I silently crept into the kitchen while Damon was still asleep. He was more my Damon than "Number One," a distinction I constantly wrestled with in my mind. I'd call him Damon, and Number One, well, he would be just number one, depending on whether I was thinking of him or Mariella's Damon.
I went to my upgraded kitchen; I'd renovated the whole house a few years ago, though Damon hadn't really noticed. We'd been so focused on sanctifying every inch of the place.
I smirked, thinking that no pack house boasted a more sanctified medbay than ours. Who would have thought a CT scanner was such a fun place to have sex? Damon had turned it on; I imagined Number One's phone buzzing. If he happened to glance at those scans, well, it was pure lust.
I opened my huge walk-in fridge and took out a tray of breakfast ingredients. I kept pre-made trays for lunch and dinner—meat, maybe dessert—but breakfast was a ritual. I selected unfertilized emu eggs, bacon from a very fatty Indian pig breed, and Mangalitsa bacon as well. Wagyu-Kobe crossbreed strip steaks and a few tri-tips were also ready for frying; they were already salted and seasoned.
Then there were my treats: small, salty nut cakes made with four kinds of nuts, containing my favorite salami pieces and a hidden quail's egg. I had a few dozen, though I wouldn't eat them all. I grabbed eight smoothies—I was in such good shape that I aimed to keep my weight at a number beginning with "7,"—knowing precisely how much I needed to drink.
For an extra treat, I had a large glass, chilled to perfection and filled with the freshest forest blueberries, and semi-skimmed milk waiting. I knew exactly how to eat and drink to savor every bite.
Humming to myself, I carried the tray to the counter, grabbed my favorite frying pan—old, but perfect—and turned on the burner, waiting for the pan to get really hot. I opened a stick of butter, ready to add it once the pan was hot enough to prevent burning.
"Baby, why the hell didn't you wake me? You left me alone and cold," Damon's voice was slightly off, betraying a nightmare.
He rarely had them—or at least, I thought he did until he confessed to waking up alone, heart pounding, only calming once his telepathy located me. This stemmed from a week I spent dead. The trauma ran deep; even the removal of him had occurred before, a memory that still haunted him.
He had all the memories that number one had, yet this one hit him hard, and I guess he had not told Mariella about this. I wondered briefly just how many of the salvatores had the same thing?
I turned, walked to him, and kissed him. "Hmm, you've showered, my love. Why? As you can smell, I haven't," I teased, though it was true.
I didn't mind my unique scent of lust and love; I'd wash later, before packing. He held me close, kissing me long and hard, his gaze intense, saying nothing. I gently pulled away to check on my heating pan.
He followed, grunting as he surveyed my breakfast tray. He took my pan, replacing it with a different one—my favorite was noticeably heavier and more substantial than the one he chose.
"Why did you take my pan? I love it," I asked my husband.
His ever-patient voice explained, "It's a health hazard; the scratched surface chips into your food. Besides, it's cumbersome and old-fashioned. And what culinary masterpiece are you planning, anyway? Let me see."
"Well, this is an extremely fatty Indian pig breed—pork belly from that, Mangalitsa bacon, crossbred Wagyu and Kobe streaks, tri-tips, strip steaks, nutcakes (salty ones with quail eggs), my favorite salami, eight smoothies (I'm trying to maintain my fitness), emu eggs, and forest blueberries," I replied.
He grunted, rearranged my tray, handed me the smoothies, and said, "Put the coffee on, get our drinks, and I'll take care of breakfast."
His voice sharpened as he planned. Being a good girl, I made coffee for both of us—the same blend for him as for me, one of my special roasts. As I opened my cabinet, the aroma of the beans flooded out.
He muttered, "Oh, baby, those are some good beans—new ones. I wonder what our esteemed pack leader would think of all this?"
Still in a slightly naughty mood, I replied, "Well, first, he'd be impressed by how diligently everything's been sanctified, including the medbay. Then, he might get inspired and try to seduce Mariella to explore our more exotic locations. However, since Mariella's larger than I, they might get stuck in the CT machine or somewhere. After that, I think my coffee beans would be the last thing on his mind."
Damon laughed. "Oh, baby, you still got it! Oh my god, I can imagine it—Mariella writhing in ecstasy as the Number One rails her. The CT machine gets stuck, and they're too eager to stop. It would take a new machine; the old one would be broken when they finally get unstuck. And those jealous glances when they notice how many places in this house are sanctified! Being competitive, they'd try to find unsanctified spots."
I quipped, "Good luck. There aren't any. We did a good job."
He continued frying steaks—I noticed he'd taken more beef and less pork—and put away my nut cakes. Fine, he knew what to do. My blueberries went into the blender with cream and sugar to make whipped blueberry cream. He'd procured some cupcakes from the freezer, and they were thawing. It was strange.
I knew exactly how much blueberry milk to drink to get the perfect balance, but I so rarely allowed myself. Salvatore, or someone, always told me not to. When I did have it, it was such a treat.
"You know, baby, you're telepathic and strong, so stop pouting," he said. "I happen to like those forest blueberries—they have amazing taste—and I wanted a decent dessert, not just your blocked gut, but some yummy cupcakes with the cream of the gods."
He smirked, adding his bump to the blueberry cream mixture. It was useful for cooking and baking, too. I'd already started the coffee and carried drinks, cutlery, and other necessities to the smaller table.
I was pondering whether to get the rolls when his firm "No" made me sit down, pour a glass of ice-cold Coke, and gulp it down before starting my smoothie. Despite their size and deliciousness, the smoothies weren't too filling, but definitely whetted my appetite.
Damon hummed contentedly as he cooked. I felt incredibly lucky to have a husband who cooked for me whenever I needed; it always seemed like a privilege. I hadn't even realized how long we'd sanctified our house.
"Five or six weeks, baby," Damon said, amused. "Number One is rather tired, and Mariella hopes, from the bottom of her heart, that we'll stop. I was a little naughty, directing most of our lustwaves into the hive, boosting the Salvatores and using Mariella extensively. She's pretty ripe for being a sex object, and you know what those Salvatores can be like when they hit the spot—Number One, especially. He really used her, and not in the best way. Sure, she was horny too, but I sent some of our love and enjoyment to them as well."
He was smug, and I couldn't help but smile. He'd done right, and I regretted nothing. Sure, poor Wulfe and the others might have a hard time if they tapped into our lust-filled hive, but that was the life of a lust pack. I felt inventive, too. As an alpha and a little catty, I wanted Mariella to have more experiences. Maybe she'd become sharper.
"Remember when Adam and you took me clothes shopping in New York? Let's do it again, but this time, I won't warn anyone. I'll let every clerk, saleswoman, and staff member offer themselves to you. Let's see if Mariella notices and learns her lesson. Or maybe she won't interfere."
Number Two grunted, "Good idea. I just sent a message to Number One, but I didn't tell him everything. He might still be protective of Mariella, but let's just say he was surprised when I told him where we actually were."
We were eating—or rather, he was feeding me in his lap. He was very affectionate, biting and marking me until I was covered in his marks.
As we finished eating, he murmured, "I think, baby, the shower is in order. I'd let you keep your scent, but humans can react strongly, and besides, you don't need to smell like Mariella. Go shower and style your hair. Don't try to seduce me in the shower, or we'll be grounded for weeks." His voice was heated, and I squirmed slightly in his lap, making his arousal evident.
"Damon," I said, "remember you don't like buns, and Number One uses them on Mariella a lot…"
He smirked. We were two very naughty individuals plotting against pack members, but by God, it was wonderful. It made my soul sing. Maybe it was meant for me to have other Salvatores besides Number One; maybe they were drawn to safety because of me, for me. It was selfish to think so, but it also made me feel special and loved—unique and strange feelings for me.
After we ate, I showered in one of our many bathrooms. My mind was on my husband, though, as I washed. This was an unsanctified shower, a rarity, as I thought we had sanctified each of them. To distract myself so I would not call Damon to sanctify this one too, I was thinking about buying a mine—sure, some are used for mining, but others might have stones and minerals we could use. It would be cool to have our own rock-tumbling mine.
"Good idea, baby. Let me look into that," Number One commented in my mind, surprising me.
His voice was tense, but at least this gave him something to do—investigating the possibility of buying a mine, determining if they were private or government-owned. It had just been a random thought.
Stepping out of the shower, I found Damon waiting. Hastily grabbing my bathrobe—the only one available, a small pink one, as my larger robes had again been taken—I had no time to even wrap my hair before he approached, saying, "Naughty girl found unsanctified shower, but fine, we'll do it one day. I told Number One about witches who could clean the house, so we'll see what that yields. But come, sit down, and I'll work on your hair. No buns, I swear."
His manner was sure and firm; it was rare to have him style my hair, and he clearly enjoyed it. He created several braids and other styles, working with his own vision. The process took time, using several of my hair products to enhance and fix my hair, resulting in significantly thicker and longer-looking hair.
He fashioned a complex, flashy braid crown, certain to attract attention. He secured it with several real diamond hairpins and a shimmering hairnet, although it didn't technically need one; the added luxury enhanced the effect.
I knew Mariella's or the wolves' hairstyles would pale in comparison to this masterpiece, and I sensed this was precisely his intention—a statement of ownership.
Our time together had been wonderful; our bond was once again incredibly strong. He wasn't the same as the Damon I'd known before, caught between him and Number One. Yes, he was controlling and arrogant, but there was playfulness, a genuine need to be with me.
We had found a connection; we had fun. For once, I didn't feel the constant need to fight against him or Number One; I could simply be with him, letting things flow.
My clothes were carefully chosen: a button-down white silk shirt, tight enough to reveal my nipples; a black knee-length satin skirt that hugged my slender body; and, as usual for Damon (he had a penchant for them), leopard-print heels with glitter. My bright grass-green fingernails, dark, sensual, smoky eye makeup with ruby-red lips, and pale, glittery skin were perhaps a bit flashy for daytime, but we were making a statement.
Damon, too, was impeccably dressed—a blood-red silk shirt with a few buttons undone, sleeves rolled sloppily, faded blue jeans, and polished oxfords. His longer hair was mussed, flopping over his eyes, prompting me to brush it away.
Number One had ordered us to meet near the shops; we teleported there, holding each other close—my arm around Damon's waist, his around my shoulders. His scent and the marks of his bites lingered despite my shower; my belonging to him was undeniable.
As we arrived, the rest of the pack materialized. Mariella's jealous glare was fixed on my hair and heels, a stark contrast to Mimosa's smile and Elena and Katherine's teasing, "Oh, the lovebirds! You two really hit it off—and the rest of us got pretty heated, too."
Mariella retorted, "Really, Mimi? Five weeks and counting? Next time, give us a warning! I was exhausted after all that… your lust hit us like a tidal wave."
I smirked, prompting Damon to passionately kiss me, a move that earned a frown and scoff from Number One, though he ignored Mariella. Entering the first shop, the men went off to find clothes while I checked out the purses and bags—a task rarely undertaken by men.
Although I already owned several, I wanted a few new ones, perhaps even commissioning Wulfe to imbue them with magic. Subtly, I observed three saleswomen openly checking out the men—our rings, which served as tattoos, apparently went unnoticed, unlike the absence of actual rings.
Their blatant attempts to attract attention—pushing up their breasts, pouting their lips—were clear signs of an impending ambush. This was going to be good. Very good.
The first saleswoman, a tall, curvy woman of about thirty, dressed rather gaudily, approached Number One. Rapidly blinking, she breathlessly asked, "Sir, if you need anything at all, just ask..."
She took a deep breath, causing her breasts to jiggle, almost thrusting them into Damon's face. He was unimpressed. As Number Two had informed Magnum and Wulfe, his mood was already sour, and this only worsened it.
The saleswoman continued, "I can show you these clothes, so you don't need your friends to try them on."
Damon's voice was smooth, yet menacing. "Oh really? Why shouldn't I let the people I'm buying these clothes for try them on? I need to see if they fit."
The saleswoman stepped closer. "But, sir, not all women want to try on clothes all day. You need to see how the garment fits, how it drapes, and what it reveals. I'm all yours."
Mariella, approaching, noticed this exchange. This, I thought, was the best part.
Meanwhile, while checking the bags and watching Mariella, I overheard Charles complaining to Adam. "Damn it, Da! He's trying to make connections again, and he's asked Samuel to set him up. But as you know, neither Samuel nor I is happy with his schemes, so Samuel refused outright. Now he's furious, calling me constantly to pressure me into getting Samuel to change his mind. These are medical contacts, and I'm not getting involved."
Adam grunted, "He called me, too, asking the same thing—more like demanding I persuade Samuel to join our group. I refused as well. He won't give me any details, so I can explain why he's wrong again. Damn him and his tricks! I know Damon won't answer his calls."
I rolled my eyes. It seemed Bran was at it again, attempting something he shouldn't. This usually ended badly for him, with collateral damage. I refused to be caught in the crossfire; at least, I hoped there would be no repercussions for us.
Mariella approached a saleswoman, already practically being devoured by the man, and I rolled my eyes. Across the shop, Charles was equally irritated; another saleswoman was fawning over him. Mimosa smiled, mirroring my eye roll as she anticipated the ensuing chaos.
Mariella, sensing Charles's distress—he was her protégé—was torn between them. Damon, however, seemed merely annoyed, and I decided not to interfere.
"Don't these idiots know who we are?" Elena whispered beside me, watching Mariella approach a saleswoman near Damon.
Mariella intervened, snatching the saleswoman's attention away from Damon, his lips tightening. This could cause trouble.
"I made the same mistake once," I remarked to Elena and Katherine, who'd joined us, seeking refuge from the overly enthusiastic sales staff. "Damon nearly attacked me. Mariella hasn't learned her lesson."
I saw Damon address Mariella in a low, cruel tone; she'd driven off the saleswomen, but surprisingly, she slapped him, hissing defiantly. Damon smirked dangerously. She'd either grown a spine, or finally reached her limit.
The rest of the shopping trip promised to be interesting. A flash in Damon's eyes revealed his displeasure; Mariella, clearly furious, stormed away to confront Charles, addressing him sharply as well. She was unimpressed by the men's inaction, their passive acceptance of the saleswomen's advances.