It was time to set up camp, but I was unsure of this hunting trip's direction, especially since we were supposed to be hunting with Mimosa. We began trudging through the snowy forest, the sound of our steps muffled by the snow. The wind's direction was impossible to determine, seeming to buffet me from all sides.
Though I hadn't bathed in the icy river, I had changed into clean clothes and used moist wipes, rendering me relatively odorless—a necessity for Salvatore's sake. Soon, I saw—or smelled—prey: a herd of deer.
Eager to vent my frustrations, I realized Damon had skillfully deflected my questions, gaining leverage over me. This was a recurring pattern; I should know better than to trust his motives. It was a valuable lesson: I had overestimated myself, making my questions too open-ended and allowing him to be vague. In contrast, his questions had been precise.
The most important lesson learned? No more question-and-answer sessions with Damon or any of Salvatore's associates. My anger was justified, but it was time to procure meat. While wombats were plentiful in this part of Australia, I targeted sambar deer pawing through the snow.
I crept closer, attacked, and my rage got the better of me. I blindly charged the nearest deer—a female with fawns—and the stag defended his offspring, charging me.
A few horn strikes didn't faze me; I killed the doe and attacked the stag. Finally, my jaws clamped around his neck, crushing his windpipe. As I felt his last struggles fade, at least some of my frustration was released.
Mimosa enjoyed wombat meat, providing us with variety. She'd hunted quite a few, in fact, by the time I finally secured my fifth deer. After dragging my kill to a pile—hoping to teleport it closer to camp—my frustration surfaced, and I wasn't in the mood for pleasantries.
My alpha instincts were awakening; thoughts of Salvatore—his body, attitude, and personality—filled my mind. I wasn't going to make things easy for him. However, as I piled the animals, I smelled dogs—not dingos, but domestic dogs. Initially, I wasn't concerned; perhaps a loose hound. I assumed my jaguar scent would deter them.
This assumption proved wrong. Soon, I smelled fifteen to twenty dogs approaching—a pack of Molossus-type mixes, tough, scarred, and hungry. I should have warned the pack, but my alpha nature took over. If they thought they could steal my prey, they were mistaken.
Yet, they were dogs, perhaps once pets, and I hesitated to attack. I released my scent, but they remained undeterred. Rhodesian Ridgebacks hunt lions; these were large, desperate, hungry dogs with strong jaws, and their pack mentality negated my solitary predator status. I was one cat against a pack of dogs, and cats and dogs...well, you know.
The dogs were mostly yellow, a mix of Bullmastiff or mastiff breeds, possibly with some bully breeds as well. Their small, beady eyes and strong, square jaws hinted at considerable bite force and sharp teeth. Their scarred hides and the smell of aggression made their eagerness to attack clear. They didn't seem to perceive me as a significant threat, relying instead on their pack to hunt and kill a single cat.
Feeling cocky, I remained in my black jaguar form, forgoing my white tiger transformation. I wasn't sure this would have deterred them, given their numbers. It was time to make some decisions, and I wasn't about to simply surrender my prey.
Feeling fierce originally, I didn't even think of informing Mimosa. While I could easily dispatch them, perhaps she could persuade them to leave.
I decided to ask Mimosa, anyway. "Mimosa, we have a small situation. A pack of mixed fighting breeds is planning to take my prey, and they're unimpressed by me. I was..."
Mimosa's reply was immediate: "Kill them. I read they're a menace— numerous wild packs that are expensive for humans to control. They're a threat to wildlife, dingos, and spread disease to domestic dogs. Take out the whole pack. Need assistance?"
I was surprised but replied, "No need, I can handle them."
Mimosa, being Mimosa, was already angry with Damon after I recounted our conversation. Therefore, she was reluctant to inform the pack leader of our situation, preferring to handle it quietly.
I remained uncertain about Damon's pack-leader radar, his new leadership stance, and his actual activities, assuming perhaps that other Salvatores were waiting for us to do the work, enabling a convenient, last-minute rescue. The reality, however, proved far different.
Meanwhile, back at camp, the pack was adjusting to their new pack leader, who was still finding his footing. Mariella sighed. While they hadn't found many berries and fruits, and actually had quite a reserve, they were still searching for certain herbs and spices, keeping them busy.
However, as soon as she and the other girls arrived, Damon's overbearing behavior began. Initially, Mariella assumed he was simply being a caring husband, ensuring her well-being; however, he acted more like a helicopter parent to the entire pack.
He approached each member individually, inquiring about their problems, demanding answers, and then frowning thoughtfully, mentally noting the information. Sometimes he offered solutions, other times he promised to address the issue later.
Dexter, for example, was surprised when Damon noticed his injured toe (stubbed on a hidden rock beneath the snow) and promptly took him to Number Four for treatment. Numbers Four and Two were kept busy as Damon identified several minor medical issues within the pack, coldly sending individuals to the medic, sometimes accepting Number Four's assessment, other times not, depending on whether the crisis had been resolved.
Wulfe observed this for a while, shaking his head and smiling slightly. Even he was furious with Damon because Salvatore's arrogance had once again gotten the better of him. He'd dug up a very traumatic memory in Mimi, upsetting her considerably.
While Wulfe had cleared the resulting rot, he hadn't yet filled the cavern. However, he sensed her alpha side awakening, indicating she would be feisty and offer Damon some strong opinions. A little fireworks, Wulfe thought, would be a perfect lesson for Salvatore, demonstrating how his arrogance had transformed the willing and communicative Mimi into a fiercely protective alpha female.
Wulfe hadn't yet confronted Damon about this, having previously advised him to approach Mimi's subconscious slowly, building resistance gradually. Damon, however, had plunged right in, rendering the technique useless for a considerable time until he could build much greater strength and trust within their relationship.
His eagerness and arrogance, coupled with his overly aggressive interrogation style—rather than a husband sharing with his wife—had pushed Mimi away. She sensed his insincerity; he was merely fishing for dirt and offering nothing in return. Damon now realized the damage was done, but his focus shifted to his new role as pack leader, a caring protector of his pack.
This unexpected paternal instinct surprised him—the old vampire now hovered over his pack like a mother hen. This newfound need, while confusing, felt intuitive and natural; he wasn't even considering turning it off or what the future held.
His understanding of Adam deepened, recognizing the intensity of Adam's similar protective instincts, both past and present. This provided further insight into Mimi's importance to Adam and the depth of his care and concern for her.
Mariella, finally fed up with Damon's hovering, exclaimed, "Could you please settle down? We're perfectly fine. I get you have some new radar, but cool it; you're irritating me with your helicopter parenting!"
Damon, his radar picking up her irritation, sat beside her, saying, "Darling, everything's fine. We don't need that much spice and nuts. Just start your tent; we'll cook after the hunters are done. There's no need for hostility."
Mariella rolled her eyes; he was now talking down to her. Taking a deep breath, she briefly considered controlling herself, but decided against it.
"Damon," she said, "I appreciate your concern, but I'm not yours to care for. I have my own protector, and I don't need an old vampire psychoanalyzing me. Save the interrogation for Mimi; let's see if you can really push her buttons. You're good at riling me up, though."
Damon looked at Mariella; she seemed even more furious, and now she was getting snarky. Something inside Damon wanted to push her over the edge—he was good at riling people up. Controlling his expression, he suppressed a smirk and spoke to her like a child on the verge of a tantrum, knowing it would infuriate her. Oh, the glorious fume to come—perfect.
His voice, smooth and condescending, was accompanied by an overly worried yet arrogant expression, as if Mariella were a little girl and he was trying to reason with her.
"My dear," he said, "psychoanalyzing you would be a waste of time; there's nothing hidden. I'm deep in your mind, and I know everything. Don't worry about Mimi; she'll be fine, just as you will be. Take a few deep breaths; it's not that hard to control yourself—all you have to do is want to. Charles, your so-called protector—is he really up to the task? After all, you mostly depend on me for nourishment, both internal and mental challenges (which aren't hard, honestly), guidance, teaching, and control—relatively straightforward tasks for someone like me."
His expression remained neutral as he felt Mariella's irritation bloom into rage.
Her eyes flashed as she stood, hissing, "You're telling me I'm easy, dependent on you for everything? Let me prove you wrong. And I hope you recall you're not my only husband; I have several, and they appreciate me far more than you currently do."
She stormed off. Damon thought, "Oh, darling, you're such an easy mark, and I love watching you lose it."
She didn't reply, but her hissy fit continued. Damon, sitting and enjoying himself, felt smug. A small victory over his wife and perhaps Mariella's jealousy would be curbed for a while. Scanning for his next victim, he spotted Katherine, stood up, and approached her, hoping to get a rise out of her as well.
Katherine began unpacking her tent when Damon sauntered over, leaned against a tree, and remarked, "Are you sure that's how it's supposed to go? Perhaps you'd like some assistance—or a lesson—from someone who actually knows how to set up a tent? It's not rocket science, but women tend to take instructions from men as personal insults."
Katherine calmly replied, "I've set up this tent countless times, Salvatore. Unless I've developed dementia, I think I can manage. No need for your knightly services."
Damon rolled his eyes, feigning boredom. "Oh, please. As if I'd waste my time serving you. Those days are long gone. It should be the other way around these days."
Katherine continued working, her jaw clenching. She fought the urge to retort, controlling her temper. Damon smirked, then with a subtle flick of his wrist, created a small gust of wind that dislodged one of Katherine's tent hooks, causing the tent to collapse.
"Oh, it seems your tent malfunctioned," he drawled. "Still sure you don't need a more experienced hand?"
Emerging from the wreckage, Katherine retrieved the hook and slammed it into the ground. "Salvatore," she said sharply, "for your age, you're one of the most immature men I've ever encountered. That's hardly the behavior of a millennia-old wizard, is it?"
Damon smirked. "As you know, Pierce, I am whoever I choose to be, not bound by your ideals. But then again," he continued, "seeing as you're still that insecure little girl deep down, should I rescue you from your troubles and make you Katherine Salvatore? We could have a quick wedding, or a three-day extravaganza with… special wedding nights."
Katherine hissed, "I'm not Mimi, nor Mariella. I'm not your wife, you arrogant bastard!"
She finished setting up her tent and stormed off, muttering Romanian curses under her breath to cool her temper.
Number Two approached Damon, asking, "Are you trying to piss every female off? It's not funny, but we have a bit of a situation, and as pack leader, you might want to address it. Focus on irritating everyone later; this isn't ideal, especially since our esteemed, hotheaded alpha female has once again gotten herself into trouble."
Damon looked up, sighed, and said, "What in the hell has Mimi done now? God, I know I messed up, but she should have more sense."
Number Two explained the situation, and together with a few other men, they headed into the forest to confront the alpha female, who had once again acted independently, ignoring the pack and any offers of assistance.
I was getting ready to face a pack of feral dogs, completely unaware of the situation back at camp. Crouching in my black jaguar form, I prepared to take down the lead dog as they approached, fangs bared and drool dripping.
I leaped, seizing the first dog by the neck and biting down. Simultaneously, I felt a bite on my hind leg, but I spun, swatting with my paw. The pain was fleeting; my rapid healing and adrenaline quickly negated any lasting injury.
I destroyed the dogs brutally, relying on instinct rather than precision. A pained yelp echoed as my jaws met another dog, spraying blood into the air. I bit and slashed relentlessly, the desperate, hungry pack tearing at my muscles.
Soon, the snow-covered clearing was crimson with blood, the dying dogs' whimpers mingling with the sounds of battle. Mimosa burst into the clearing, helping to finish off the remaining dogs. Panting, our snouts and flanks covered in blood, we watched our wounds quickly heal.
As footsteps approached, I snarled. Mariella entered the clearing, stopping to take in the bloody snow, our blood-soaked forms, and the lingering scent of death, adrenaline, and victory. Mimosa and I were both exhilarated, and Mariella noticed.
She took a deep breath and exclaimed, "What in the earth has happened here? You two better explain!"
Though irritated, her shock was evident.
Shifting back to human form, I explained, "As you see, we got ourselves some deer, but a pack of feral dogs wanted an easy meal—including us. Mimosa and I took them out."
Mariella responded, "Do you have any idea what diseases they might have carried? This is going to be fun. Mimi, I know Damon's actions weren't ideal, but his promise triggered his pack leader radar. Oh my god, he's been hovering near the pack while you were here! You should have told us; we have weapons, and more people would have scared those dogs off."
Mimosa, still in human form, attempted to sound reasonable, but the lingering battle-high in her voice colored her explanation. "Those feral packs are a nuisance in Australia," she said. "The government won't officially sanction their elimination; they compensate for losses and damages, but nothing more, and proof is required. Therefore, it's better to destroy them than try to save them. These dogs were likely used in illegal dog fights, and during raids, they were released to avoid fines and evidence of animal cruelty. This happens frequently."
Mariella pursed her lips. "Regardless," she said, "let's have the others fetch your prey, or teleport it to camp. Then, you two heroes can explain yourselves to our pack leader. I have no idea what he'll do, but let's just say Dexter stubbed his toe, Number Four used a transparency spell to ensure no broken bones, Elena got a stick in her finger, Number Two removed it, meaning she received a minor surgical procedure and numbing agent. So, prepare yourselves."
I rolled my eyes; Mariella was feeling merciless. "Mimi," she continued, "even though you healed, those germs are now in your system and could infect or strain you. The same applies to you, Mimosa. And, if I anticipate correctly, our esteemed, irritating pack leader will likely enact new rules regarding situations like this. No eye-rolls," she added.
Mimosa teleported her sizable pile of wombats next to my deer, and Mariella used a spell to teleport everything to camp. I was about to return when Numbers One, Two, Four, Ten, and Nine teleported into the clearing.
Seeing the bloody scene—Mimosa and I, still slightly bloody, even in human form—Number One looked at us sharply.
Numbers Two and Four conferred in low voices before Number One, our pack leader, spoke. "You two are under scrutiny," he said. "These four will examine you, administer hefty doses of antibiotics, and so on, as those mutts can carry a range of diseases, and I see you haven't been careful."
He was referring to several dogs whose guts had spilled out when I ripped open their bellies. These Salvatores were control freaks when it came to hygiene, infections, and intestinal germs—they were nasty, and, of course, they were suspicious enough to consider the possibility of evil Sarks infecting the dogs and sending them to us, even without evidence.
In the past, Sarks had used things like ticks to give me Rocky Mountain spotted fever, as well as other bugs to infest our pack. I rolled my eyes as several cleansing spells began to affect me, surrounding me even as my four husbands watched with cold, cruel ice-blue eyes; they were less than pleased with our actions.
Mimosa sighed dramatically, rolling her eyes at the drama. She still possessed much of my attitude—we were immortal, unkillable, and we had time; nothing could kill us. Yet, as I walked back to camp, I anticipated serious repercussions, not only from the Salvatores but from others as well.
But I was ready to face the music; I had no choice. All I could do was hope for the best and avoid the strong antibiotics that messed up my stomach and system. I was trying to have some fun, but no, fate would throw me more challenges to overcome.