Och, Ness: MM Monster Romance (Wet 'n' Wild Book 1)

Copyright © 2023 by Eryn Hawk All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, events, and incidents are the products of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental. Cover Art by Miblart https://miblart.com/ Edited by Kirsty McQuarrie at https://bio.site/thetravellingeditor Proofread by Zoe Reading at https://www.zoereading-pa.com/ To my family, who’ve held my hand and supported me even though they don’t quite understand my obsession with fictional men. Or monsters. p.s. Gran, please don’t read this one. AUTHOR’S NOTE This book is written in UK English and uses Scottish dialect throughout. There is a glossary provided at the back for any words or phrases that may be difficult to decipher. CONTENTS Prologue Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 7 Epilogue Glossary Afterword Acknowledgments About the Author Also by Eryn Hawk THREE MONTHS AGO He slept; his breaths steady and even, and his body beautiful in its stillness, yet his mind raced, thoughts swarming like bees in their hive. Restless. I wanted to reach out and touch him to ease his lucid imagination; to hold him, to bring pleasure and keep him safe, but he was too far. Instead, I plucked at the string between our two incomplete souls, sending a vision of great, wild beauty and a sense of quiet. Peace. I’d felt his presence before, but never so vividly, so starved of connection. There was a change—something that called out to me—an instinct, a raw desire, the sweetest plea. I ached to have him near, beside me, with me always. Come to me. Mo chridhe. PRESENT DAY It was odd seeing it in person; the place my mum had grown up, where she’d taken me as a child when I was too young to remember. It still felt somewhat familiar, but I supposed that was from the stories she had told or the memory of a photograph she had shown me time and time again. It was of us; Dad behind the camera, she’d said, beaming with love as Mum posed with me, a bundle in her arms, in front of sparkling, dark-blue water surrounded by luscious hills. Loch Ness. I’d always meant to return, to experience it as a fully-fledged, bill-paying adult, but life never failed to stick its nose in—in the last several years, especially. Between marrying myself to my work and Mum’s illness, the journey was swept aside. I held some regret that she was no longer around to join me, but now that I was finally here, overlooking the loch I’d heard so much about as a kid, in some way, it felt like she was. I wished I could say that discovering my roots was the only reason for my return, but the truth was, Scotland called to me. And, yeah, maybe roots did have something to do with that, but I’d felt a tie to this place for as long as I could remember. It ran deep in my blood, like an instinct, a rope around my heart luring me in. I used to peg it down to the connection I shared with Mum. We were close, and I thought it was a projection of her yearning for home, and even when she’d died, I suspected the feelings I still had of Scotland were me chasing the sense of belonging I’d had whenever she was near. But then came writer’s block. It was something that had never fazed me before. Usually, it’d last a day or two, and then I’d be straight back at it. But three months had come and gone. Three bastard, shitting months, I’d been staring at a blank page, tearing my hair out, and I just knew it had something to do with this bloody feeling. I wasn’t one for superstition, but I was too consumed with thoughts—even dreams—of a place I’d only visited through fairy tales and an old Polaroid for it to be pure coincidence. Whatever it was, it held my soul captive, and considering my whole life was centred around the books I produced, it was impossible for me to kick up my feet and wait for a reprieve. Or a miracle. Whichever came first. I lost count of the people who’d told me to see it as a sign to take a break—and Christ knew I was long overdue for one of those—but not working, even a tad, rubbed me up the wrong way. So, I decided to kill two—or three—birds with one stone: settle the longing that had me in a chokehold, give my family the illusion I was taking care of myself, and hopefully, find a spark of inspiration. Apparently, there was nothing like a change of scenery to get the words flowing, and what a breathtaking scene it was. I’d arrived an hour ago, and after driving most of the night, it was a relief to see my destination was worth the leg cramp and numb arse. I rented a little holiday cottage beside the loch, and it was nothing short of perfect. It was minimal and cosy, slightly smaller than my own apartment, but that added to its undeniable charm. It had the usual necessities, a kitchen, an en suite, and a living room, but the bonus feature was, without a doubt, the untamed fiery-orange and red ivy sprouting up the exterior stone walls and the patches of grass boxed in by bushels upon bushels of wild purple heather. And, of course, that view. I had unpacked—well, I’d thrown my suitcase in the wardrobe, closed the doors and resolved to deal with it later—and now, I stood on the patio, leaning against the wooden railing, just taking it all in. Everything around me was in shades of