The air was crispier, the coldness of it started to seep a bit into my body, and I snuggled closer to my husband and his glorious hot body to keep myself warm. I knew we had a good few hours of hard riding ahead of us. However, the thought of plunging into an icy river was not really my cup of tea.
One thing Damon had always struggled with me was the scent of others in my body, and here I was wearing Wulfe's clothes, smelling like him, even though Damon had made quite a few cleaning spells to get rid of scent, but it seemed it was more or less little bit of stuck in me.
A little later, a random thought struck me: this was one of the few times I'd chatted with Damon without discussing work, packing, asserting my authority, or trying to provoke him. We were just talking normally.
It was odd, but as usual, my mind wandered, and a memory made me shake my head. Maybe someday I'd do it again, but given my experiences with Charles and Adam, I wondered what it would be like with the whole pack.
Damon asked, "What's on your mind? Your expression suggests you're reminiscing, perhaps about something funny?"
I replied, in a slightly sour voice, "For some, it would be funny, but not for me. I was thinking about doing it again someday, but if the same thing happens, it'll irritate me, to say the least."
Damon replied, amused, "Come on, you have to tell me, babe."
His scent was softer, and his tone and speech had changed. I had no idea how he conjured my preferred version of him, the one to whom I confide, but he used it to his advantage.
Thunder's rolling gait, the smell of his sweat, and the horse's scent and sounds of his hooves, the scent of crisp, colder air of this part of Australia, somehow grounded me, making me live in this moment and not go so deep into my memories.
My story began: "Well, it was when we had wings, and Charles and Adam lived there. Sure, they went on missions, and I had free time, but the fleas kept me busy. Still, one wants to unwind sometimes, so I'd gotten some jigsaw puzzles from fairs. They were custom-made; one was from our first flank wedding, a photo of us dancing. There were several pictures of Mimosa and other pack members, but not Mirella. I had this huge 1500-piece puzzle of Mimosa and me in a field. One of the fleas, a professional photographer, took it. I'm not sure if he's dead; he quit the Fleas a long time ago. Anyway, I thought jigsaw puzzles would be the perfect way to unwind."
Damon said, "They can be. I enjoy them sometimes. It's been a while since I've done anything like that. You've given me a good idea for spending my time. But what happened? Did you finish the puzzle, or do you still have the one from our wedding?"
His scent was sharper now, his grip tighter as he adjusted his hand, his fingers pressing against my liver. I rolled my eyes. Of course, I had to explain this to the flank guy. Not an ideal situation.
"I still have it, and I never even opened it; my jigsaw hobby was short-lived, my nerves gave out."
Damon muttered, "How in the hell did your nerves give out? You're the goddamn leader; one jigsaw shouldn't push you over."
I rolled my eyes and explained, "Mimosa, being who she is, not always on my side, wanted me to have company. I had this puzzle laid out, opened, and was sorting through the pieces at my leisure when Mimosa told Adam and Charles."
Damon smirked. "But surely it was a big puzzle you could do together?"
My tone soured. "I had my perfect system until those two butted in. They started directing me, dictating how we should do it. God knows my patience has limits, and I can take a lot, but just as I'd sorted the edges to begin piecing, Adam started on the edges himself. I'd already sorted some colors, and Charles coldly took them and started piecing them together. Whatever piece I tried to get, one of them always snatched it, finishing it before I could, leaving me as nothing more than a sorting machine. This happened several times. That damn wolf always told them I was working on jigsaw puzzles."
Damon laughed. "Oh, baby, it's so fun to hear how St. Charles wasn't what I thought he was. I can almost picture it; your expressions must have been pretty fierce."
I said, "I soon found an excuse to pack those jigsaws away, opting for books or my tablet. Jigsaw puzzles on my laptop or tablet are much harder for them to interfere with, and I can't even imagine what it would be like in that pack. So no more jigsaws for me unless you're in the Azores. The men are far away, and I have time on my hands."
Damon still smiled. "Well, if I ever sense you doing an actual jigsaw puzzle while we're in the Azores, you know, baby, my promise—it might be that the pack leader has a burning need to check on you personally."
In a bored tone, I said, "Really, Salvatore!"
He nodded, smug as ever, as he seemed to be figuring out how to use his promise to make my life more varied, perhaps.
"There are so many hobbies I want to try, and others I could do if I had the time," I mused aloud. "Maybe I should make more time for myself. Some, like cross-stitch, are solitary pursuits. I have a whole collection of kits waiting to be started."
Damon chuckled. "But, sweetheart, your collection is extensive! Imagine us sitting together, both working on a kit. There are plenty of collaborative projects—those hook projects, for example—perfect for us to do together."
My next comment was half-hearted, more for my own amusement. "I wonder if cruises are still cursed for me," I said, my voice tinged with bitterness or boredom.
Damon's reply was playful, but with an underlying seriousness. "Well, first, I'd ensure there are no vampire princesses, sarks, or other medical threats aboard. No relatives of my victims, either. I'd probably require background checks and passenger manifest approval before letting you onboard. Then, and only then, could we determine if they're still cursed. Of course, I'd use our chain-belt system to keep you tethered to me—or someone else—the entire time, and the cruise would be short."
I rolled my eyes. "I was thinking more of a reunion cruise for my old 'fleas'—the eighteen subjects from my stories I never memorialized on plaques. They went on to live civilian lives, and I have no idea if they're still alive, or how many of my power group remain. And there are others too. I have been lazy in times to keep in tabs, or I just wanted to give them their own lives, without me. Oh, those days..."
Damon's voice sharpened. "And who might they be?"
Jealousy flared, a familiar feeling of being hunted washing over me, coupled with a bout of fear and terror, causing me to instinctively grip him tighter before relaxing. The warning was given, so it was time to speak out, not make him act.
"A group of women," I explained, "those who worked with me on various missions, including our test group. Magnum knew them, and they were immune to his charms—always professional, which sometimes irritated him."
Damon grunted and said, "My wife, if and when you're planning a reunion, you can be sure I'll be there. The other pack members want to hear your war stories; they're quite educational."
I wasn't sure my stories would be inspiring, but the thought sparked a memory, prompting me to reply, "Sure, I built my organization, my story took off, and I found others. But it wasn't—and maybe still isn't—all roses and rainbows. I'm not talking about trauma, but about human biases and their perceptions of us—something you're surely aware of."
Damon frowned. "Tell me more," he said. "Humans are phobic about the supernatural, but I sense a specific story here."
I shook my head. "It's nothing—or shouldn't be—but still... I've saved many lives as a surgeon and a leader. My accomplishments are well-known; I'm a celebrity, and the higher-ups know me. Yet, it's irritating that I'm not human, and therefore not worthy of the same treatment. I don't crave it, but knowing I'll never get it makes me angry."
Damon said patiently, "My love, you're reflecting, not telling me anything concrete. More details, please."
I took a breath. It was silly; I wasn't perfect. "Adam, once drunk, told me Bran had been talking trash about me. You know how Adam gets when he's drunk—his arrogant bastard mode emerges. He said, as I'd just returned from a long string of missions and was exhausted, and not in the mood for his drunken advances—or perhaps for him and Bran to take turns with me—'You know what, Mimi? No matter how many lives you save, the army will never give you official recognition because you're not human. I'm a werewolf, but half-human, and I served as a human in the army, so I get medals and you get nothing. Therefore, I'm better than you.' Adam continued until I went upstairs to shower, fed up with his and Bran's rant."
Damon remained silent as I leaned against him, my voice bitter. Adam's words—confirmed by Jake and others—were undeniable: the army wouldn't recognize non-humans, regardless of my actions. I'd receive civilian medals—the kind awarded to students or civilians for exceptional achievements—but no official army recognition, explaining my lack of a US military title. Ironically, I held several in the UK and Europe, but none in the US or Canada.
Finally, Damon spoke. "It sucks. It really does. I need to talk to some people about this; you're not alone. This is just another injustice we need to correct. You and so many others deserve recognition. And you can be sure, my love, that's something we'll start working on."
Again, I caught that pungent passionfruit scent—the epitome of "flank guy," the core Mariella's Damon. And here he was, upset that the world saw me as less than human. For so long, I'd believed I wasn't important to this side of Damon, but every day brought new surprises.
He then said, "Please, Mimi, my love, tell me more war stories. Some as hilarious as that clusterfuck. Surely you weren't always a perfect leader; give me some insight into who you are."
I retorted, slightly snarky, "Oh, you can manipulate me, too? Are you interrogating me?"
He chuckled, "Sorry, can't help it. After all, I have the leader of the world's largest rebel organization in my lap. I'm the interrogator, and you, my love, are just too juicy a target."
I rolled my eyes. I knew this terrier was relentless in interrogator mode, but fine, let's challenge my husband to a little sharing. "Fine, I'll tell you something, but you have to tell me something, too. So, are you sure, husband of mine, you want to face this little interrogator and reveal something juicy about your past? The rule is, I ask, you answer. No choosing what to tell."
He was silent before agreeing. "Fine. Same goes for you. I ask, you answer, and tell me the story properly."
I nodded. Stories were plentiful, and bending the truth, evading details—that was something of a specialty. But let's see how long he'd dig before I turned the tables.
It would soon be time to share, learn from each other, and perhaps gain new insights into myself, spurring me on in my arduous journey of growth and self-discovery as a woman, a leader, and a human being—as a wife, beloved, and partner. Damon, however, presented a different version of himself than the "flank guy" and the "true Damon."
While he may have been reserved, I had long sensed he saw me as a superstrong creature, more animal than woman—a role reserved for Mariella, the ultimate epitome of femininity. I, in contrast, fell short of the ideal; my attitude and body were not examples of femininity, but of a soldier, a creature, almost a superhero.
Yet, others had seen me as a woman, a beloved, and this prompted something akin to possessiveness in Damon, shifting his role from husband (a role he never formally demanded) to that of possessor—breeder or alpha female.
While my stories might portray me imperfectly, I doubted they would highlight my femininity or womanhood. I needed to set aside my assumptions, neither hoping too much nor sabotaging myself. Whether this would help us—him, or me—remained uncertain. Once again, my overactive mind threatened to plunge into a whirlwind of neurosis, fueled by my lack of self-worth as both a woman and a wife.