Chapter 3: The Fisherman's Favor
The jetty groaned like a living thing beneath her feet. Each splintered plank protested under her weight, the sound swallowed by the rhythmic slap of water against seaweed-choked pilings. Amelia tightened her grip on the leather satchel strap, the familiar pressure of her notebook and camera a small comfort against the vast, damp silence of the harbour. The air tasted of salt, diesel, and decay. Faded, peeling signs warned of deep water and private property, their messages half-lost to the relentless scrape of wind and spray.
Connor McDonald leaned against the stern of a battered blue fishing boat, the Sul na Mara. He was watching her approach, his arms crossed over a thick woollen jumper. He was younger than she’d imagined from the village gossip—maybe late twenties—with a rugged handsomeness carved by the elements. His hair was dark and stiff with salt, his eyes chips-of-ice blue that held an unsettling mix of amusement and assessment.
“You’re the lass asking about Carraig Dorcha,” he called out, not a question. His voice was lighter than she expected, with a melodic island lilt. “Amelia Ogilvy. We spoke on the phone last night.” She tried to sound confident, breezy. The researcher on a field trip. “You said you could take me out?"
“I said I might.” He pushed off from the boat, walking toward her along the unstable planks with a native’s easy balance. “Depends on the tide. Depends on the weather. Depends on why a pretty thing like you wants to go to a place like that.”
He was close now. She could smell the tobacco on his clothes, the honest sweat of labour. His gaze dropped to her chest, then back to her face, unabashed. “It’s not a picnic spot.”
“I’m an anthropologist. Studying pre-Christian iconography in the northern isles.” The lie slid out, polished and professional. “I’ve seen aerial surveys. The stone formations on Carraig Dorcha are unique.”
“Unique.” He repeated the word as if it were a joke. “Aye, you could say that. It’s a fair chop today. Water’ll be rough. You get seasick?”
“Never.” Another lie. The mere thought of the heaving grey-green water beyond the harbour mouth made her stomach clench.
Connor studied her for a long moment, his eyes flicking over her sensible boots, her practical trousers, the way her curls were already blowing wildly in the damp wind. He shrugged, a quick, economical movement .“Fifty quid. Cash. Now. And you do as I say on the water. No arguments.”
Amelia fumbled in her satchel, pulling out the folded notes. The money felt like a tangible commitment, a point of no return. As she handed it over, his calloused fingers brushed hers, deliberately slow. A current, not entirely unpleasant, jolted up her arm. He pocketed the cash without looking.
“Come on then, anthropologist.” He turned and jumped down into the boat, holding out a hand. “Tide won’t wait for your drawings.”
The deck of the Sul na Mara was slick with fish scales and brine. The outboard motor coughed, spewing blue smoke, then settled into a throaty, vibrating roar. Connor cast off the lines with practiced efficiency. As they pulled away from the relative safety of the jetty, the world opened up into a vast, desolate expanse of water and sky.
The wind was a physical force, clawing at her clothes, whipping her blonde curls into a wild frenzy. She huddled on a hard wooden bench in the stern, spray stinging her cheeks. Connor stood at the tiller, a solid figure against the scudding clouds, his face set in a profile of concentration. The boat began to climb and plunge, slamming into the troughs between waves with a jarring violence that rattled her teeth. “See it?” Connor shouted over the engine and wind. She followed his gaze. Ahead, emerging from a shrouding band of mist, lay a steep, dark wedge of land. Carraig Dorcha. It rose from the sea like a broken tooth, sheer black cliffs crowned with straggling, wind-bent grass. No beach, no gentle landing. Just rock and relentless surf. “How do we land?” she yelled back. “There’s a cleft, a village on the other side once we've rounded those rocks! Hold on!”
He gunned the engine, aiming the boat directly towards the looming crags, then around them. The waves boiled and surged around the spires. For a heart-stopping second, Amelia was sure they would be dashed against the stone. Then they were round, plunging into a sudden, echoing calm. A narrow bay, a mere cleft in the rocks, its walls dripping, slick with luminous green algae. The light from the entrance cast shifting, watery reflections on the stone. A crude wooden dock, little more than a shelf, extended from one wall. Connor cut the engine. The silence was immediate, profound, broken only by the drip-drip of water and the hollow lap of waves against the hull. The air was cold and smelled of deep, wet earth.
He tied up the boat, the rope grating on the iron ring bolted into the rock. “This is it. Steps carved in the rock face lead up. They’re steep. Slippery. You'll see the few houses of Morrow Head from the top.”
“You’re not coming?”
“I’ll be here for a bit. Maybe see you in the pub later, it's the only place to stay.” He didn’t smile. “Watch your step. The rocks aren’t the only thing that’s slippery here.”
The climb was treacherous. The steps were ancient, worn smooth by centuries of footfalls and glazed with a perpetual dampness. She had to use her hands, her bag bumping against her side. As she neared the top, the tiny inlet with its ramshackle dock shrank below her, a diminishing eye of grey light. She heaved herself over the final lip onto a rocky plateau. The wind hit her anew, howling across the open hillside. The ruins were not the tidy, documented stones she’d imagined. They were low, ragged outlines—the gutted foundations of small, cell-like structures. And everywhere, carved into the flat bedrock surfaces and on the few standing stones, were the symbols. Her breath caught. They were exactly as Aliandra had shown her in the Crowsummons vault tracings. The spirals that ended in barbed hooks. The interlocking circles that implied a terrible parity. The ladder-like glyph that meant ‘descent.’ But here, exposed to the elements, they were more visceral. Deeper. Stained with dark lichen that looked, unnervingly, like old blood.
She pulled out her camera, the clicks loud in the wind. She sketched frantically in her notebook, the paper threatening to tear. The place was a dictionary of the House Beneath’s language. A sick excitement warred with a growing dread. Aliandra was right. This wasn’t history. This was a current.
She was photographing a particularly complex cluster of symbols when a shadow fell over the stone.
“Find what you’re looking for?”
Connor stood a few feet away. He’d come up after all. He held a thermos. “Thought you might need this. It’s fucking freezing up here.”
Her heart hammered against her ribs. “You scared me.”
“Sorry.” He didn’t sound sorry. He poured a cup of steaming tea and handed it to her. Their fingers touched again. This time, his lingered. “You’re shaking.”
The tea was sweet and strong, laced with whisky. It burned a path of warmth down her throat. The wind seemed to soften, or maybe she was just focusing on the heat spreading through her limbs.
“This place… it’s incredible,” she said, lowering the cup.
“It’s old,” he agreed, stepping closer. His eyes were on the symbols, not her. “People forget what old means. It doesn’t mean dead. It means patient. It means it’s been waiting.” He turned his gaze back to her. “You see it, don’t you? You’re not just here for pictures.”
The directness disarmed her. The whisky warmth blurred her caution. “What do you mean?”
“I mean you’ve got the look. The… hunger. For the real thing. Not what’s in books.” He reached out and tucked a wind-blown curl behind her ear. His touch was surprisingly gentle. “I see it in your eyes.”
It was a line. A blatant, cliched line. But here, in this desolate place, with the symbols of a predatory faith carved at their feet and his body a solid barrier against the wind, it worked. A thrill went through her, sharp and undeniable. It was the same reckless impulse that had brought her here alone. The need to touch the dark, to prove she wasn’t afraid.
She didn’t pull away. “What do you suggest?”
In answer, he took the cup from her hand and set it on a rock. Then he kissed her. It wasn’t gentle. It was hungry, possessive, his mouth forcing hers open, his tongue claiming her. She tasted the tea, the whisky, the salt of him. A small sound escaped her throat—not protest, but surprise yielding to want. Her satchel dropped to the ground. He pushed her back against one of the few upright stones. The carved glyphs pressed into her spine. His hands were everywhere, rough and efficient. He yanked her jumper over her head, pulled her shirt open, buttons pinging on the rock. The cold air hit her skin, then the heat of his mouth on her breasts. He sucked a nipple deep, his teeth grazing the peak, and she arched against him with a sharp gasp.
“Fuck, you’re gorgeous,” he growled into her skin, his hands shoving her trousers and knickers down over her hips. The rough stone scraped her ass. He fumbled with his own flies, his cock springing free, already fully hard, thick and ruddy in the muted light.
There was no more pretence of research, of anthropology. This was raw, urgent. He hooked one of her legs over his arm, spreading her wide. The head of his cock nudged against her entrance. She was wet, a shocking, willing slickness that betrayed her fear as arousal.
“Look at me,” he commanded. She forced her eyes open. His blue eyes were dark, intent, no longer amused. They held a fervour she didn’t understand.
“See where you are,” he said, his voice low and rough.
And then he drove into her, a single, deep, claiming stroke that knocked the air from her lungs. She cried out, the sound swallowed by the wind. He filled her utterly, a burning, stretching intrusion. He didn’t wait for her to adjust. He pulled back and slammed home again, setting a brutal, pounding rhythm right there against the carved stone. “Yeah… take it…” he grunted, his breath hot against her neck. Each thrust hammered her against the unyielding rock, the symbols digging into her back. Pain and pleasure twisted together, inseparable. She clutched at his shoulders, her nails digging through the wool of his jumper.
He fucked her with the relentless force of the sea outside, a consummation that felt less like passion and more like a ritual. A claiming. Her cries became sharp, ragged moans. She could feel her own climax coiling, a treacherous knot of heat tightening low in her belly, fed by the sheer, brutal dominance of it.
“Come for me,” he snarled, his pace becoming frantic, sloppy. “Come on this fucking rock.”
His words, the crude possession, tipped her over the edge. Her orgasm ripped through her, violent and unwelcome, a seizure of blinding pleasure that left her shuddering and weak. He followed moments later, a final, deep thrust that held her pinned as he groaned, his body rigid. She felt the hot, pulsing release inside her.
For a long moment, the only sounds were their ragged breathing and the wind. He softened, slipped out of her. A trickle of warmth leaked down her thigh. He stepped back, tucking himself away, his face once again a mask of casual indifference. He picked up her clothes and handed them to her.
“Storm's coming,” he said, his voice back to its normal lilt. “Best get cleaned up. Head for the pub. You'll be able to get a room there. Better weather tomorrow for your exploring.”
Amelia dressed with shaking hands. The stone was cold against her bruised back. The symbols felt branded onto her skin. As she turned towards the low buildings he indicated, she glanced once more at the ruins. The carvings seemed different now. Not just markings, but witnesses. Connor went back down the steps to lash his boat securely against the coming storm. She walked towards the tiny settlement, her legs unsteady. Her body felt sore and used, but undeniably excited and revitalised.
Amelia huddled inside her coat as she walked, the salt-laden wind toying with the dried sweat on her skin, the stickiness between her legs a chilling reminder. She hadn’t just visited the place.
A part of her, she realised with a sink of cold dread, was now bound here.
A part of her, she realised with a sink of cold dread, was now bound here. The settlement of Morrow Head was little more than a clutch of low, stone cottages huddled against the turf, their roofs weighted with rocks against the gales. The only sign of life was a weak, buttery light spilling from a doorway beneath a creaking sign: The Selkie’s Rest. The promised rain began as a spiteful spit, then escalated into a relentless, diagonal lash driven by the furious wind. Amelia ducked inside, the door slamming shut behind her with a force that shook the floorboards.
The pub was a cave of peat-smoke and shadows, the air thick with the smell of damp wool and stale beer. A few taciturn men hunched over pints at the bar, their conversation dying as she entered. Behind the counter, a woman with arms like corded rope and a face weathered by a lifetime of this wind watched her with undisguised curiosity. This was Annie Small.
“You’ll be the one Connor brought over,” she said, not asking. Her voice was raspy, like stone grating on stone.
“Yes. I’m Amelia. I need a room for a few nights, please.” She tried to sound firm, but her voice wavered, still unsteady from the climb, from him.
Annie’s eyes tracked over Amelia’s windswept hair, the salt spray on her coat, the subtle tremor in her hands. She nodded slowly, as if confirming some private suspicion. “Aye, I’ve a room. Pay upfront. No phone, mind. No nonsense.” The price was steep, the rules delivered as flat facts. Amelia counted out the notes, their foreign crispness absurd in this primal place. Annie took them and produced an iron key, heavy and cold. “Top of the stairs, last door. Mind the third step, it’s loose.”
The room was a Spartan cell: a narrow bed, a washstand with a chipped bowl and pitcher, a single chair by a window that rattled violently in its frame. The storm outside was a living beast now, roaring and clawing at the walls. It felt infinitely more isolating than the open cliff. She dropped her satchel on the bed and sank into the chair, her body aching in places she’d forgotten she had. The memory of the stone against her back, of Connor inside her, flooded back with a physical immediacy that made her cheeks burn. It was a filthy, violent thing, and her skin still hummed with the echo of it.
She needed to reach Aliandra. Now. Pulling her notebook and a pen from her bag, she began to write, the words coming in a rushed, urgent stream. She described the symbols, their exact matches to the Crowsummons tracings. She wrote of Connor, his easy access, his sudden, aggressive possession. He knows, she wrote, her hand pressing so hard the pen nearly tore the paper. He’s part of it. This isn’t an investigation anymore, Ali. I’ve walked right into the fucking nest.
She signed it with a flourish of fear, folded the pages, and sealed them in an envelope addressed to the Ingles’ cottage. The act felt pathetically small, a message in a bottle tossed into a hurricane.
The tiny post office was a lean-to attached to the back of the pub, operated by a ancient man with milky eyes. “Mail boat’s due Wednesday,” he wheezed, taking the letter between gnarled fingers. “If she can run in this. Might be Friday. It’ll get there when it gets there.”
The delay was a physical blow. Days. Anything could happen in days. The letter, her only tether to the world beyond this rock, was now subject to the whims of the very sea that imprisoned her. She thanked him, the words tasting of ash, and stepped back into the fury of the storm. The short distance back to the Selkie’s Rest soaked her to the skin. The wind screamed through the gaps in the stones, a chorus of cold, hungry voices.
Up in her room, the light of the bare bulb blowing in the draught danced madly. She peeled off her wet clothes, her skin pebbled and goose fleshed, and towelled herself roughly. The crude washstand water was icy. Every sensation felt amplified, raw. The soreness between her legs was a persistent, throbbing reminder. Of his hands. His mouth. His cock.
She lay back on the thin bed, the coarse blanket scratching her skin. The storm’s fury mirrored the turmoil in her blood. Her hand drifted down her stomach, over the tender flesh of her thighs. She was still wet. Thinking of him—the rough grip, the growl in his voice, the sheer profane force of his thrusts—made her cunt clench around nothing. A slick, shameful heat pooled there. She fumbled in her bag for the small, discreet clit sucker toy, its smooth plastic an absurd contrast to the roughness of everything else here.
She pressed the cup of it against herself, the sudden, targeted suction making her gasp. Her back arched off the bed. She pictured Connor on the boat, his hands on the tiller, those blue eyes fixed on her. She imagined him here, in this room, pushing her legs apart. Not a tender fantasy. A brutal one. His calloused palms dragging up her inner thighs, his thumb rubbing rough circles before his mouth lowered. In her mind, he didn’t ask. He took.
“Fuck,” she whispered into the rattling dark, her hips starting to rock against the toy. The fantasy shifted. She was back against the carved stone, the symbols biting into her spine. He was slamming into her again, each thrust jolting a sharp, bright pang of pleasure-pain from her core. “You like that, you pampered city slut?” his voice growled in her memory, in her head. The words should horrify her. They did. And that made her come harder.
She cranked the vibration higher, the focused pulses building a frantic, coiling tension. She fantasised about his spunk, still inside her, leaking out as he fucked her harder. The obscenity of it, the sheer filth, pushed her closer. Her breaths came in short, sharp pants, misting in the cold air. She was almost there, teetering on the edge, when a new image invaded: not just Connor, but the symbols on the stone, glowing faintly in the mist, and behind him, darker shapes watching from the ruins.
The orgasm ripped through her with a silent, violent intensity, her body bowing taut as a wire. Waves of pleasure, sharp and contaminated with fear, washed out from her core, leaving her trembling and hollow. The toy fell from her slack fingers. In the sudden silence of her own body, the storm’s rage felt personal, directed. She was bound here. Not just by geography or curiosity. By something that had been waiting, patient in the old stones, and was now stirring, sated by more than just the sea wind.
The echo of the storm settled into a dull, percussive roar against the slate roof. Amelia lay spent, the toy a cold plastic lump beside her thigh. The frantic energy of her climax had faded, leaving a deeper, more resonant ache in its wake. She needed noise, human sounds, something to drown out the whispers in the stone.
She dressed in dry clothes, the wool scratching her oversensitive skin. Downstairs, the pub had filled slightly. The peat fire hissed in the hearth, casting shifting gargoyle shadows on the low beams. Annie placed a chipped plate before her without a word: two boiled potatoes, grey and mealy, and a fillet of pickled herring staring up with one cloudy eye. The simplicity of the food felt like a sacrament, or a punishment.
She was forcing down a bland mouthful when the door opened, admitting a swirl of wet wind and Connor. He shook his head like a dog, droplets flying from his dark hair, and his eyes found her immediately. A different man entered the room than the one on the cliff. The predatory intensity was sheathed, replaced by an easy, apologetic grin. “Amelia. Christ, what a bastard of an afternoon.” He shed his oilskin and approached, pulling out the chair opposite her without asking. “You made it back alright, then? Forgive my… abrupt departure earlier. The boat needed seeing to.” His tone was all warm concern, a calculated erasure of the violence against the stone.
“I managed.” She kept her eyes on her plate, sawing at a potato.
“That’s all you’re eating? Annie’s cooking’ll put hair on your chest.” He laughed, a genuine, rolling sound that made a few of the other men glance over. “But it’ll keep you alive. Can I get you a drink? A proper whisky, not the gut-rot in your tea earlier.”
She nodded, wary. He returned with two glasses of amber liquid, setting one before her. “To your research,” he said, clinking his glass against hers. He took a sip, studying her over the rim. “You know, most academics who come here… they poke around for a day, take their pictures, and leave. They see old rocks and old nonsense. But you…” He leaned forward, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial level. “You looked at it. Really looked. I saw it in your face. You weren’t just sketching. You were reading.”
The words pierced her precisely. It was a hunter’s lure, tailored and sharp. “It’s a unique dialect of symbology,” she said carefully, falling back into her role.
“Dialect. I like that.” He smiled, his eyes crinkling. “It’s a language of the deep places, isn’t it? The places under the rock, under the water. The foundations.” He took another drink, his gaze growing distant, then focused back on her with renewed warmth. “Listen, I’m sorry again. About before. The sea, this place… it gets in your blood. Makes you rough. It was no way to treat a guest.”
The apology disarmed her, melting a fraction of her resolve. The whisky burned a comforting path down her throat, spreading a golden numbness. He joked about the weather, told a funny story about a mainland customs officer, painted himself as just a simple fisherman enamoured with his home’s history. The version of him from the cliff receded, framed as a moment of primal passion, a misunderstanding born of the elements. The version before her was charming, attentive, and keenly interested in her. The duality was heady, intoxicating. It felt like being let in on a secret.
Later, when the pub had quieted, he reached across the table and let his fingers brush the back of her hand. “I’ve been talking too much. You’re exhausted. I should let you get to bed.”
She didn’t pull her hand away. The empty room, the howling dark outside, the memory of his hands on her skin—it all coalesced into a single, reckless impulse. "You don’t have to go,” she heard herself say, the words barely audible.
He looked at her, his blue eyes softening. "No,” he said quietly. “I suppose I don’t.”
The climb to her room was a silent, shadowed journey, their footsteps muffled by the storm’s groan. The third step groaned but did not give way. Inside her cold room, the tension from the pub snapped taut. He closed the door and turned to her, but didn’t pounce. He simply looked at her, his earlier roughness held in check.
“You’re sure?” he asked, his voice low. In answer, she stepped into him and kissed him. It was slower this time, exploratory, a relearning. His hands came up to cradle her face, his thumbs stroking her cheeks. The gentleness was a more potent manipulation than any force. He undressed her with a deliberate slowness, his calloused fingers trailing over her shoulders, the curve of her waist, the swell of her hips, as if mapping her. When she was naked, he knelt before her, his hands on the backs of her thighs.
He looked up, his breath warm on her stomach. “Let me,” he murmured, a request, not a demand.
He guided her to sit on the edge of the bed and parted her knees. He leaned in and kissed the inside of one thigh, then the other, his stubble a rough contrast to the softness of his lips. He nuzzled her curls, inhaling her scent, before his tongue found her in a long, slow, upward stroke. She gasped, her fingers tangling in his hair.
His mouth was expert, unhurried. He licked her with a focused, devoted thoroughness, circling her clit with the very tip of his tongue before sucking it gently into the heat of his mouth. He slid two fingers inside her, curling them, finding a rhythm that made her hips lift off the bed. “Connor…” she whimpered, the name a surrender.
He brought her to the brink slowly, meticulously, then backed away, letting the sensation ebb before building it again. It was a sweet, relentless torture. When her thighs began to tremble uncontrollably, he gripped her hips and fastened his mouth to her, sucking hard as his fingers pumped deep. Her climax broke over her in a warm, shuddering wave, less violent than on the cliff, but more profound, leaving her breathless and pliant.
He rose, shedding his own clothes, and joined her on the narrow bed. His cock, hard and thick, pressed against her belly. He kissed her deeply, letting her taste herself on his lips. He positioned himself above her, bracing his weight on his elbows, his eyes locked on hers.
“This time,” he whispered, “we do it properly.”
He entered her with a single, smooth, deep stroke, filling the aching emptiness his mouth had created. She wrapped her legs around his waist, pulling him deeper. He moved with a driven, passionate rhythm, each thrust a full, measured possession. The bed rocked against the stone wall with a steady, wooden percussion, syncing with the storm’s beat. He fucked her with an intense, consuming focus, his breathing ragged in her ear, his skin slick against hers. There was a desperation in it now, a raw need that felt less like taking and more like joining, a frantic attempt to fuse.
“God, you feel… fuck… you feel incredible,” he gritted out, his pace increasing. She met him thrust for thrust, her earlier soreness transformed into a deep, resonant pleasure. This was different. This felt dangerously like connection.
His control frayed at the edges. His thrusts became shorter, harder, his rhythm breaking into a frantic pounding. He buried his face in her neck, his whole body tensing. “Amelia… I’m gonna…” he choked out.
She felt him pulse inside her, a hot, urgent flood, and it triggered her own second climax, a sharper, deeper convulsion that clenched around him, milking every last spasm from him. He collapsed onto her, his weight a crushing, welcome anchor in the rattling dark. For long minutes, there was only the sound of their breathing and the relentless weather. Slowly, he softened and slipped from her. He rolled to her side, pulling her against him, her back to his chest. His arm draped heavily over her waist, his hand splayed possessively on her stomach.
“Stay,” he murmured into her hair, as if she had any other choice. The storm outside was a distant fury now, abstract. The real tempest, the one that had called to her from the symbols, was here in the bed, holding her close. Its hunger was quieter now, patient again, having drawn her another step deeper into the foundation of things. Her letter to Aliandra felt like a message from another lifetime, scribbled by a girl who had no idea what was already moving inside her, waiting to be claimed.