High Tide (Olympic Cove Book 5)

A human, a mer, and a satyr walk into a cove…

When Scott Siddell learns that he’s not quite human, a gorgeous satyr and a merman with a secret are the only ones who can help him come to grips with his heritage—and his growing attraction to them.

Raised among humans, Orrin never had the freedom to love. Now that he has mates, this brave satyr must fight those who want them separated forever.

Because of a dangerous secret, Rian has spent his entire life on the run. Orrin and Scott are his one chance at happiness, but first they must escape the Mad Nereid and her deadly ally.

Excerpt available here.

Fantasy Romance, MMM
Word Count: 92,000
Heat Level: 4
Published By: Belaurient Press

Books in the Olympic Cove series:

Novellas and Short Stories in the Olympic Cove series:

Content Advisory

Reviews

Rated Four Stars. “Fully-dimensional Big Bad that made me feel for her – loved that!”
—Archaeolibrarian

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Excerpt

Scott Siddell hit the brakes, glaring the wall of deep green foliage on the east side of A1A. It appeared to be a solid mass of old growth cherry laurel and viburnum, the most popular hedge plants on Florida’s Atlantic coast. He glanced at his phone, making sure that the little blue dot in the maps app was in the right place.

It was. So where’s the fucking access road?

The driver behind him beeped. Swearing under his breath, he sped up until he found a gas station where he could turn around. Heading north now, he checked his rear view mirror to make sure the lane behind him was empty before slowing to a crawl.

There. Like an optical illusion, a gap appeared in the foliage. He hit the turn signal and pulled onto the narrow access road. The light changed as tall palmettos lining both sides of the road filtered the sunlight and sent dots of gold dancing over his windshield. It reminded him of walking through a forest with Dad, listening intently as his father explained how to recognize various trees, animal spoor and tracks, even bird calls.

The memory made him smile as the road ended in a clearing with a row of brightly painted cottages spaced along a gentle curve. The scene could have gone on a tourism poster, it was so pretty. Digging out his phone, he took a quick pic. Maybe Miz Kuttner can use it on the office website.

It was his third week of working for Atlantic Rentals as a maintenance tech, and so far he was happy with the gig. His day-to-day work consisted of painting and doing repair work at the various properties owned by the agency, making sure they were clean and ready for incoming renters, and helping out in the office as needed. Atlantic Rentals owned a number of cottages and condos up and down the Florida coastline so it meant a lot of time in the car, but it was still better than sweating his ass off working construction.

A memory of a bright smile in a tanned, handsome face floated through his mind. He shook his head, wishing he could forget. Rafael didn’t want you. He made that eminently fucking clear.

Of course, walking off the building site after their fight had been dumb as hell, but the other workers had already started whispering about him, elbowing each other and laughing or giving him dirty looks and muttering “maricón” under their breaths. It was either walk away or start throwing hands.

He’d driven to nearby Olympic Beach with the intent of finding a cheap bar that catered to the locals and getting smashed. It was totally by accident that he’d spotted the HIRING – MAINTENANCE MAN sign in one of the little boutiques that lined the main shopping drag. The thought of the nine bucks in his bank account prompted him to pull over and ask about the job.

After a short interview with the owner the sign came down from the window and he’d been hired. He missed the camaraderie of working on a construction site, but Marcia Kuttner was paying him full-time at twenty-four bucks an hour with the promise of health and dental insurance if he stayed for longer than a month, plus she was generous about travel expenses. If she wanted him to head out to some place called Olympic Cove and check on a rental cottage, he was happy to do so.

According to the clipboard on the passenger seat, today’s job was the violet cottage at the left-hand end of the arc. The cottage had been empty for the summer and an unoccupied rental on a beach in Florida attracted horny teenagers, homeless people, and the occasional drug dealer. Scott knew from experience that the place could still be pristine from its last cleaning or look like a heavy metal band had camped there for a month.

Unlike the other cottages on the cove, this one had a covered carport. He pulled into it, admiring the shade of the cottage’s siding and how it complimented the green of the surrounding foliage and the beige sand. Wish I could afford some time off here.

Maybe someday, when he got his life straightened out and decided what he wanted to be when he grew up. For the moment, he had a job that covered the bills, a halfway decent apartment, and a car that was paid off and ran like a champ. Apart from Rafael, life could be a lot worse.

His phone buzzed and DAD appeared on the screen. He thumbed the Accept button. “Hey, Dad.”

“Hey, Scott,” the familiar twangy voice replied. “Sorry to call while you’re working, but I needed to know if you’re coming up this weekend.”

“Was I supposed to?”

“Nope. It’s just that Wanda needs some help with her yard, and we finally have the same weekend off so I told her I’ve come over and wrangle her lantana if you weren’t coming up.”

Scott grinned. Wanda was his widower dad’s girlfriend and worked as a 911 operator for the Jacksonville PD. Their time together had to fit around her shifts and his as a park ranger at Fort Clinch State Park, and Jack Siddell took pains to keep his lady happy. “Wrangling lantana?” he joked. “Is that what the kids are calling it these days?”

Dad chuckled. “Well, she did mention doing some grilling and maybe going to a movie. If you’re not coming up, I’ll call her and tell her it’s a go.”

“Good idea—you two have fun.” He checked the time. 11:38 AM. “Listen, I’ve got to check a property. I’ll call you after I get off work, okay?”

“Okay. You stay safe down there.” Dad’s voice dropped. “You still got that leveler I gave you, right?”

He glanced at the car’s glove compartment where he kept the Smith & Wesson M&P Shield. “Always.”

“Good. Call me this weekend, okay?”

“Will do. Give Wanda my love.” He tossed the phone onto the clipboard and opened the glove compartment, pulling out the pancake holster and adding it to the clipboard. Once out of the car he slid the holster onto his belt at the 4 o’clock position and the phone into his pocket, then took a deep breath of the warm salt air. Farther away from the shoreline it was muggy and hot, typical late August weather for Florida, but here the heat was tempered by the ocean breeze.

He started his inspection, checking the exterior, windows, and doors for damage. Out back was a nice covered lanai that overlooked the aquamarine water of the cove. The back door was locked and showed no sign of forced entry. With any luck, that meant the cottage had remained empty since the last round of renters. Exterior seems to be in good shape. Let’s see what the inside looks like.

Fishing out the cottage’s keys, he opened the front door and sniffed, his first action whenever he walked into a property. To his surprise the cheerfully decorated foyer smelled fresh with only a hint of the ever-present Florida mold. The last cleaning crew had come in at the end of July; after a month of being closed up the cottage should have smelled musty.

The back of his neck prickled and he shifted the clipboard to his left hand, keeping his right on the Smith & Wesson. Moving silently, he padded through the foyer into the central great room. It had been decorated in neutral tones with pops of tropical color coming from the cushions, posters, and rug. Like the foyer, it also smelled suspiciously fresh. He paused, listening. There were no noises coming from any of the rooms, but that didn’t mean they were empty.

Do I call the sheriff’s office and ask them to send a deputy? He could imagine how well that would go over. Yeah, the cottage smells too clean—could you please send backup?

Grimacing, he opened one of the doors off the foyer. It revealed a small bedroom with a stripped mattress and two white nightstands flanking the bed. Here the air was properly stale.

The other bedroom off the foyer was a mirror image of the first, down to the fusty air, as was the small bathroom next to it. The big, airy kitchen and dining room that looked out onto the lanai had the same fresh smell to the air.

So someone may have been in the public rooms, but not the smaller bedrooms. Which left the master bedroom suite. He slid the gun out of the holster but kept it at his side, careful to keep his finger off the trigger. The door to the master suite was slightly ajar and he nudged it open with the barrel. The bedroom beyond, decorated in pale teal with tropical style furniture, was unoccupied and the bed was stripped. He sniffed experimentally. The air here was fresh.

Damn it. He crept to the door to the master bath. Steeling himself, he opened the door quickly, groping for the light switches and flicking them on.

No one was in the tiled bathroom.

He checked the sink, toilet, and shower stall to make sure they’d been cleaned, then stopped. Most of the surfaces were spotless and gleaming, but the big, glassed-in shower stall had dried water streaks on the glass. Those would have been wiped away by the cleaning crew in July, unless someone had taken a shower after that.

He wasn’t imagining things—someone had definitely been in the cottage. Goddamn it. The place would have to be rekeyed at the very least, and Ms. Kuttner would probably want to have motion detectors and cameras set up around the outside of the cottage as well. Swearing under his breath at the extra work, Scott stomped back through the master bedroom into the great room.

And rocked to a halt when he saw a handsome shirtless man standing in the kitchen. The man’s lower half was hidden by the kitchen island but everything else belonged on the cover of Men’s Health; broad swimmer’s shoulders, a powerful chest, and arms layered with sleek muscle. The stranger’s face was just as enticing with its strong jaw, sculpted lips, and the prettiest storm blue eyes Scott had ever seen.

And he’s a squatter. Belatedly, Scott dropped the clipboard and brought the gun up, aiming for center of mass as he’d been taught. “Don’t move!”

The man blinked. “Okay.”

Shit. I can’t tell him to get on the floor—he’ll be behind the island and I won’t be able to see him. “Put your hands up and come into the great room. Slowly. You do anything stupid and I’ll shoot you.”

The man put his hands up, glancing down at himself. “Um, I don’t think you want me to do that,” he said, sounding strangely amused.

“Yes, I do. Get in here.”

“All right. But I did warn you.” The man stepped around the island slowly, revealing that he wasn’t so much shirtless as naked. In a more friendly situation Scott would have appreciated the view. Not only was the man’s lower half as toned and lean as his upper half, but he was also astoundingly well hung.

Scott forced his attention away from that mouthwatering cock. “Fuck.”

“But we just met.”

“Shut up.”

The man’s fingers spread wider, revealing strangely deep webbing between his fingers. “Sorry. I make bad jokes when I’m scared.”

He had a nice voice, too, a smooth, soothing tenor with a slight accent. He’s hot, built like an Olympic swimmer, and sounds like an English actor. Dammit, why didn’t I meet him on Grindr or at a bar? “Get on the floor, face down, and put your hands over your head.”

The man winced. “I’d rather not, if you don’t mind.”

“I don’t give a shit what you want to do,” Scott snapped. “I’m the one with the gun. Now get on the floor.”

“Rian, did I leave my drink in here—” Another shirtless man came out of the utility room. “Oh, dear.”

Scott swung the gun to aim at the new trespasser and froze. The second man was also hot, with a nicely toned chest and arms, and his longish, curly brown hair and matching goatee would have looked at home on a surfer.

The two horns sticking up out of his curls and the unmistakable points on his ears, however, were completely alien, as was the thick, shaggy coat of brown hair that started just below his waist and covered both legs down to where they terminated in a pair of cloven hooves. The only bare part below his waist was a thick cock nestled in a whorl of brown curls.

A shockingly primal wave of need slammed into Scott like a Mac truck, making the gun jitter in his hands. He was actually getting hard, what the hell, for this curly-haired—

“What are you?” he whispered.