As we sat eating the last of our fruit cubes, Mariella looked at me. "What has happened in the last few days?" she asked, her brow furrowed. "Did they take some kind of memory from you, or what?"
I nodded, my voice dry as I explained, "I don't have it anymore. It's just a very dry report in my mind. You see, Damon, number one, did something to me. A bit like what you and I did to him, and Wulfe, but rougher. He used drugs, and it was distressing, but then he... anyways, it shook memories loose while also healing a lot. I woke up and came here to eat, and as I was eating, Charles came by. We talked, and he said whatever Damon did to me was good because it helped."
I took a breath. Mariella was listening intently, clearly wanting to help me heal. However, my hyperactive memory and triggers made it a bit more difficult.
"Well," I continued, "I told Charles about one memory, and it was kind of nasty, super nasty. Usually, my memories are not this well wiped out. The story went like this: I was snatched by mercenaries and delivered to a vampire's facility. I was raped, drugged, and I OD'ed, but barely survived. Then, eventually, Damon saved me. I don't have anything else from that memory, not even my backups."
Mariella's expression hardened, and she too grew angry. "I guess you didn't kill that vampire. I can feel Charles' rage, as well as several of the Salvatores'. It is fucking good they wiped that kind of shit from your memory."
Noticing that my soup smelled wonderful, I got up to check it.
As I lifted the lid, a warm, dominant voice crooned next to my ear, "Babygirl, what is this? Another soup for you? Now, let me taste."
It was number five, who had entered silently. I could feel number two nearby as well.
"Chicken soup," I replied. "I'm just checking if it's ready yet, as I planned to thicken it."
Number two took a ladle and stirred my soup, revealing bits of potatoes and rice.
"No need to thicken it," he said. "You already have potato and rice here. Now, move over. We will make this ready."
Number five tasted my soup. "It's good, but a bit bland," he commented. "You're still too careful with seasoning. I mean, there's no garlic here. Onion, but no garlic."
I walked back to sit at the table, watching as two of my husbands began to refine my soup.
After the soup was removed from the heat, number two used a bowl and a strainer to pour it through. This process separated the solids from the liquid. The solids, which included chicken, potatoes, onions, herbs, and rice, remained in the strainer, while the liquid was collected in the bowl.
Meanwhile, number five began picking out pieces of chicken from the strainer and placing them on a plate. Once all the chicken was removed, the remaining solids were poured back into the pot. Number two then used a stick blender to purée the potatoes and rice, thickening the soup. As this happened, number five busily collected spices and whole garlic cloves, chopping several of them to add to the mixture for blending.
The kitchen, usually filled with the savory aroma of warm broth, now held a richer scent from my soup, with its notes of chicken, onion, and herbs evoking a medley of sensations and even memories.
Our kitchen was truly the heart of our wing, and I had no doubt that the kids might also enjoy some of my chicken soup. The Salvatores weren't afraid to use spices or strong flavors; instead, they were teaching the children from the beginning about all sorts of tastes and textures, eliminating much of their pickiness.
They had truly grown into their roles as dads, and it was wonderful to witness, as I could feel how perfect this was for them. Having yearned to be fathers their entire lives, they were now truly becoming parents, just as I was. This new role was also mine, sometimes scary, but most of the time, incredibly wonderful.
I was still hungry, and it seemed my soup might take a while longer, as they planned to add more meat, even though it was already cooked. I had a treat for us, so I got up and walked to the walk-in fridge. I retrieved a large bowl of fresh strawberries, which I had already cleaned. These were Finnish varieties, known for their exceptional sweetness.
I carried the bowl to the table, and Mariella took one, savoring it with a happy hum, declaring it perfect. I also ate a strawberry, enjoying its ice-cold perfection, the taste, how it felt in my mouth, and how juicy and sweet it was. Our strawberries were huge; it took a few bites to eat one.
As we enjoyed our treats, numbers two and five remained uninterested. However, the scent of sharp passionfruit and approaching footsteps soon reached my nose, signaling that number one had awoken and was heading to the kitchen. I assumed he would go to Mariella, but instead, he came directly to me. He lifted me to my feet and kissed me passionately and at length, before doing the same to Mariella.
Back in my seat, I was savoring another perfect strawberry when he finished kissing Mariella and sat between us, placing my bowl out of our reach.
"Now, my ladies," he said, his voice calm, "let's have a little education, shall we?"
I recognized this tone, knowing he was about to impart some wisdom about our eating habits.
He picked up a strawberry and began, "Now, let's talk about what strawberries are made of. They are about 70 percent carbohydrates, mostly sugars. But there's more. Next, they contain fiber, about 9 percent. Carbohydrates are primarily sugars, but not entirely. And as you know, baby, you don't really process carbohydrates at all. Since you have no functioning pancreas, this means a strawberry isn't fully digested in your gut. And you, darling, the same applies to you. Are you a carnivore, not a fruit bat? Fibers aren't for you either. Your pancreas is designed for digesting meat, not fruits. This means you have few enzymes needed to break down those carbohydrates and fibers."
He paused before continuing, gesturing for me, and then he put the strawberry back in the bowl and looked at us both.
"Let me demonstrate a bit of this fiber thingy. I know there are fibers in every fruit you consume, but there's a reason why we use smoothies..."
He used his magic to conjure thin filaments—red ones—on the table in front of him.
"Now, this is a bit exaggerated, but these strings represent the fibers in fruits. They are long, thin, and indigestible, yet they can draw moisture to themselves, blooming like this."
He flicked with his hand, causing the strings to thicken, and then plucked them up.
"As you can see, now they're a bit stickier, and you can imagine that when these travel through the intestines, they bunch up, creating a kind of brush that pushes everything forward. But not for us—our system is different."
He had now formed those strings into a ball in his hand and continued, "In our system, things operate much faster, and this kind of ball doesn't work on us because our large intestine is about 40% the size of a human's and isn't meant for processing fibers."
He glanced at Mariella, whose expression was pensive and somewhat irritated, as she didn't like being called out.
Damon's voice remained calm as he explained further. "The reason we make smoothies is that we chop these strings into bits so small that they don't get tangled up as much. Plus, since citrus is involved, the acid prevents the fibers from absorbing too much moisture. And because it's liquid, everything moves forward more easily. Everything we give you has a reason; it's not just pettiness or our need to get one over on you."
He looked at both of us before adding, "I'd say you can eat about ten grams of fiber per kilo of meat you consume, but only if it's fatty. Fat in our system lubricates this ball and helps it move through. Without fat, you're inviting a blocked gut—and quickly. So, every time you eat whole strawberries, you need whipped cream or a fatty vanilla sauce to provide enough fat to move those fibers and carbs along. This roughly translates to about a liter of strawberries, which isn't much since they're tasty and large. You two need to make sure you eat exactly as you've been told for the next few days, unless you want intestinal problems."
Mariella remained quiet. This was likely the first time Damon had given *her* a lesson on eating; he had given me many over the years. Damon Number One then got up, retrieved two large bowls and a carton of cream.
He put our remaining strawberries into a blender, creating a sauce, while whipping the cream until it was stiff. He scooped the whipped cream into the bowls, then strained the blended strawberries, drizzling only the liquid into the whipped cream. After mixing it until it turned pink, he served us portions with spoons.
As I ate my whipped cream, finding it quite perfect, Damon continued, "Strawberries are rich in vitamins and other good things, but their seeds and fibers aren't ideal. They require some processing; otherwise, you'll use most of your meal's fat as lubricant rather than calories, and you know where that leads. From now on, we'll handle the fruit selection and preparation, as we know what we're doing. We'll provide you with treats and ensure you don't encounter any problems."
His voice was calm yet firm, and I knew him well enough to understand he wouldn't back down.
Damon Number Two then called out, "This soup is almost ready, come and taste."
Damon Number One rose and went to sample the chicken soup. I no longer considered it "mine" as they had contributed significantly to it, but it was, after all, chicken soup. He hummed, then went to the fridge, took out a whole stick of butter, and dropped it into the soup. At least it would be flavorful, I thought, having already noticed Number Five adding full-fat cream to it.
Mariella confided in me, "This was my very first lesson on eating, and I must say, I needed it. Once again, I didn't think; I just followed my desires and needs without considering anything else."
I smiled and quipped, "Welcome to the club. The Salvatores, particularly when they're in that mood, are difficult to seduce, but I've managed it before."
Mariella then privately said to me within our hivemind, "Can you do it? Turn him around?"
I, in turn, was feeling a bit sly, desiring some alone time. I also thought Damon might need some attention, and besides, this was new for Mariella.
So, I suggested, "Why don't I demonstrate with Number Two, and you can do the same with Number One? But this will take time; it's a slow seduction."
She nodded, her eyes sparkling. The "lust queen" was easily trapped, and once I taught her a few techniques to quickly heat Damon up, he would be preoccupied and less likely to interfere with my life.
After finishing my meal, I approached number two. As I placed my bowl into the dishwasher, I moved behind him and playfully blew in his ear.
"Can you handle it if I show you my skills?" I teased, "How quickly will you lose your cool, babyboy?"
He turned, grabbed my waist, and kissed me with a low, sexy grunt. "Do your worst, baby," he purred, "I can take it. Game on, baby girl."
I simply smiled and hopped onto the counter to watch as he began chopping chicken thighs, seasoning them with herbs and salt.
Mariella then got up, put her bowl in the dishwasher, and addressed number one.
"See, Mimi and number two will take it slowly," she declared. "I know you, my husband, you're not capable of that."
A glint appeared in Number One's eyes as he started preparing a dessert, blending strained strawberries.
"Oh, please, darlin', don't challenge me," he replied. "It's a well-known fact that you're the one who lacks self-restraint. Sure, you can try, but soon you'll be all over me."
"Game on, Damon," Mariella retorted, getting ready and watching me.
I sat on the counter, leaning back slightly, my breasts pushing forward. As my imagination ran wild, I felt myself getting quite heated. My nipples began to poke through my shirt, and any slight movement caused them to rub against it, drawing number two's attention. He smirked, a seductive and dangerous look in his eyes, but continued to chop and season the aromatic chicken.
I was wearing just a t-shirt and jeans—not the easiest attire to strip off, unlike Mariella's button-down shirt and skirt. I hopped down and pressed myself against Number Two's back, letting him feel my nipples.
"Oh, husband of mine, you seem tense; let me massage you," I said, not waiting for permission as I slipped my hands underneath his shirt.
I raked my nails across his back, massaging occasionally, then barely touching him so lightly that he shivered and grunted softly. He adjusted his stance a bit, and I caught the scent of his floral notes, signaling his arousal.
Emboldened by my example, Mariella moved behind Number One and said, "Oh, let me massage you; no need to be jealous."
She pressed her softer, curvier body against Number One, raking his back, massaging, and blowing gently in his ear.
Number One responded, "Careful there, darlin'; you might get more than you bargained for."
Mariella just smiled and continued her teasing, watching what I was doing. There was one particular spot that was one of Number One's ultimate pleasures, and though I had never tested it on Number Two, I decided to try.
I reached around and slowly licked his neck, starting from his back and moving up to his hairline. He gripped his knife more firmly, grunted, and adjusted himself again, clearly getting hotter and more bothered.
He put his knife down, turned around, and kissed me hungrily and greedily, pressing his straining jeans tightly against me, letting me feel the effect of my touch. This reaction encouraged Mariella to amp up her game.
However, as a lustful creature, Number Two began to pull her toward him like a beacon. She teased Number One but glanced often at us, as we kissed, with my husband clearly aroused after my little treatment.
Meanwhile, Number Five was almost humming to himself, having caught on to my original idea. He wanted to see if I could pull this off—directing both Number One and Number Two to Mariella, ensuring my privacy and time to care for my babies.
Mariella sauntered closer and said aloud to me, "Why don't we switch things up, Mimi? You've gotten this specimen pretty wild, and I want to see if he can withstand my lust in this state."
We finally stopped kissing.
Number Two looked at Mariella and said, "Sure, doll, I can take you. You don't have that kind of power over me—unraveling me a bit too fast."
Mariella pressed herself closer, bent slightly, and licked the inside of Number Two's wrist. His grunt grew hotter and more heated.
I approached Number One, who was busy preparing more strawberry desserts.
I whispered in his ear, "Do you remember the time you used sex juice on me? Have you ever done that to Mariella? Just imagine paralyzing her slowly, making her mute, and then enjoying her body. Wring as many orgasms out of her as you can, leaving her with no power."
His voice, tinged with heat, responded, "Or perhaps I could do that to you too; it's not a bad option."
However, as Mariella continued to tease Number Two, almost to the point of losing his cool, Number One placed his dessert in the refrigerator. I could sense him telepathically communicating with Number Two, whose expression then turned beastly. Soon, the trio teleported out of the kitchen, with Mariella completely unaware of what she was about to experience. Well, at least she would be tired afterward.
Number Five, while finishing his chicken soup, told me, "You have skills, I must say. But for now, my wife, let's eat, and then we can continue doing something together."
I didn't object, as he was very close to me and clearly wanted to spend as much time with me as possible. Since Wulfe was on the night shift, he was likely still sleeping, and he had other things to attend to as well.
As Number Five was getting us deep, big bowls for the soup, Numbers Nine and Ten walked in.
They had been in our shop, and Number Ten dropped a pile of papers in front of me, saying, "Orders for you to do. We have a lot of orders: funeral sprays, memory bouquets, etc., so you can handle those sprays."
I glanced at a few of them; fucking shit, they were complex, large, and not quick to complete.
I replied, "But I'm on maternity leave." Number Ten countered, "You have limited actions you can perform in the house, so you have time to focus on this. This is a pack business, so everyone pitches in. Mariella also has her orders waiting. I've already told Number One and Charles, whose idea this actually was, to have you and Mariella work from home."
I rolled my eyes and browsed through the orders. I had at least two weeks for some of them, and others had months. It seemed my life offered no holidays, but that was fine; at least I wouldn't be bored.