Mary's throwing up.
Again.
Honestly, I feel kinda like puking too. But Mary definitely takes precedent over anybody else, considering that she's pretty much in quarantine. Esme took her temperature an hour ago and she is officially a toasty 103 degrees, which means now everyone's paranoid to the extreme about letting Nesserella near her and catching the evil that is a fever.
Nahuel's with Mary now, which means I'm with her too. Though it's sort of insanely creepy watching her puke up blood that I know isn't hers. I finally hunker down and find a washcloth, that I soak with water while wondering how in the hell this house is so damn big and has such small bathrooms.
"Here," I say, and lean over Nahuel to put the cloth on Mary's paler-than-usual forehead. It slips off almost instantly, since she's leaning over the toilet, but her brother catches it and places it more appropriately on the back of her neck.
"Why can't you ever get sick?" Mary mumbles, and then pukes. More blood. I wince and then feel, crap, guilty. You know you're getting attached when you start feeling bad for your own thoughts.
Her long, slender legs are pressed up against her chest. Alice (or, as Grace and Norah call her, Small Future Knower— much like her husband is Tall Scarred Man) came in earlier to run her blood-splattered dress through the washing machine. The thing looked like it'd been taken off of a murder victim. In exchange, Mary got a T-shirt and shorts, the latter of which she abandoned a little while ago. Nahuel muttered, when I asked him, that their dad doesn't like them wearing anything but dresses and it makes her uncomfortable. But it's sort of weird looking at her, even when she had the shorts on; she's almost freakishly thin, with long, overlapping arms and legs that remind me of a spider's.
I just want to shove a hamburger in her mouth. Girl needs something to eat.
Someone knocks on the bathroom door— which is pointless since, yes, it's open. We don't want to pass out in here from all the blood-fumes. I look up and see Blondie leaning against the doorframe, appraising the scene in front of her. Yeah, I'm sure we look straight out of a Lifetime movie: Mary, leaning over the toilet in her underwear and a T-shirt, Nahuel rubbing her back every time she projects more human blood out of her mouth, and me putting my freaky-heated shape shifter hands all over her when she complains that she's cold.
"Esme wanted to know if you all want any dinner…?" Blondie trails off, obviously realizing that none of us are in a particularly hungry mood. Hell, after this I don't think I'll be hungry for a few months.
"No, thank you," Nahuel answers, and then stands, grabbing Mary's hands to pull her up too. "I think it's time you slept, sister."
"I am going to vomit all over you," she warns weakly, as I press myself against the counter to get out of their way. Blondie shrugs, taking off, as Nahuel finally gives up dragging his sister into the hall and picks her up instead.
"You won't," he assures her. I follow them, randomly brushing hair off Mary's forehead. Damn those not-quite-buried maternal instincts, even though she's technically a good hundred years older than me.
"And why" –she breaks off, hacking out a cough— "is that?"
"Because then I would be forced to kill you."
I burst out laughing, compensation for Mary's tiny chuckle. At least Fate gave me an amusing as all hell imprint. Nahuel nudges open a door with his shoulder, saying, "Now you see how claiming your own room would have been easier."
"Cállate," Mary mumbles. "You said I could stay."
Aaand they've lost me. Grace is leaning across the bed in the middle of the room, hurriedly smoothing the new, non-bloody sheets down. She glances at her older sister, pulling the blanket back so Nahuel can sit her down.
"You look awful," she tells Mary cheerfully.
"Way to be kind to the sick," I mutter, jabbing her with my elbow. She sticks out her tongue in that infinitely mature way she has, then kisses Mary on the forehead.
"Good night, sister. Feel well."
Mary hums a reply, rolling onto her side and sighing. Her eyes flutter closed just as the door creaks open again and Norah peers inside. Grace shoos her out immediately, then raises her eyebrows at me and Nahuel. "Come on!" she whisper-hisses, hand on hip. I need to get used to the fact that she's half a century older than I am and actually, shockingly enough, acts it sometimes.
"Hurry up, stupid lizards!"
For very, very small amounts of time.
We leave Mary falling asleep in her guest bed and troop down the hallway. Well, Nahuel and I walk normally, Grace and Norah do some weird dance together. Whatever. I'll continue dissecting their weirdness when there aren't, oh, a few billion other things to worry about.
I'm pretty much blocking myself from thinking about it all. Really. You get disturbingly good at doing that when you run around as thought-sharing wolves with your ex-boyfriend. That's pretty much the only thing keeping me from having a complete mental breakdown right about now— I keep shoving it back until it slams into my skull. I didn't even get a chance to say anything after Nahuel's very dramatic announcement; Grace stole that thunder when she slammed the door open and announced Mary's thermometer results to everyone. And, thanks to the super-hearing vamps infesting the first floor, this resulted in what was probably a very accurate representation of life during the Black Plague:
'Oh my God, grab Nesserella, germs, disinfect, oh holy Christ the child, save the child, get the cleaning supplies, the rubber gloves, quarantine the puking half-vamp, OH MY GOD SOMEBODY SAVE US ALL.'
Yeah. Just like that.
So, in short, we've all been just a liiittle bit busy.
Nahuel catches my eye now. "Would you like to eat?"
"Depends. We talking food here, or deer blood?"
He smiles as we start walking down the stairs— Norah shoves Grace so that she almost falls down them. Gotta love that half-vamp elegance. "The former for you, the latter for me. Edward tells me they give Renesmee blood in a… sippy cup? Whatever that object is. He has offered to give me some as well so that I do not have to leave to hunt."
A little girl, sitting with a sippy cup, drinking animal blood. If only Child Protective Services knew about the Cullen's.
"Cool," I sigh, "'cause you know the wolves needs, like, eight meals a day."
We're walking close enough together down the hallway that I take a second to press my forehead against his shoulder, breathing in deeply. After eating, I promise myself, after we go the room we've sort of started sharing, I'll ask him all about this. About Mary and Mexico and new babies. Everything.
We stay still for a minute, silent. Until Norah skids out of the kitchen, frowning and with an apron tied sloppily around her waist. "Are you finished being romantic?" she demands, exasperated. "Come on!"
"No, I wasn't quite finished," I tell her, but she's already turning away. I roll my eyes and follow, Nahuel trailing behind me. The vamps better have some damn good food.
The kitchen is just as big and bright as I remember. Cheerful yellow curtains, steel stove, crap held to the fridge with letter magnets… right out of a magazine. Y'know, if magazines usually had pictures of kitchens with creepily beautiful people milling around trying to cook human food.
"No!" we hear Nesserella cry, from where she's sitting at the kitchen table. Well, sitting on the kitchen table would be a more accurate description. She's scowling at her mother, arms crossed tight over her chest. Oh wow, I guess Bella really isn't Super Mom. How shocking.
"Come on, baby," Bella croons, bending over and pressing the spoonful of pasta more insistently at her daughter. "It tastes yummy!"
I snort. Yes, let's tell the two and a half year old with double Jacob's IQ that something tastes 'yummy.' That's sure to entice her.
Blondie, leaning against the far wall, flips her hair over her shoulder, and I can't help a stab of jealousy. Ugh. Stupid long-haired vamps. "If Nessie doesn't like it, why are you forcing her to eat it?" she asks indifferently, barely glancing up from the cookbook she has spread in her hands.
Bella-Skank frowns, dropping the spoon back into a tiny plastic container. "She hasn't even tried it. She has to try it to know if she likes it."
"Nah," I disagree, in a very helpful way, "sometimes you just know when stuff's nasty."
"I am sure it isn't that awful," Nahuel says to Nesserella, trying to coerce her into eating the pasta. Because he eats so much human food. Grace must have the same thought, since she slides over, plucks the spoon out of the container, and shoves it at her brother.
"Then you eat it," she croons.
Nahuel narrows his eyes at her. "I'd rather not."
"But I'm sure it isn't that awful!" I mock him, cackling. I think even Blondie cracks a smile.
"I take it back. It is that awful."
"Too late!" Grace crows. "Eat it, brother."
"You know, you are very irritating to me right now."
"You are very irritating to me most of the time," she counters, still pushing the full spoon at him.
"I don't think I— Grace!"
Well.
…She certainly took advantage of the fact that talking requires opening your mouth.
Nesserella shrieks out a laugh at Nahuel's face— and, okay, so do I. It's fucking priceless. Who knew watching your imprint get pasta shoved into his mouth by his crazy weird sister would be this funny?
Nahuel grimaces, swallowing. "I dislike you so much."
"But still love me!" Grace laughs, turning around and skipping over to Bella and Nesserella. "Here, pajarito, you will try it now?"
Nesserella still looks skeptical, but nods slowly. She lets Grace scoop more pasta onto the spoon and press it into her mouth, where she chews for an annoyingly long time. "Still bad," she announces, making a face.
"Tell me about it," Nahuel mutters, taking with a grateful smile the water bottle Blondie tosses him. Except… I don't think water usually has a dark red tint. Great. Let's watch him drink some animal blood, as if this wasn't a weird enough damn day.
Alice walks in then, Mary's newly-cleaned yellow dress folded neatly in her arms. "Here you go, Nahuel," she sings, handing it to him. He, in turn, passes it into Grace's impatient hands. "Is Mary feeling any better yet?"
"Somewhat. She sleeps, now. Perhaps when she awakens the worst will have passed."
"Mary is sick?" Nesserella asks, intrigued. Do these people go out of their way not to tell her things? Norah, who until now has been talking softly with Blondie, too-big apron still knotted loosely around her waist, looks up and nods.
"Father says it is the cold making her ill," she explains, playing with the apron strings. "We are used to the heat and the humidity, all of the time. It's why brother has been sleeping longer than he usually does. The sudden temperature change tires us all."
"Then why is Mary sicker than everyone else?" Nesserella wonders. Her mother lifts her off the table, grabbing a bottle o' blood with a defeated sigh. Oh, shut up, your kid doesn't like pasta, big deal.
"Mary's always become ill the easiest," Grace tells her, playing with the curls in her hair. "For some reason."
Nesserella shrugs, fisting her hand in Bella's shirt. She yawns, blinking her eyes back open again, but her mother clicks her tongue. "Are you tired, sweetie?"
No, she probably just yawned at nine o' clock at night to trick you. You're gullible enough.
Even with her daughter assuring her that 'I am not tired, Momma', Bella-Skank waves a goodbye to everyone in the kitchen (as if we'd miss her… or maybe I just speak for myself. Whatever) and leaves for her cottage. In the woods. With the fairies…
Esme comes in next, and lets Norah help her make not a pot, not a container, but a vat of spaghetti. This, of course, prompts Jacob to come sniffing around, having apparently finished obsessing over Nesserella for the day. He's such a freaking hobo— he's never at his own damn house. Nahuel and Blondie start talking in the corner, about I-don't-know-what, and Jake accosts me to start babbling about his little imprint's birthday. Apparently the vamps just decided to give her a few every year, to celebrate each age. Since it obviously wouldn't be as much fun and as wasteful to just give her one a year for a bunch of random ages. But I obviously do not have the wisdom of the vampires, so what do I know?
At least I get spaghetti out of this.
It's actually really damn good spaghetti, which is most likely because Norah put a bunch of weird spices in the sauce. Whatever, it tastes awesome. I even make Nahuel try some, and he smiles at me when he swallows but then says that if he eats any more Mary won't be the only one vomiting.
Eventually, after Jacob and I dump our plates in the sink, everyone starts to disperse. Large Smiling Vampire (Grace and Norah's name, not mine) comes to get Blondie— well, 'grab and make out with' might work better than 'get.' Esme starts wiping down the counters, and actually lets Grace lick her cheek before she leaves. This sends Grace into something like spasms of rapture, since she apparently tastes like grass and milk. How Grace knows what grass tastes like, I don't even want to guess at.
Norah kisses Nahuel and me on the cheek, grinning in her now sauce-splattered apron. "Good night, brother. Good night, Leah. You will listen for Mary, sí?"
"Of course," Nahuel answers. "Sleep well, sister."
"Why do you guys do that?" I ask him, as we start walking up to the second floor.
"What do you speak of?"
"Calling people by… what's the word… by a title, instead of their name."
He frowns at me. "I do not understand your meaning."
"Like how Grace and Norah call Jake 'Native Shape Shifter Alpha.' Or Esme is 'Coven Leader's Mate.' Or just calling each other brother and sister. Why?"
Nahuel shrugs, flipping up the same light switch that Norah had earlier, when she brought me up here to wait for Joham. "Habit, I suppose. When Grace was small they made occasional appearances in high society— Father's way of proving how superior his creations were." There's a residual trace of bitterness in his words, but it's so slight that I can easily listen when he continues, "Mary made those titles up to help her remember faces. Grace's fault for not paying attention when names were exchanged, though she could have memorized them with no problems. The tendency stuck. It comes out in me when I spend time with them, I presume."
"I should give you a title," I muse, as he opens the door to his room. And, I reiterate, he is awesome, because he holds it opens a little to let me inside instead of me having to be all awkward and follow him. "How child-appropriate does it have to be?"
He smiles as I fling myself down onto the bed. Wow, I'm so incredibly subtle. "I'm not sure I wish to know what you are considering."
"You will," I promise, then grin. I'm such a nymphomaniac.
"I am going to bathe myself now," Nahuel announces. Because that so helps me not think about sex.
"…Have fun? And don't you mean shower?"
"They are one in the same, are they not?" He shrugs, again. "You are cleaned either way."
How is he always right about shit like that? "Wait, you lived in the jungle, right?" I ask, pushing myself up on my elbows while he starts gathering clothes. "So for a bath, you…?"
"Used the river," he supplies. "Though I find the Cullen's way much simpler."
"I hope. It would be really awkward if you had to go down the river every night to take a bath."
He leans over, kisses me on the forehead. Ugh, Christ, that should not make me so happy and glow-y. "I shall check on Mary."
"I shall stay here and jack the magazine on the side table."
"Do enjoy yourself."
Except after he leaves and I grab the magazine, I realize that it's a Cosmo from February of last year. Yay, reading about romance and orgasms. It's just what I need.
I do, however, need the latter in real life. Incredibly so.
I toss the magazine to the side, sighing and tucking my hand under my head. Hell, if I'm this tired at, what, 9:30? Then I should seriously reevaluate my sleeping patterns. My eyes flutter closed, and I even manage to halfway toss the blanket over me before I start dozing. I'm not exactly asleep, but my thoughts are all disjointed and dreamy anyway. I keep jumping from the La Push beaches to the white, sandy stretches that I think Mexico might be like… from Emily's scarred and smiling face to Grace's serene eyes and forever-genuine joy… from my four year old self, watching Mom throw up right before she explained that I was going to have a new baby brother, to Mary, leaning over the toilet and crying out with every heave of her stomach… Mary, always so tired looking, lashing out at Nahuel this morning…
I startle out of my halfway-sleep, scrambling up against the headboard.
No. Fucking. Way.
Nofuckingway.
My 'revelation' time is very, very short lived. Nahuel opens the door while I'm still clutching at the head of the bed, thisclose to freaking the fuck out, a few stray droplets of water still skimming over his arms and his hair wet and recently re-braided.
"Hello," he says, easily slipping into the bed beside me.
And my esteemed answer is, "Holy fucking shit, is Mary fucking pregnant?!"
Nahuel blinks at me. "Would you please repeat that without the multiple expletives?"
Well… that takes out about half the words. But I comply, flipping onto my stomach so that I'm lying next to him and hiss, "Is Mary pregnant?"
The entirety of his face furrows, perplexed. "Why in the world would you think that?"
I can't help flailing my arms around a little— because all of the symptoms, holy shit, what the hell would Embry do if Mary was pregnant with some other dude's kid? And how the crap has that never happened before? Somehow everyone's managed to imprint on either toddlers or reasonably aged women. Never a married woman. Never an old woman. Never a pregnant woman. "She's throwing up!" I whisper-shriek at Nahuel. "Morning sickness! She's tired and bitchy! She's pregnant!"
Unfortunately, Nahuel does not seem to share in the realization. Which means I'm basically thrashing around like a demented fish for a reason he's not grasping. "Leah dear, you are not making sense," he says, reaching over to spear his fingers through my hair. Don't get distracted, dammit, don't get distracted… making out with half-vampire imprint comes after discussing half-vampire imprint's possibly pregnant sister.
"Mary," I enunciate, wriggling so that I can prop myself up on my elbows, "is pregnant. Holy shit. She's fucking pregnant."
"I hate to interrupt your stunned amazement, querida… but I still have no idea as to why you would think that," he tells me bemusedly. "Mary is not with child."
"Oh, okay, and now can I see your med school diploma?" I demand, just a little bit hysterical. "You don't know, she has to go to fucking Carlisle or get one of those friggin' home pregnancy tests or would those even work on half-vamps—"
"Leah. Please. Cállate."
"Mary said that earlier!" I shriek, not even bothering with the 'whisper' part anymore. Like I care at this point. "Is it some weird code word for pregnant?"
"Darling, it means 'shut up.'"
"…Oh."
Well. Nothing like ending the day by getting told off in Spanish by my imprint.
I groan, curling my hands over his shoulders. Somehow my flailing and freaking out has managed to land me half on top of Nahuel, one leg between both of his, partially lying across his stomach and chest. Which is threatening to sidetrack me at the moment, but I force my eyes up to his face… holy shit, his eyes are gorgeous…
Ahem. Anyway. I wasn't just momentarily out of it because of a guy's eyes. No, never.
What the fuck was I talking about?
Oh. Oh, yeah. Mary, puking and sleeping and bitching. Mary. "Dude!" I stress, looking up at him again, "Mary's effing pregnant."
Nahuel rolls his eyes at me. At me. "I can assure you that she isn't."
"How?"
"Well, for one, Father keeps very strict records of her sexual relations. He would be certain if she was with child by now. Secondly, a woman's scent changes as soon as she falls pregnant, dramatically enough for even Grace, Norah, or I to notice. And thirdly, Mary is ill in this manner both because of Father's news of our… sibling's birth, and the shock of that Native man imprinting upon her." He pauses, watching me with a weird, debating look on his face. "This is why she is so sickly. When presented with stress, her body tends to become physically ill."
I think I can actually feel my heartbeat slowing down. Okay. Okay. He makes sense. Though it is insanely creepy and disturbing that Joham has records about her sex life, but whatever. Not pregnant. Not pregnant.
But Nahuel keeps talking. "There is a fourth reason I doubt this alleged pregnancy."
I splay my hands over his chest, my fingertips resting right above his heart. "Would you like to share with the class?"
He frowns at me. "We are the only ones here."
"Expression. Go on."
There's the smallest hint of a hesitation, before he finally answers, "These symptoms of pregnancy that you listed— well… Mary never had any of them during her other pregnancies."
…Excuse me, heart stopping again.
"Her. Other. Pregnancies," I repeat haltingly. "She's been pregnant before."
Nahuel nods reluctantly. "Thrice."
Jesus Christ. I wouldn't be surprised if all of this family's skeletons got up from the closet and started fucking dancing.
My voice is soft when I murmur, mostly in amazement, "She has three kids." Holy shit. I'm going to phase tomorrow. Embry is going to phase tomorrow. That is not going to be a good combination. 'So, Embryo, your imprint's got three kids who are probably all older than you. Have fun, Daddy!'
I glance up, pushing my stupid thoughts away, when Nahuel winces. "That is where you would be incorrect."
"…Hmm?" What else am I missing here?
He sighs, hand rubbing up and down my back in an almost unconscious motion. "Leah dear… all of Mary's children were born the same way."
I crinkle my forehead, staring up at him. "What way?"
Nahuel bites his lip, and then answers:
"Dead."
Have you ever been presented with something that truly makes your jaw drop? I sure as hell hadn't— and all it took was one word to do it.
One word, to change my entire perspective on Mary.
Dead.
I make a strangled kind of noise, my grip on Nahuel's shoulders suddenly vice-like. How could it feel, I wonder faintly, to be this close to having a baby, and then getting it taken away? Not once, not twice, but three times. At least I'd never been pregnant. I had vague hopes. Mary had tiny bodies.
"Oh my God," I murmur, and work on making my lips come back together. Nahuel is watching me, apparently making sure I don't freak the fuck out again, but this isn't 'freak out' news. This is just… numbing news.
Three dead babies.
Before conscious thought can catch up with me, my whole body wraps itself tighter around Nahuel, arms snaking up to clench around his neck, legs intertwining with his underneath the thin cover of the blanket. "Oh my God," I say again, into his neck. "Holy shit. I… fuck. Poor Mary."
"Yes," Nahuel agrees softly. "Poor Mary."
We stay like that for I-don't-know-how-long, curled into each other. Eventually I look up, and we're already so close that the only option I have is to draw myself up higher and press our foreheads together. "That's why she doesn't want to go to Mexico?" I guess, breathless. "Because of the… baby?"
Nahuel sighs, eyes fluttering half-closed. "That is a part of it."
Then please to be gifting me with the rest of the reasons, darling. "…And the other parts?"
"…Her last baby was born seventeen years ago." He stares at me, imploring. When I don't react, he murmurs, "Norah is seventeen years old. She and Mary's third child were born on the same day. One lived. One was already dead. Three guesses as to which was which."
My mind goes, immediately, to a memory of Mary stamping a kiss on Norah's forehead. "That's… fucking awful."
Nahuel nods. He studies me for a moment longer, his head tilting gently to the side. "It was the stress," he says next, looking mournful. "Father never should have let her know of Norah's impending arrival. She was already bedridden, and had been for weeks."
I watch him through my eyelashes. "Why?"
"As I said before… when in stressful situations, Mary can't help but become physically ill. Norah's coming birth, another baby to take care of along with her own newborn, coupled with her almost constant worries over a third stillbirth— it all worked against her. Violent illness and a baby in the womb do not mix." He sighs again, softer. "She wore herself too thin."
I don't answer for awhile. It's all just a tad bit much to take it. That, and Embry's annoying face keeps popping up in my head. I always knew he'd be freaked out by Mary being sick in the first place— but how the hell is he going to take the reasons? And I thought I had some baggage; Mary's got a freakin' pile of the stuff. Embry'd still love her, I know, there's no way he couldn't… but it's not gonna be pretty watching him figure out that his imprint's been knocked up by other guys before.
…Holy shit.
I startle so thoroughly that Nahuel grabs onto my wrists to steady me. I balance on my own by tossing my leg wider, over his, and demand, "Who was their father?!"
"Excuse me?"
"Her babies," I pronounce emphatically, exasperated, waiting for him to get it. "Who was their dad?"
"You should use the plural," Nahuel corrects, hand on the small of my back. "There were three."
"Three," I repeat, weakly. "Okay. Okay. Who were they? 'Cause now Embry's got a helluva lot of competition."
Nahuel's smile is faint. "The latter two are dead. Unless Embry has a connection with those beyond the grave, I doubt this presents a problem."
"Dead," I mutter, hardly listening. "Dead is good."
And let's add that as #3,423 on the list of things I thought I'd never say.
I raise my neck to catch his eye again. "What about the first? 'Cause really, Embry's gonna be fuckin' pissed. Swear to God. Who was the first's father?"
Nahuel looks away, then back at me. "Father," he repeats.
"Yes, father, who was the father?" I ask, louder, every nerve inside me wound up tight.
"I just told you," Nahuel says, and there's a look on his face like something's tearing at his seams. "Father."
I stare at him. No reaction this time. Just… no. He can't be saying that Joham— "Are you serious?" I whisper, bringing my hands up to the side of his face. "You aren't, right?"
But Nahuel only glances down and murmurs, "That is probably why the baby was stillborn. He was too deformed to live."
"…Deformed?" I echo feebly, feeling my fingers start to shake. Disgusting fucking monster—
"Mary caught a glimpse of him," Nahuel says, and for the first time I can remember, his voice is an absolute monotone. "The baby. Before I covered him. She never should have. Half of his face was caved in."
I don't know what the sound I make is, but it's a horrible all the same. I've never been good at the giving-sympathy thing, always let Emily handle talking to the emotionally wrecked people— so I compensate by vining myself tighter around him, rocking into his hands. It feels bizarrely, stunningly right.
"I'm sorry," I mumble, incapable of thinking of anything else to say.
"You have nothing to be sorry for."
"But I am. I'm just annoying and divergent that way."
He chuckles, making his throat vibrate where my ear rests over it. "I apologize for telling you all of this. It cannot be a pleasant experience."
"But I want to know," I protest, touching our foreheads again. "It's you. And so I want to know."
Yeah, yeah, probably the sappiest thing I've ever said, shut up. Nahuel smiles, and I mimic him effortlessly. "You are a very strange woman," he murmurs, almost to himself.
"Are you kidding? I'm the King, Queen, and Archduke of strange."
I kiss him. It's the only other thing I can think of to do that might make him stop thinking about Mary and her dead, deformed baby, his psycho father and trip to Mexico. I kiss him hard, and I know that when I pull away my lips are going to be way too red and bruised to leave any doubt as to what we've been doing. And I realize in the middle of all this making out that during the course of our conversation… in bed… I have somehow managed to position myself so that I'm straddling him.
Yep.
Well, what would you do?
My insides start to vibrate again, my wolf-ness (or something…) burning up all the venom he's giving me. It weird and fantastic at once, my blood bubbling over like that, and the combination of it and Nahuel's hands sliding along my sides— well, I make some noise.
Like, sexual noise.
Okay, a moan. Whatever. Let's not get technical here.
Well, I try not to get technical. Nahuel is the one who pulls back, looking bemused, and asks, "Did you just moan?"
Thank you darling, I HADN'T REALIZED.
"Um, no?" I answer, and peck him on the cheek. "Thaaaat would be inappropriate."
He thinks for a moment. "No, it wouldn't. It's rather nice to hear."
…You see? You see? How am I supposed to remain chaste and virtuous when he tells me things like that?
Oh, hell, like I was chaste and virtuous in the first place.
Which makes it completely acceptable, of course, for me to kiss him again. And wrap our legs together. And tangle one hand in his braid.
Let's see how much sleep we get tonight.