something that kept drawing me back to her, making me linger just to exist in her presence.
Still, I made sure to leave at a reasonable hour each day, telling myself it was out of respect for her boundaries, though in truth, it was just as much about maintaining my own. I refused to let there be a repeat of that first night. I made certain alcohol was never involved again, even when she tried to “spice up” our poker lessons once the day’s repairs were done and I needed an excuse to stay just a little longer. I remained hyper-aware of what had almost happened between us, that moment replaying in my mind with frustrating clarity, especially when I was near her.
It had been nothing more than a lapse in judgment. A simple combination of alcohol and proximity. That was the only explanation that made sense, the only one I allowed myself to accept.
And yet... I remembered the way she had responded.
The shift in her breath had stayed with me. And even though I tried not to open myself to her emotions, it had been too strong to ignore. I remembered sensing her desire, even without touching her, something that had mirrored my own. A desire I still felt even now, though I pushed it down, closing myself off from her emotions, unwilling to let them confuse or tempt me further before I did something reckless.
I straightened, rolling my shoulders once in an attempt to shake off the memory and refocus on what had started all of this. Because Kara had secrets, but now I didn’t actually care what they were. It wasn’t my truth to know, and she didn’t owe me anything.
But still, that part of her lingered in my mind, gnawing at me in a way I couldn’t quite ignore. I wanted to dismiss it, to tell that suspicious, overly analytical part of myself to let it go, but I couldn’t. The more time I spent around her, the more certain I became that there was something she was holding back.
It showed in small ways, in how she deflected certain questions and in the inconsistencies in her family lineage. There were gaps, entire sections of her life she avoided acknowledging altogether. And the most frustrating part was that I had already closed that line of inquiry off completely. I couldn’t access anything more without touching her, a line I refused to cross unless she accepted that second session. I didn’t want to blur those boundaries, because I knew if I touched her again, I wasn’t sure I’d be able to stop, and I couldn’t guarantee it would remain professional.
Then again, I wanted to dig deeper the next time I laid my tentacles on her. Not because I wanted to catch her in a lie, but because I wanted to make sure she was truly alright, that she wasn’t in trouble, that whatever she was hiding wasn’t something that would come back to harm her. Because if she was in some kind of danger, I wasn’t sure how rational I could remain. Despite all logic, Kara was becoming something else entirely to me.
I found myself laughing when I was around her.Actually laughing.Smiling in a way that felt genuine and unforced, whether it was becauseof her stubbornness or the constant way she challenged me. She was, irritatingly, adorable in her convictions, and I had started to grow used to it.
It was almost ironic, the way she made me feel. My clients came to me for relief, for the kind of ease I gave them through my work, and yet the ease I felt around her came from nothing more than her presence. No magic. No effort.Just her.
By the time I was getting ready to close the parlor for the evening, I found myself already wanting to be back in her company. It had been a slower day, thankfully, and fewer clients meant less to take in. Most of it had been routine work, traditional massages rather than the deeper, emotional sessions that demanded more from me.
I was in my office, gathering a few things before closing, when the knock came. Mina didn’t wait for a response before pushing the door open.Of course she didn’t. For her, the knock was merely a courtesy.
“So, how was the day?” she asked, leaning casually against the doorframe.
