Filed To Story: The Saltwater Curse Book PDF Free
The soft cotton sheets feel wrong against my dry, grimy skin. Every inhale is sandpaper against my dry throat. I need water. Hell, a coffee would make me worse, but I would kill for one.
The bed creaks when I move, and both creatures whip their heads my way. Ordus is up and on his feet—
tentacles the moment his eyes land on me.
His eyes are crinkled at the edges, looking at me with enough concern to hit me in my windpipe. All over again, I’m wishing I could hate him for all this, wish I could forget the way he touched me so gently, how he sometimes softens from the mere sound of my voice. He brought me more fish and a couple different crabs, spouting something about how one of them might be right for me, and then he holds my bad arm and massages the tense muscles.
He’s lonely. He didn’t need to say it for me to see it when his sheer desperation for me to show him even an ounce of positive attention oozes from his pores. His eyes brighten with a flicker of something every time I look at him. I don’t miss the barest curve of his lips every time I let his tentacle wrap around me.
Also, it’s not an excuse, but I don’t think he knows any better.
I can’t entirely fault him for not being familiar with how another species feeds, but I’d expect some level of research first before taking one prisoner.
I won’t thank him for bringing me here when he’s the reason I’m like this to begin with. If you thank people for the bare minimum, you’ll teach them mediocrity is the standard.
I suppose this means he will do whatever it takes to keep me alive, but being alive and comfortable are two separate things.
“Cindi, are you well?” Ordus’ voice is smooth yet pinched, like he’s holding himself back from doing his own check.
“A million bucks,” I murmur.
He tips his head to the side.
Yeah. You don’t understand the reference. Got it.
I shift to the edge of the bed and take a deep breath before pushing myself up to my feet. Fatigue hits me like a bad case of vertigo, combined with a mushroom cloud exploding somewhere behind my eyes, and I drop back down.
I’ve felt like shit before, but this well and truly takes the cake. It’s as bad as when me and a couple of friends decided to finish a bottle of absinthe between the three of us back in college. I thought I was going to see God.
Ordus could’ve brought me back to the island while I was unconscious. Why didn’t he? I’m weak. I wouldn’t have been able to fight him.
Curling onto my side on the bed, I watch Ordus from beneath my heavy lids. One of his tentacles—it’s always the same one—snakes around my leg, always so gently, pulsing and warming like it’s trying to comfort me. He inhales deeply, tension unwinding from his shoulders as he closes the distance.
I guess at some point during the past however many days, my subconscious realized tentacles don’t need to hurt, and despite the dehydration and hunger, his intention isn’t to hurt me. He truly believes I’m his soulmate.
I hate that my broken shards have splintered too many times until there is no longer any part of me I recognize.
I hate that his hands don’t hurt, because then it would make it easier to hate him.
I won’t lie and say being looked at like I’m a being of the divine isn’t a…nice experience. Maybe under different circumstances, in another life, maybe.
But what if…what if we really are soulmates? Would it be so bad to be with a kraken like Ordus? I mean, the physical attraction is there. He’s somewhat amusing, I guess, if not bewildering or maddening. And?—
No, I can’t think that. I didn’t get out of one cage to end up in another.
“I need more water,” I croak, standing back up and shuffling past him, his tentacle still awkwardly hanging on to me. It feels more like intimacy than shackles.
The fridge door squeals, and the motor rumbles to life when I slump onto the floor and pull it open. I stall with my fingers on a plastic bottle. Where’s the high-pitched whirring gone?
The contents of the little
Yakult bottle are in my mouth before I form another thought, followed by the satisfying crick of the
You?C1000 bottle cap before the carbonated vitamin drink is bubbling down my throat.
If I can’t get an IV drip in me, grocery store probiotics and vitamins are going to have to do. This time, I pace myself by drinking a few sips of milk,
Teh Botol for the sugar, and plain ol’ water. I manage little spoonfuls of fried rice and chicken in between, careful not to get to the point where I throw up.
Ordus studies the contents of the fridge like memorizing every bottle I pick up and bring to my lips and the cans I steered clear of. A dip forms between his brows when I use a pump on the Aqua water gallon sitting on a plastic stool.
I manage to find my last little jar of chicken essence and brace for the worst. I crack it open, pinch my nose, and swig it back. The putrid taste makes me gag; I have to wash it down with more tea. Most of my childhood trauma comes down to Dad pressuring me into drinking the alternative medicine whenever I got sick. He swore by it—always preached something about how it’s all the vitamins and nutrients from a chicken or whatever.
But Christ, he really was onto something. It’s always given me an energy boost.
I feel Ordus watching me, always a couple of feet away, still as a statue, like it might make him appear less imposing, or he’s scared I might freak.
Leaning my head back against the cupboard, I try to even out my breaths. My sights land on the power generator on the coffee table, the one I’ve been meaning to fix for weeks. It’s been put back together, the red light flashing. It wouldn’t turn on a week ago.
And the fridge… It stopped making that weird sound.
I crane my neck toward the broken chair that was upside down on the floor last night. It’s fixed, now upright, leg in the correct place, perfectly angled with no uneven lift off the floor. The glue, wrench, and screwdriver sit on the table.
My eyes swing to Ordus, lips parted. He fixed them?
Why would he even bother? The gentle giant confuses me.
I reach above my head for the edge of the kitchen counter to haul myself up. A tentacle wraps around my waist and carefully raises me to my feet before I can attempt to do it on my own. He lingers there, coiled around me, brushing against the underside of my boobs, and I stop breathing.
My skin pebbles, and my cheeks heat for reasons unbeknownst to me.
That’s a lie. I very much know.
The memory of the suckers around my nipple flashes like damn high beams, and I suck in a breath to forget about it, but it’s too late. It’s there. It’s so vivid. So is the way his cock hardened, how his cum dripped on me.
That near-death lethargy creeps back up on me for entirely different reasons. I can barely get my body to comply with my demands to extract myself from the memory and the feel of his solid warmth around me.
Next comes the exhaustion, the crushing weight of months of running without pause, years of pain under pretty hands. His tentacles don’t hurt.
He doesn’t hurt. I miss knowing what it feels like to endure the touch of another person without fear of leaving with bruises on my skin.
Ordus eases the rest of him over to me, curling his tentacles tighter as he crouches to avoid hitting the roof. Tentatively, he slowly holds a hand out to cup my jaw.
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