The first sensations to pierce the velvet fog in my brain were the warmth of breath on my hair and the pressure of someone holding me very close. It took time—or at least it felt like it—to piece together what had happened. My last clear memory was someone biting my wrist, sedating me as my stomach ache became unbearable.
Apparently, our pack had become overly protective, a fact I'd learned the hard way. Keeping my discomfort to myself had landed me in trouble before; my stubborn refusal to reveal how bad things were had prompted them to get creative in controlling my ability to hide my condition—like sharing my power of deception. Meaning my pretender powers. That had been quite a show.
Slowly, I tried to open my eyes and use my sense of smell to identify my captor. The sharp, crisp scent of pears wafted into my nose, revealing that it was Adam. He was still asleep. I opened my eyes fully; we were still in my tent, and it was nighttime—dark but warm.
I wiggled slightly and realized I was no longer wearing my comfy velour outfit, but Damon's shirt, the faint scent of passion fruit confirming it. I was covered by a blanket; Adam was underneath it as well, his strong, warm body providing warmth, comfort, safety, and love.
He looked slightly worn out and was dreaming, his eyes moving under his lids, his brow furrowed. I had no idea what he was dreaming about, and despite knowing something of Adam's past, I still had little understanding of his life. There had certainly been good times, but it seemed—or at least I'd gotten the impression—that the bad times had been far more numerous.
Despite feeling tired, my usual aversion to sedation kept me awake. The exhaustion was intense, but an inner spark persisted. I refused to be drugged, though I couldn't control what the pack might decide. Focusing on my body, I noticed the stomach ache had vanished and my listlessness had lessened. Perhaps I'd had a bug.
Adam's closeness—his warmth, his strong arms, the rhythm of his heart—relaxed me, and I fell asleep again in my tent, held by my husband. Waking later, I found myself alone in the brighter tent. Stiff and unsure if I'd slept through the night, I struggled to get moving.
As I stretched, Damon entered, smirking, "Oh, Mimi, baby, my wife, don't try to seduce me so hard. I planned for us to continue today, but if you keep this up…"
His voice was heated. I'd kicked off the blanket; I was wearing only one of Damon's t-shirts, my nipples poking out by sound of his voice and his reaction to my body, my legs spread, my pussy exposed. I smiled smugly.
Damon muttered, "Well, we have time…" He crawled over me, ripping off the shirt, his voice impatient and lustful. "You could do some filling up, missy… I'm all for it."
Soon naked, my legs spread, my husband joined me, his large, hard cock plunging into my willing pussy. Passion consumed us. Our lips met in heated kisses; our bodies entwined in a dance of lust. The sounds of sex—moistness, skin slapping, thrusts, and moans—filled the tent.
We were good at fucking; we bit, kissed, and almost ate each other. Time dissolved; there was only Damon and me, our passion. This was excellent recovery therapy as his hot lust spilled deep inside me. It never ceased to amaze me.
As a supernatural being, Damon possessed sperm, but he also produced something more—what I call "cream of love" or "cream of lust," officially known as IANL, or Intra-Abdominal Nutrition Liquid. This liquid, produced by males in a special pouch on the right side of their abdomen (a "bump" when full), is ejaculated into the female's uterus during sex, spilling into her fallopian tubes and abdominal cavity to nourish her.
The bump's composition—proteins, sugars, vitamins—is tailored to the female's needs based on the male's scent, though males typically produce this fluid for only a few chosen females. Damon made his bump for me, never for Mariella, though Charles should have targeted her; however, because bump production is linked to pheromones and feelings, Charles didn't feel for Mariella as he did for me.
Adam and Charles also provided their bumps for me; I was the alpha, the most important female. Damon extensively studied and manipulated his bump, even using it medically. He collected donations from other males, neutralizing their scent and keeping only his own, scented bump for me if he was present, as he couldn't tolerate other scents within me. It was a privilege to receive this millennia-old liquid love, making me feel special. The act of him releasing himself into me was divine; our sex, as always, heavenly.
Finally, I lay boneless on top of him, exactly where he wanted me; he'd always been possessive, even in the past when he viewed me more as a possession. Now, however, his possessiveness was morphing into something resembling true love—a mutual love, with him wanting me and me wanting him.
"I must confess, this physical therapy is pretty wonderful, my husband." My voice was husky as I looked into Damon's ice-blue eyes; he was sweaty but incredibly happy.
He smiled and said, "Well, you did seduce me. I told you a long time ago that there would be consequences, but yes, this is good. However, my love, perhaps we should continue this later. Let's get dressed and move on with our trip. By the way, you had an infection, were on antibiotics, and knocked out for twelve days. Wulfe made a special potion to suppress your pain perception little trick, so when you use it next time, Missy, I get alerted on my radar."
I rolled my eyes and rolled off Damon as he sat up to cast a cleaning spell on the tent, though he left the scent undisturbed.
He smirked, "This tent is pretty well sanctified, I must say, but let's see if our scent lingers. And these mattresses are pretty damn durable, too."
Smiling, I wrapped myself in a blanket as Damon conjured clothes for himself.
"I'll go make breakfast or something," he said. "Get dressed—no washing needed—and come eat when you're ready. It's cold out, so dress warmly."
He crawled out, closing the flap behind him. I lay there for about ten minutes before getting up to dress in clean panties, an angora undershirt, warm jeans, and a jacket. Then, I crawled out into the crisp winter air. The rest of the pack was emerging from their tents; Mariella smiled as Magnum and Alaric trailed behind her. Good for her. Alaric looked worn out—the lust queen can be a bit overwhelming at times.
Mariella, amused rather than bitter, said, "Mimi, you certainly seduced Damon, but I'll need to adjust your energies later. Your lustwaves are rather potent; you two turned the rest of the pack into an orgy."
I quipped, "Well, I didn't want you to feel left out. Besides, he set me up—dressed me only in his shirt, no panties!"
Mariella then asked, "Speaking of underwear, do you have any spares? Mine were destroyed, and they usually rip mine off and don't let me fix them."
I rolled my eyes and offered her some. I produced a packet of fifty panties from my saddlebag.
Her jaw dropped. "How many sets do you have?" she gasped. "A few packets," I replied. "They're inexpensive, comfortable, and stretchy. They should fit you, and they're not easily ripped."
Mariella peered into my saddlebag. "What else is in there?" she asked incredulously.
"First rule: use vacuum bags," I said, pulling out a bag containing six silk undershirts, six angora shirts, and a wraparound dress, all neatly compressed.
Mariella examined the bag, muttering to herself before Damon's warm hands seized me.
"My love," he said, his voice calm yet dominant, "it's time to show us what you've got. We all have time to share."
He took the vacuum-sealed packet from Mariella, humming softly. I rolled my eyes, but had no choice but to remove my saddlebags as others did the same. It was time to take inventory and show how our reserves could benefit the pack.
Damon's arm was around my shoulders, but I sensed his displeasure and tension. I knew my supplies might cause friction, but I hoped others had similar reserves. However, considering our pack, I suspected I'd have to share, explain, and endure their displeasure. But I refused to be merely a victim.
I was here to teach a lesson on preparedness—what to pack for a journey. My pack, however, contained far more than I anticipated needing. While I tried to pare down my supplies, I still carried extra—a precaution, especially given my role as the only licensed veterinarian in our thirty-horse pack. My veterinary kit, including drugs, was essential, since even though our healers (the salvatores) could manage most injuries, I needed to be prepared for any necessary interventions.
My philosophy is always to be ready; however, the presence of my kit could create problems. If confronted, I could justify its presence, though realistically, I might have to surrender it to our medics. They might learn something from my knowledge, but would they even be interested, or were they too arrogant to consider actual veterinary medicine alongside their magic?
My vet kit wasn't my only potentially controversial item. My extensive supplies could easily incite jealousy, although others might have similar equipment. While the pack generally fosters a spirit of sharing, I'm perhaps less willing to part with my things than others. My life is a balance, however, between exciting times, like our recent physiotherapy sessions, and less enjoyable situations, like potentially relinquishing my supplies.
I might get in trouble for my supplies, but that's nothing new. It's all about balance; as dull as it sounds, maintaining balance is crucial for everything to work. One might think someone with my life experiences wouldn't need more trouble, but I do—especially when Damon's angry or the pack blunders. The good times make it worthwhile.
And if I face heat for my supplies, so be it; I've faced worse. Let them learn. I'm a little smug about my supplies, and maybe if I really annoy them, they'll see how things should be done—what to reserve for a trip like this.
As I sat by the campfire, enjoying a delicious meal (twelve days of being knocked out gives one quite an appetite!), even my husband couldn't fully satisfy me, despite all of the filling that he provided me with. I hadn't even checked how many days we'd fucked.
Our trip was progressing; time marched on, and maybe someday we'd break our record—14 months together, set in England. That brought back another memory: number two, he'd taken me to England once before, a years later. Because of that damn year.
He sensed something was wrong with me, and we stayed for three weeks. I was so exhausted that I mostly slept in his arms. He was surprised; Bridgette's magic had made him think I'd been working at the hospital for over 15 months, neglecting my duties as alpha female and allowing Bran and Samuel, those evil wizards, to poison and torture Mariella.
But that wasn't true; I invented that scenario to hide the truth from the pack, since Damon and I weren't in a good place. So, once again, I took the hit. Somehow, Number Two sensed something was wrong. He tried to get me to talk, but I was safe, asleep.
It was a long time ago, and I realized that since Wulfe had processed the trauma and evil from that year, I could process my own fragmented memories and perhaps put them behind me. Of course, much was still attached to those memories, and I might need to talk to Damon—or confess several things to him—but I also worried about upsetting him.
I needed to be sure he could handle my confessions. I'd developed a habit of oversharing, lacking any filter regarding what, who, or when to tell. I might blurt something out unexpectedly, without considering my audience's readiness. But maybe I would learn.
However, I didn't confide in everyone. Mariella wasn't someone I could trust, as she relayed everything directly to Damon, and some things I still wanted to protect Damon from. But Alaric, Magnum, Wulfe, and even the wizards occasionally heard my stories.
For example, telling Dresden about Sark's cruel experiment made him physically ill; he hugged me for half an hour afterward and vowed revenge once this trip was over. Constantine, upon hearing about Krychek's assault, considered taking back hellfire. So, sometimes, sharing my experiences put pack members into fierce, protective moods—they wanted revenge on my behalf, demonstrating what happens when an alpha female is attacked. It was a balance: I share, and I receive care. Therefore, this inventory, while rough, might spark something positive.