As I reached for the next light orange carnation stem on the left side of the table, preparing to finish the bouquet, I hummed under my breath. It had been a week since Mariella's operation; her preemies, though not as small as mine had been, were weak and kept sedated in incubators, or so I had heard.
As for me, I was still not a "good girl." My attitude hadn't improved, and a dark smirk curved my lips as I knew Wulfe was probably still fuming somewhere, having been at the receiving end of my antics yet again. No regrets.
As the final stem slipped into place, I turned the bouquet—a mix of light pale orange carnations, white roses, greenery, and blue thistle—in my hand, pursing my lips as I considered whether it was ready. It was. I reached for the sisal yarn, wrapping the stems tightly, knotting it neatly, and then took my clippers and trimmed all the stems to the same height. Done. I placed it in one of the vats where my other creations were already arranged.
The door of my flower room opened, and I gazed upon what I had left. I raised my eyes to see Mariella walking in. She had her body back, but she smelled not of sex, but of milk.
"Oh, there you are," she said with a laugh. "Oh, wow, have you done all of these?"
I nodded, showing her five orders. "The girls will take them to the shop, or whoever is going; these are a few orders I just made."
She furrowed her brow. "Should you work this hard? I mean, you are huge."
I replied, "I am pregnant, not invalid, and yeah, this isn't dock working; I mostly sit and use my hands. Besides, I am not you."
Mariella's brow furrowed further. I took a breath and then asked, as it occurred to me, "Does it bother you that you look like Vivian Leigh? I mean, your face is Damon's ultimate fantasy, but still, it makes you a doppelgänger of sorts."
She shook her head and said, "No, not really. No, you see, I have watched her movies, all of them, many times, and although we might look the same, my expressions are not the same as hers. I use my face differently, and besides, I like my appearance. It is an honor to be chosen by Damon."
I rolled my eyes; it was so typical.
I glanced at the stems in front of me, trying to determine if I could make one more bunch or if I should just wrap it up for today. I had three stems of carnations—orange, violet, and white—some greenery, pink baby's breath, yellow chrysanthemums, one large, dark red bloom, and some blue feathery grass.
Mariella asked, "What are you thinking? What's next?"
I replied, "I'm not sure if there *is* a next one. I mean, this is a hodgepodge of colors. I'm not Damon when it comes to using color; I don't use the entire rainbow in a single bouquet. I think I'll just wrap this up and continue maybe tomorrow or the day after."
Mariella said, "But colorful can be fun!"
I picked up my stems and placed them in a bucket, ready for the next day. I collected all the loose leaves and stem pieces and put them in the bio-waste bin, then cleaned my workstation. After that, I hopped down from my chair and waddled to wash my hands.
I then walked to the wall where the monitor was for logging our hours. Charles was paying a wage for everyone who made bunches; each of us had our own salary, but since some of us worked only a few hours per month, it wasn't much. Mariella watched this as well, her frown evident.
She asked, "Does Damon know about this setup? I mean, he *is* the pack leader."
I shrugged and said, "Haven't got a clue. Ask Charles. It's not my job to inform Damon about everything here. Besides, I have enough 'Salvatores' in my life; I seem to collect quite a few of them already."
Mariella rolled her eyes and demanded, "But surely you must understand that he, too, is your husband, your alpha male!"
I rolled my eyes and walked out, not bothering to answer, as she was once again Damon's little spy. I wasn't in the mood.
"Mimi, you have to tell him!" Mariella insisted.
My voice was dark and impatient as I snapped back, "Don't tell me what I must do. I decide, not you, not Damon – just me. Others already know, so go pester them. Leave me be; I'm not in a polite mood. My default is way too snappy."
She furrowed her brows, quickening her pace and stepping in front of me, demanding my attention. "What do you mean? And what's with you almost hating Damon? Come on, learn to forgive, move on!"
I pushed her aside and continued walking until I reached my new craft room. I needed some alone time to cool down before my nasty mouth got the better of me.
"It's almost Christmas. Go be with your trio. Show them Christmas," I told her.
She rolled her eyes sarcastically. "No need. A few Salvatores, as well as the girls, have taken yours and mine shopping or to see Santa. According to Damon, I can't go out in public since I'm still at risk of infection, so no Christmas cheer for me. Besides, the kids are small and don't yet understand much about Christmas; mostly, they're bewildered. Maybe next year. And what is your default mood? What did you mean by that?"
I opened the door and stepped inside, walking to my crafting cabinet. I began gathering supplies: plastic bags full of wooden hoops, silk ribbon, glue, feathers, stone chips, raw stones, larger ones, wire-wrapping supplies, earring bases, pliers, hooks, tiny carvings made out of stones, mushrooms, all kinds of crafting materials.
Mariella watched, her mouth agape. "I haven't seen half of this stuff. Have you cleared this with Damon?"
I snapped, "Enough with Damon! I'm fine. Nothing is dangerous; this keeps me occupied, my mind active, and it distracts me."
Mariella asked, "What's with you?"
I said flatly, "Hormones, what else? My state, what I can't do versus what I want to do."
I took a breath as I carried my supplies near my chair, flicked on extra light, and the Christmas songs softly played in the background as I turned on my music player.
I said, "Listen, I am hormonal and irritated, and it might not be wise for you to listen to me, as it might get you in trouble with Damon, so just go."
Mariella sat down and added, "You know, I've seen my six babies three times. Twice I saw them behind the glass, and once they were in incubators in a room. I haven't touched them yet. They're not immortals, just tiny pink creatures in boxes. And I don't have much to give them. I mean, I make milk, but according to Damon, it's not suitable yet. So he handed me my pump and ordered me to pump at least 850 ml per day, or more, and freeze it. Number four is hysterical about hygiene; no one can enter unless they've scrubbed down more than in freaking surgery. So, I'm not too fond of Damon. He's cold and clinical. I can feel his worry, but I can't help him. I mean, it might help if you talked to him, too."
I replied, "I get it, I really do. But you see, my default, which has been in place for centuries, ever since flank side first emerged, is something that might set him off. And your babies need him. See, your default is right there: you want to include Damon, ask him, let him decide, be with him. For me, it's quite the opposite. My default with him has been, and always will be, by some cosmic joke: DO NOT OBEY DAMON. Meaning, if he gives me an order, I either ignore it, don't obey it, or twist it in my mind so that it seems like my own idea. Something in me, I guess it's my alpha side, doesn't see Damon as someone I should obey."
To my surprise, Mariella said, "Oh, please, give me lessons. This seems like something I need to learn to do. I know you're right; I'm as tame as a lamb when he gives me orders. I don't even think about it; I obey, and it feels so weak, so stupid from time to time, like he's taught me to be a good little wuss and just do as he says."
I grabbed a wooden hoop and some pink ribbon, plugged in my glue gun, and waited for it to warm up.
Mariella asked, "What are you doing?"
"Dream catchers," I replied, "with crystals and feathers. First, I need to cover the hoops, then select the stones, and finally, assemble them. It's actually quite enjoyable. I'm using stone chips and a raw stone piece in the center."
She then inquired, "What else? It seems you have quite a few projects going on."
I admitted, "I do. I'm trying to avoid boredom, since I'm not allowed to do chores. I'm also not someone who can just sit around all day; though I used to be. As a human, I was lazy, or at least lacked initiative, but now, I'm the complete opposite."
Mariella remarked, "You've never spoken much about your human life, have you?"
I gave a mirthless smile. "Not much to tell. It was a small life, utterly different from this, though even the 'me' that remains has changed significantly. I can still recognize what's stayed the same, though: my fondness for stones, music, and movies. These are all echoes of the human me, things I liked and loved back then, and some of my favorite foods too. So, I haven't let go of my past, and I don't think anyone truly can. No one can reinvent themselves entirely, because our past shapes us."
As I spoke, I gazed at the yellow wall with its floral patterns. Then, noticing the glue gun was ready, I reached for it. The door opened, and Damon entered.
Mariella looked slightly sheepish, saying, "He just asked where I was and what I was doing, so I told him."
I nodded. I placed the ribbon and hoop in my lap and reached for the glue gun.
Damon strode over, grabbing my wrist. "The glue gun, really? With your lungs? No, Missy, let me fix the ribbon with magic, or let me use the glue gun."
I replied calmly, "Number Two approved my glue gun. No worries, he knows."
He furrowed his brow, but didn't back down.
Instead, he took the gun, sat in a chair next to me, and said to Mariella, "Darling, Number Five has a meal for you; go eat."
Mariella didn't reply but got up and walked away.
Damon then asked, "Now, how do we do these dream catchers? I haven't officially done them, and I know they're going to be sold, so tell me."
Damon was wearing a navy silk shirt, one of mine, actually. I had bought that shirt from Bangladesh, and it hadn't been cheap. It had been big on me, but I had intended it to be a cooling-off shirt. However, it seemed I had bought one just Damon's size. He also wore faded blue jeans, almost white, and no socks or shoes.
I, on the other hand, had my fuzzy slippers covering my feet completely, so not everyone would stare at them all the time. I was wearing one of my maternity dresses, a red one, as it was Christmas time.
I grabbed a few ready hoops from my box and said, "We need these. I have different stones, so these are made by color: obsidian, meaning black; clear quartz, meaning white; and pink opal or rose quartz, meaning pink. I have a few shades here, like grey labradorite, green tourmaline or malachite, yellow citrine, calcite, fluorite or tiger eye, light blue kyanite, and dark blue sodalite. Then, there's red red jasper or strawberry quartz. I have stones for them, and we'll get to that once we get the hoops ready enough."
Damon nodded and said, "Well, let's see what we are going to get done. Do you have wire wrapping here as well? I haven't tried that much."
I nodded and replied, "I have a few ready, but the girls, as well as Charles, want me to name my creations, which isn't easy, as I don't always plan them out. Besides, I need to see what beads and stones I have."
He furrowed his brow and said, "Well, we can brainstorm names together too."
The door opened, and Number Four walked in, carrying several feeding bags again.
He grunted slightly and said to Damon, "I've been meaning to talk to you about our digestive substance, but those babies take time. Anyway, Missy, this will keep you going for the next nine hours, so stay put. Or, if you move, inform me so I can unhook you. And lift those legs up – what's with the slippers? It is warm here."
I sighed softly; this specimen was, once again, in the mood for barking orders, and I was not in the mood to obey.
Number One said, "She's feeling a bit snappish, so just so you know, I will monitor her. I will spend some time with her, as the kids are out for a few days on their trip."
Number Four didn't wait for me to react but snatched a footstool, a quite high one, brought it next to my chair, and said to me, "Up. Let's go to the bathroom first, time for a sample, and then we hook you up, put you in a good position, and see those feet."
As he reached for me, I pushed myself up.
Keeping my expression neutral even when a sharp pain hit low in my pelvis, I heard Number One's sharp voice ask, "What was that, baby?"
I tried to sound gullible, asking, "What?"
He repeated, "Pain, I felt it. Four, she was hurt as she pushed up. Sharp pain deep in her pelvis."
Taking a deep breath, I attempted to calm the two of them. "I have a triple cerclage. I'm carrying five babies, and there's a lot of fluid. My womb weighs a lot, so when I get up, of course my womb moves. The weight drops, and those stitches feel… It's just as I get up. It's nothing permanent."
Number One countered, "Not good enough. First, lift her slower, and we need to support her womb. Higher chair, and at some point, check her cervix and those stitches. No need for her to bleed internally if they rip too much."
I rolled my eyes as Number Four supported me, leading me to the bathroom with Number One following. Oh my God, my life had just turned into a freaking theater. I was fine. It was just a short burst of pain, nothing to overreact about. Of course, both of them were my husbands, my mates, very close to me, feeling me, sensing me, but this was a little too much for me in my highly hormonal state, and I knew an explosion was just a matter of time.
Well, heck, if I could drive Wulfe crazy, surely these two weren't such hard subjects to really make them explode. I was very creative with my choice of words, but Number Four was pretty damn patient with me; I might not get him to back off that easily. But Number One, I knew his buttons, and how to get him hell away from me.
"By the way, this woman is quite venomous, so you'll need a thick skin," Number Four remarked, opening the bathroom door and guiding me in. "She managed to infuriate Wulfe, and he's still cooling off."
Number One replied, "Good to know. I'll try. It's been a while since I was properly sassed. I might just give her a taste of her own medicine."
I kept myself from rolling my eyes.
Number Four then instructed, "First sample. I've set it up. Just pee. Only pee. No stool. I don't need a stool sample today. Understand? If you shit, I'll go through your abdominal wall, and with your pregnancy, it will sting – no numbing."
He looked at me directly. Fine. I had, on occasion, 'accidentally' provided a stool sample when he only wanted urine. As said, I was kind of naughty. My usual problem was a small amount of urine, which annoyed him, but he was in no mood for games.
He placed a collection dish in the toilet, helped me lift my hem, and lowered my panties. I sat down, and quite a lot of piss flowed.
He said, "Now, sit there. I'm on your left; Number One will be on your right side. We'll lift you. Don't push, just be. We'll support your uterus with energy and do this slowly."
They grabbed me under my arms and around my waist, and with slow grunts, lifted me. I felt pressure pushing upward from my crotch, supporting my womb, and only as I was fully upright. They helped me pull my panties up and assisted me in walking. There was no pain this time, but the process took three times longer than usual. In my opinion, it was an overreaction.
Number four reached the sample dish and poured its contents into a smaller jar.
"Dark, we need to hydrate you more, or at least make sure you can urinate," he said.
He then showed my pee to number one, who grunted in response.
"Fine," number one said. "We have a fridge here. I'll check it out and make sure this critter drinks 300 ml hourly, and we'll see if that does the trick. Now, let's go sit down. And what about your working..."
Number four interrupted, "Working again? I've told you, Mimi, you have a limit. Only five hours per week, and you exceeded that the day before yesterday."
I took a breath, but my voice snapped, and I said, "I only worked for four hours. I had orders, and I made about 13 bouquets."
Number one responded, "No more. You need someone with you all the time. You are too pregnant to strain yourself too much; try to understand."
I took a breath, trying to remain calm. "This is week 25 for me, with your feeding. This pregnancy will last longer than 30 weeks, perhaps up to 35 weeks, according to my doctors, not me. That means I refuse to be rendered invalid for ten weeks, just as you choose to be hysterical once more, overreacting to every damn symptom. I understand your need to care, I really do, and I understand you might be considering all the possible complications, but I am fine. I am huge, but fine. I am not Mariella. I am strong, an alpha female, and this is what my body can do. Feed me, be with me if you dare, but do not suffocate me, or try to passivate me into doing nothing, as you both know that it is one thing that messes my body up. It needs to be challenged, not coddled."
Number four pursed his lips, trying to formulate a counterargument, and number one said, "Fine, let's see. The reason you are not supposed to be working is simple: your body is hijacked by the babies, meaning lower immunity, lower healing, and lower tolerance for pollen."
He then grabbed my left hand, showing my fingertips, which were covered in several red spots, as if from rose thorns. "No healing, a slight infection. Tulip pollen, as well as chrysanthemum pollen, is an irritant for you. Hay seeds love to lodge in your lungs. There are dangers around you, even if you refuse to acknowledge them. I know your body needs to be challenged, but let me tell you, wife, mere walking is enough." His voice, ever so patient, began to grate on my nerves, and his list of facts pissed me off.
After leading me back to my seat, they began the procedure. First, number four conjured the IV pole. He hung the feeding bags as I leaned forward, allowing him to dig out the line from my back. He swiftly connected the bags and the line so that as one emptied, another would take its place.
Then, they ensured I was comfortable, deep in my seat, lifting my legs and removing my slippers. Although my feet were swollen, it wasn't too severe, at least in my opinion. However, both of them seemed concerned. Next, they checked my blood pressure, which was, as usual, low, almost dangerously so, again indicating dehydration. To combat this, I was given ice-cold Coke, five glasses initially.
Then, number one made sure there was enough Coke left for the rest of the day. Walking was out of the question, as my feet were too swollen.
Number four offered, "I can come and massage your feet in a couple of hours, and remember to suck your treats."
He showed number one gelatinized meat-based cubes with oils and fats, promising extra calories, and at least I felt like I was eating something. So, I had little to complain about. Oh, how infuriating my life could be!