I crawled out of my tent; Wulfe was still passed out, snoring softly, but comfortable. The sun was shining, and life felt good. I was alone, yet I could smell and hear activity around me, which brought a smirk to my face.
Once upon a time, I might have been sad or offended about others' intimacy while I was excluded, but this was precisely my plan: to give them good times, keep them busy, and help them relax. No need for constant tension; it was time to let go.
I made my way to the fire pit, built a fire, brewed coffee, and cooked breakfast. It felt good to do things myself. While I appreciated having loving husbands and caring pack members, I was perfectly capable of preparing my own food—and, frankly, it was fun.
Birds sang, the sun shone, and Australia was a wonderful place to be. Our riding trip had lasted for months, and even though it was autumn, the birds were still singing, suggesting a warm climate conducive to nesting.
As I fried meat and eggs (I'd found some wild turkeys nearby and collected their eggs), I peered into the trees to identify the birdsong. Some were common species, others were kept as pets, and a few were endangered. The grass was still green, though less lush than in summer; the trees retained their leaves, though not all of them, and fallen leaves covered the ground.
I hadn't planned my day beyond breakfast, but I suspected no one would emerge from their tents anytime soon, giving me some glorious alone time. I needed this—to be the one acting and doing things, not constantly being worshipped and told what to do, a role I wasn't suited for.
I finished my breakfast—not a culinary masterpiece, but perfectly acceptable since I'd made it myself. My Alpha side was already awake, and I considered washing in the river. However, the current was strong, requiring careful preparation. I envisioned a simple wash in the running water; the sheer volume always left me feeling cleaner than the travel shower we'd used.
While the shower removed the worst grime, it lacked that deep-clean feeling, though I knew it was likely just in my head. I decided to do it now, while I had time; it would be fun. I planned to use my netting to secure myself against the current. Smiling smugly, I finished breakfast, already mentally rehearsing my plan.
Afterward, I retrieved a packet of netting and several paracord loops from my saddlebag, gathering my towel, shower gel, and moisturizer. My old moisturizer jar held my ultimate soothing cream—Damon's very first concoction from his bump after an embarrassing encounter with poison ivy, surprisingly fresh after a century.
I didn't need much, as my skin often itched from sweat and rain. Reaching the river, I sat on a rock, opened the netting, and began threading paracord, creating a large, fishnet-like enclosure. My plan was to attach the net to sturdy trees, enter it, wash, and remain safely secured while the running water rinsed and refreshed me.
Finally ready, I attached the ropes to nearby trees. Feeling quite pleased, I watched my net flare out as intended. Quickly removing my clothes and grabbing my soap and shampoo, I waded into the frigid river.
The cold air stole my breath, raising goosebumps as I slowly adjusted to the stream, holding onto my rope for security. Once submerged up to my neck, I leaned into my net, and it worked perfectly.
I dipped my head into the water, submerging it fully. As I surfaced, a lazy, drawling voice nearly startled me.
"Oh, baby, you're inventive, I must admit," he said. "But that water's pretty damn clear, and I have to say, this view is inspirational. I wonder if there's room for me?"
Number Four leaned against a tree, a smirk on his face, his gaze intense. Before I could answer, he shed his clothes and entered the water like a predator. I smiled, wondering what the icy water would do to his enthusiasm—would his arousal last, or would the cold subdue his lust?
"Oh, baby, your mind's always in the gutter," he said. "Is nothing ever enough for you?"
A telepath and a potent one, indeed. I feigned innocence, continuing to wash my hair as he pressed himself against me, massaging my scalp.
A husky murmur in my ear almost made me blush. "Whatcha think? Am I getting soft...?"
Now, he ground his pelvis against me, a move Mariella hadn't experienced. I wasn't sure what he'd done. He washed his hair with my shampoo—he kept his hair quite long and messy—all the while pressed tightly against me, trapped against the netting by his hard, hot body.
He murmured, "Oh, baby, just wait until I wash your tight, hot body. Then we can see what we're doing."
I said, "Well, Wulfe is passed out drunk in my tent. I did to him what I once planned to do to Number One—I gave him one of my special little bottles."
Damon purred, "Oh, baby, tell me more about this special bottle..."
Mariella's semi-innocent voice interrupted our private moment as she joined us, saying, "Oh, you two! I want to wash up too. That netting looks fun, Mimi! Oh, please, Damon, wash me too; I can do some personal washing."
Number Four's eyes flashed, but I smiled at him, grabbed my shower gel, and washed efficiently. Mariella, already removing her clothes and stepping into the river, hissed at the cold water.
Her nipples were prominent, and a heavy scent of sex clung to her, suggesting a wash was indeed in order. Since she lacked shower gel, I offered her mine. Number Four's irritation was almost palpable, but Mariella, seemingly in a possessive mood, ignored him, pressing herself against him. He was her husband, as well. After all, I didn't mind.
After washing, I returned to the riverbank, wrapped myself in my sheet, and watched Mariella attempt to seduce Number Four. He, however, remained unmoved, adopting a clinical approach as he washed her and examined her skin.
He noticed dry patches and itching, his brow furrowing as he considered how to alleviate and prevent the problem. I, too, had itchy patches on my back, and rubbed them with my towel.
The relief was immense, prompting Mariella to say to Number Four, "See, Mimi's itching too! She's rubbing her back. I can almost feel her itch."
Number Four snapped at me, "Stop it, baby. We'll be there soon, and I'll see what's wrong with you."
Reaching for my special jar, I replied, "No need, I still have some of this left; it works wonderfully."
He frowned and asked, "Is that the one I made for you after that poison ivy incident?"
Smiling, I recalled the incident and confirmed, "Yes, it's so useful, and I still have some left."
Mariella asked, "What is it?"
Number Four explained, "That, my dear, is the very first concoction I made from my bump. You see, Mimi was on a mission and got some poison ivy in… a slightly inconvenient place, and I happened to be coming into base while she was…"
II finished his sentence: "I was scraping my ass raw. I'd gotten poison ivy in my ass cheeks and asshole, and by God, it was itching! I'd tried ice and showers, but there were no medics available—it was a busy base—and I was literally digging my nails into my ass when he walked in. He made this concoction from his dentals and some of his fresh bump, and it took the itch away."
Mariella laughed. "I would have loved to see that, oh my god…"
Number Four smirked, and Mariella laughed harder as Number Four showed her a mental image of the scene. I took a breath, opened my jar, and applied a tiny drop to my itching legs—my calves were sweaty from keeping the horse in line.
As Mariella and Number Four emerged from the river, I heard other voices: Dresden, Constantine, maybe the boys, as well as Dexter and Murdock. It seemed my netting idea was spreading, and the pack was coming to wash up.
Number Four walked behind me, grabbed the jar, smelled it, and applied some to my back. It worked instantly, and he then treated Mariella as well.
He said, "Thanks for this, baby. I'll take this jar; we'll see if we can make more. Since there's still some left, this is important—a very effective medicament."
He took my pretty rose-patterned jar and conjured clothes as he headed back to camp. The boys, Murdock, Dexter, and the wizards, were already stripping off their clothes.
I said to Mariella, "See? We're about to get a free striptease show—not bad!"
She smiled, settled into a better position, and began commenting on the men as they entered the water.
Mariella said, after a moment, "Why do they talk to you but not me anymore? Where have I gone wrong?"
My brows furrowed as I searched for an answer. "I don't know if you've gone wrong, per se," I began, "but one reason might be—and this is just a guess—that I've learned to share too much. Did you know that when I described what it felt as Krychek's hairy chest rubbed against me as he fucked me to Constantine, he wanted to take back hellfire? Or when I told Dresden about Sark imprisoning me while Damon was married to Petra, all of that enzyme thing, and how Sark killed Burt and others, Dresden hugged me for half an hour and swore revenge? I've learned to share, but I lack a filter, a sense of what to share, with whom, and how."
Mariella muttered, "One day, my friend, you'll tell me stories, too. If you tell these things to others, why not me?"
"You're busy," I explained. "We don't seem to have time together, and whenever we do, something happens. Damon might be jealous, or some other man captures your attention."
Mariella nodded.
"Fine," I continued, "if you want, I can share with you. Did you know I once worked as a waitress in Las Vegas casinos? That's where I met Murdock and Dexter. We had a mission—listening in on conversations. Lots of supes were drinking and talking, and we waitresses…well, it was surprisingly tough. There were a lot of us. Fleas were there undercover. I wore fishnets, a tiny skirt, a tiny top, and I let them swat my ass and grope me."
Mariella raised an eyebrow. "But how did Damon let you...?"
I smiled. "I didn't tell him, not at all. I kept it locked away, knowing his jealousy. I still have those clothes—for sex play, mostly—but I don't think men would wait long if I put them on. Some things just set them off, you know."
"Now you have to dress up sometime, and I want to see what happens," Mariella said.
I took a breath. "There are options. One is that I'm taken there and then, and the clothes are ripped apart. Or, if my husband, my vampire king, lets his jealousy and possessiveness take over, it could be very painful. He might give me a lesson never to dress like that again."
Mariella was surprised, but she considered it. "True," she said, nodding. "He might, but then again, he's reacting. He has no idea you did that, and if he looked into the past…"
"Exactly," I said. "Some things are better left in the past. This brings me to my problem: how to learn what to share, where, and with whom."
Mariella giggled. "Oh, I bet that's not the only time you've found yourself in a compromised situation—one Damon might not tolerate well."
I grunted; she was right. There had been other times.
We sat on the riverbank, and I racked my brain for a story to tell her, one that wouldn't reach Damon's ears. It had to be neutral, or at least not incriminating. Ideally, the right story would make Damon more amenable to Mariella. But my lack of filter made me blurt out something not really suitable, but I had no idea why I was letting her know, or did I assume she already knew this?
"Surely Damon has told you about the session in Austria?" I said. "And yes, Damien made him do it—or rather, made Bran do it—but he still did it. No matter how hard I tried to convince myself he was a victim, he's a millennia-old creature. No Marrok, no evil twin, could make him do that unless he wanted to. He was controlling and jealous, but..."
Mariella was unusually quiet, thoughtful. "What are you referring to?" she finally asked.
"I know he likes to torture," I said. "And I wasn't a perfect wife. But our love—what it was at the start—was gone. That guy who gave lessons in the shop, with his fingers—he would never hurt me for weeks over a couple of kisses. Even when we had good times, I had to realize how much our relationship had changed. Sure, I could blame Damien, but it wasn't that simple."
"You're right," Mariella said. "He could never do anything like that to me, no matter what. And your love... it just..."
I spoke aloud what I'd known for a long time, even if things were better now: "He didn't love me, not for a long time. I don't have the heart to dredge up our past, when our epic love morphed into possession and jealousy on his part. I just don't want to face the truth; I want to keep my memories of our love—or what I perceived as love—as long as I can. You see, on this trip, for the first time in a long time, I've seen flickers of true love in him for me—tiny ones, but they've led me to this realization: his love, his need to be with me, has mostly been a need to possess me, like a trophy, not to love me as a wife. That's what twisted us both."
Mariella's quietude was broken by an abrupt, "Oh well, my ass is getting numb. We should get dressed; you don't need another UTI from sitting on the cold ground."
She stood, quickly dressed, and walked away, leaving me reeling from my confession. The bitter truth was that our relationship was far from what it had once been—a stark irony, considering our epic love story involved several Salvatores. Mariella and I hadn't twisted our love into a possessive, jealousy-filled triangle; I'd simply omitted that detail, seeing no need to incite conflict.
I wasn't sure where things stood with Damon—our relationship was the most complicated—or with the others. Would I have a flock of adoring Damons, or would each relationship be unique, its future unwritten? They were all so different from Damon.
Sitting by the riverbank, watching the men washing, my mind raced, tying itself into knots. My neurosis was taking over; I was slipping into my usual self-blame and self-hatred, though I hid it well. There was no point in letting anyone see my mind spinning uselessly.