Page 1 of Claimed By the Deep
Meridian
ONE
The water embraces me, impossibly clear at this depth. I float naked through blue-green darkness, weightless and unafraid. Something stirs beneath… massive, graceful, powerful. Logic dictates terror, but instead, a curious pull tugs at me, my body responding in ways I can't rationalize.
From the shadows emerge tentacles, dark red with burgundy undertones that shift like liquid metal in the filtered light. Beautiful in their alien precision, each thick as my waist, moving with deliberate intent. The first contact whispers against my ankle—cautious, questioning, learning.
I remain still. Cannot move. I don'twantto.
One appendage glides upward, encircling my calf, firm but gentle. The texture surprises me: smooth yet rippled, warm despite the cold depths. A soft gasp escapes as a second tentacle finds my other leg. They lift me with effortless strength, arranging me exactly as they desire, leaving me no choice but surrender.
More emerge, smaller ones exploring with precise attention. One traces my breast, so light the contact borders on torment. Another coils around my waist, anchoring me while the larger ones part my thighs. Suspended in liquid silence, exposed and wanting.
Intelligence radiates from the unseen creature. Each touch is calculated, each caress is deliberate. When an appendage slides between my legs, finding that perfect spot, the sound that leaves me echoes through water. Exquisite pressure builds with each movement, and I strain against the secure hold as need concentrates deep within.
"Please," I whisper uselessly to darkness, uncertain what I'm asking for.
The response comes as multiple tentacles move in concert—one around my breast, another stroking between my thighs, smaller ones finding every sensitive place I possess. Sensation upon sensation until I'm shaking with need, discovering pleasure beyond my imagination.
Just before everything shatters, I glimpse eyes watching from the darkness. Ancient, aware, fixed entirely on me. They radiate an intensity that exposes more than my bare skin, and somehow I know this being has waited for me.
I will always wait.
I wake with a sharp inhale, sheets damp with sweat and my body hollow with unfulfilled desire. The dream refuses to dissolve even as gray pre-dawn light filters through my apartment window.
Damn it. Not again.
I press my palms against my eyes, but phantom sensations linger—those tentacles around my thighs, that perfect pressure, the knowing touch. The persistent ache makes me curse as I swing my legs over the side of my narrow bed.
"Get it together, Meri," I mutter, stumbling toward the kitchenette for coffee.
My reflection in the darkened window startles me. My auburn hair in wild disarray, hazel eyes shadowed with interrupted sleep and lingering arousal. A disaster, frankly.
The dreams began a month ago. Just impressions at first—movement in deep water, the weight of unseen observation. But they've intensified, grown explicit. No, more than explicit. HOT. Last night felt so real I could have sworn something actually touched me, creating pressure that built until I gasped awake, reaching for nothing.
Cold water splashed on my face brings momentary clarity. The jagged scar along my left forearm catches my attention—a permanent reminder that salvage diving isn't just treasure hunting. Sometimes the ocean keeps what it claims. Three years since that lesson, and I've been careful. Usually.
Coffee percolates while I lean against the counter, fingertips tapping the counter. Soon I need to get to Deep Pockets. She’s my ship,.thirty-two feet of weathered fiberglass and stubborn determination. Not much to look at, but she's mine. Every bolt, every patched plate, every jury-rigged system that keeps her afloat when logic says she should've been scrappedyears ago.
My phone buzzes:Meridian! Early bird special at the diner. You eating real food today or just coffee and stubbornness?
Despite everything, Fergus's text makes me smile. For years he's been buying my salvage finds, ever since that Victorian jewelry box from the Seal Island wreck. His antique shop does solid business, and he pays fair prices without interrogating my methods.
More importantly, he's among the few in Tidewash who treats me as neither charity case nor maritime menace. Also, the only person who uses my first name since my parents died.
Coffee's fine, I text back.Some of us have work to do.
Some of us need to eat. Rain's coming tonight. You taking her out anyway?
Through the window, gray clouds gather on the horizon, but nothing serious yet. The weather service has predicted scattered storms all week, consistently wrong.
Maybe. Depends on what I find.
Three dots appear, vanish, reappear:Be careful out there, Meri. Ocean's been weird lately.
Weird barely covers it. Locals talk about strange currents, fish behaving oddly, reports of "something big" moving in deeper waters. Fishermen tend toward superstition, but lately there's been an edge to their stories that makes me want to believe them.
I pour coffee into my travel mug and check marine weather. Seas two to four feet, winds light and variable—perfect for today's not-quite-legal salvage operation.
