I was sitting on my bed in my room, overwhelmed. Here I was again, rejected. He called me a whore and ugly, for reasons I couldn't fathom. I had hidden my distress from Salvatores, and Mariella was oblivious, in a playful mood. I let her take Salvatores; she wanted several, and I suppose I wasn't seductive enough, because they followed her like dogs. Wulfe was caring for the babies, as was Adam, while Charles handled finances. The boys were either hunting or fishing, it being August.
I was a mess, unable to deal with anything. My fancy plan with roles was useless; Mariella wanted fuckbuddies, and I had no energy to reorganize the board. I would have to pull myself together and cope, but it was awful. The pain was indescribable; there were no words. I felt I had no reason to go on. If it weren't for my babies, I wasn't sure what I would do.
I was almost as broken as I had been in Moldova when Damon had kicked me out of the pack the first time. I had tried to kill myself, but Wulfe and others had pulled me back, at the cost of a part of my soul. I had a job to do. I couldn't afford to be heartbroken and miserable when I was a mother.
Then, I cried again as I realized my babies had never met their actual father, who had rejected them, too, calling them freaks or something. I slumped onto my bed, utterly defeated, the pain tearing through everything I held dear, leaving only bitter ashes behind.
I was numb, lost in time, until rage surged within me, only to be crushed by a suffocating sense of failure and pain that tore through my already wounded soul. My eyes were dry, devoid of tears, but a hollow ache remained, a burden almost too heavy to bear.
I made no effort to hide my emotions or limit who could sense them; if he reveled in the pain he'd inflicted, what choice did I have but to endure further suffering?
The door opened, and a voice inquired, "My love, what is wrong? I can feel your anguish."
It was Demon, Damon's son. Despite his inherent lustfulness, he possessed a potent empathic ability, a secret he rarely shared. I knew this because I could sense it through the hive. Ironically, Leopard, Damon's firstborn, whom I had carried, inherited telepathy, while Demon, the son Mariella birthed, gained empathic skills. Damon had given unique abilities to both his sons.
Demon approached and sat beside me; though not a literal demon, Mariella had given him that name because he was born as a black jaguar. Essentially, he and I shared the same base species. Perhaps this shared origin was a significant factor in his attraction to me, more so than to Mariella. He wrapped his strong arm around my shoulders, pulling me close.
Closing his eyes momentarily, he muttered, more to himself than to me, "I see, he did it again, and with such cruelty."
Demon spoke telepathically to his pack members, feeling a searing pain that wracked his wife's soul. For Demon, his wife's suffering was unbearable. Being her husband was a great honor, and he was prepared to do anything to help her.
His voice softened as he sent a telepathic inquiry: "Adam and Charles, are you free? We have a major crisis on our hands, a real hell. Damon, number one, did it again. He exploded into Mimi's eyes, and now she's in a state of shock and pain so deep I don't know how to help her."
Wulfe muttered a string of curses. Adam's eyes darkened, becoming almost black, while Charles's eyes turned utterly black, with veins spiderwebbing beneath them as his vampire side grew enraged. Mimi was his, and that piece of filth had no right to hurt her so badly. He had felt her pain like a burning inferno, having loosened their bond slightly. He was truly angry, but attacking Damon would do no good, especially as Damon was clearly going through some kind of crisis and had used Mimi as a dumping ground.
In the future, those two would have to hash it out, and Charles wasn't sure just how painful that would be for Damon. He knew his wife, and when Mimi's rage took over, she knew how to make it hurt, both physically and emotionally. An old vampire wizard like Damon wouldn't stand a chance against her fury.
However, now was not the time. Now, he needed to guide his wife through the pain and see what came out on the other side. This might take some time, but time was something they had plenty of.
Demon said to me, "Come on, let me hold you, lean on me, shh, it's okay, I got you, I got you. Everything will be good."
His voice sounded hollow in my ears; he was lying. How the hell would everything be fine? He hated me. Damon hated me. He had threatened to torture and kill me if I got close to his three babies, even though they were only technically his, but for real, biologically others. He had chosen Mariella.
I was left outside alone and in so much pain. The funny thing was, I wanted him. I needed him to burst in, apologize, take me in his arms, and hush me to sleep. But no, that wasn't happening.
My sense of time was gone, and a deep yearning for something I'd been denied ravaged my soul, intensifying the pain. I desperately tried to get him to come to me. First, I released a flood of pheromones, so thick that Wulfe had to install extra ventilation and create dozens of spells to get rid of them, as my longing for Damon oozed out.
They had gotten me to lie down; someone was holding me, pressing me close. Usually, it was a Salvatore, and it helped a little, but it didn't eliminate the pain. The shock had scrambled my mind, causing me to instinctively shut down, so they had no idea what I was saying or how bad it was.
At first, all they could do was keep me, trembling, oozing my thick pheromone cloud that told them I didn't want them, but the one guy I couldn't have. I might burst into tears, or my body might get three degrees hotter as my rage threatened to erupt.
I was almost constantly trying to unleash my killer side, my dark side, forcing Wulfe to work so damn hard with me, as well as Lepard and Number Two. Number Five was too much in love with me; he wanted to hold me and care for me. I didn't even react as Number Four placed an IV cannula on me to get something into me, as I refused to eat.
After Mimi's return, four days had passed, and she remained a mess of misery. Yet, her body acted independently. Demon, once again beside her, stroked her as he rolled his eyes.
He communicated telepathically to Adam, "Adam, I suggest wearing a shirt and bringing towels. She's lactating; her breasts are leaking all over me, and I don't know how to stop it."
Adam's amusement was almost tangible as he replied, "Well, well, she did it again. Fine, I'll tell numbers two and four. They might have something, but since it's a partially emotional response and her body reacts, we might have to deal with it. Drink up, boy, drink up and get buzzed; it's good stuff."
Demon, a little surprised, followed Adam's advice and took a few sips. Less than three ounces and he was done, unable to handle much more. He was buzzed, drunk with her powers, all kinds of pheromones, and whatever had leaked into her milk. He craved to be with her even more than ever.
As Adam and the Salvatore brothers entered, Demon lay on his back, staring at the ceiling and muttering, "I swear, there's Tinkerbell sitting in there, waving at me."
Number Four raised an eyebrow. "Well, it seems her milk has a hallucinatory effect, good to know. We should be able to override them, but we need to taste her milk first."
Demon's grey shirt was soaked with Mimi's milk. Mimi was curled up, sobbing softly. Number Two crawled onto the bed and took her in his arms, feeling her milk beginning to almost gush out.
Number Four handed him a pump, and he gently placed it on her breasts. No need to waste her milk; they could freeze it and use it later. It smelled so damn sweet, and the mere scent made Number Two's mouth water; he wanted to taste it. Oh my god, it could be perfect.
Number Four and Adam helped Demon out of the room. They, too, crawled onto the bed near Mimi. Adam licked a drop of her milk from her chest. It was euphoric. Adam groaned and almost panted as pleasure like no other tore through his system like wildfire made out of pure pleasure.
Number Four, barely controlling himself by focusing on medical facts, muttered, "It seems she's making her milk into a drug. One drop, and Damon, number one, would be addicted to her milk, thus being close to her. Poor thing; she is truly suffering, and her body just tries its utmost to help the pain go away."
The men, now caring for her, seemed to be holding back their anger. They were trying not to dwell on Number One's actions, on the utter breaking of her heart, and the urge to attack him viciously. However, now was not the time.
Once Mimi was better, they would need to assess her plans. In a way, Salvatores understood Number One. After all, the Salvatore hive was more fractured than ever. He hadn't been pack leader for a year, a significant demotion, and the stress of childcare, along with everyone living under the same roof and the resulting relationship crises, hadn't been easy. Yet, Mimi had been the worst possible victim for his outburst. Number Two, for instance, couldn't understand why Number One had attacked Mimi.
"If he's going through some damn identity crisis, welcome to the club," he thought sarcastically.
It was painfully obvious that Number One's skewed view of his position as "first" had led him to believe he was superior, the primary one, when in reality, he was just one of ten, on the same level as the others. This realization had a significant impact on them all, making them feel more like individuals than members of the Salvatore hive.
They were each finding their own voice, their own mind, their own likes and dislikes. They were brothers, identical but separate, and this was probably the biggest crisis for Number One: losing them all, as he had wrongly perceived them, as mere extensions of himself.
Number Ten proposed the idea, stating, "We need pheromones. We need to make her addicted to us. I'm not very skilled with mine, and I'm not sure if any of us are, but we need them. We need to just feel the love, care for her, and let go. Let ourselves love her, need her, and in theory, our pheromones should convey this to her. Pheromones are probably the best way for us to get her back, get her to us."
Number Four nodded in agreement, contemplating the plan.
He added, "First, we all take a shower, Adam Charles included. We need to be scentless. Then, we change her bedding, find a room, or make this room as scentless as possible. After that, we start to exude our pheromones. Saturate the air with them. Love her. And one of us keeps her head against our neck. Remember, Number Two, you almost did this once. This time, Number One won't be able to reverse it. I'm not sure if giving her a few puffs would help her relax, so the pain wouldn't be so bad, but this is going to work."
Number Six chimed in, saying, "Recall all of the best times with her, regardless of who was involved. Those are the times that made you love her; we need that feeling. What I've heard is, when she has taught someone, she tells them to feel and then let that feeling out, so let's feel."
Everyone nodded in agreement. They now had a clear path forward, understanding what they needed to do and how to help her. Of course, her milk had been collected, but perhaps when this started to work, her lactation would cease, and she might get over this, allowing them to have a perfect, even more than perfect life for themselves.
I awoke to darkness, a literal void, held in someone's arms. I was naked, pressed against a man's body, my head nestled against his neck, inhaling his scent. It was pure love, nothing more. Though my mind was weary from feeling and being hurt, it still analyzed.
The aroma of passionfruit mixed with a hint of strawberry suggested he had taken me, my scent, into himself. Had I bitten him? I wasn't sure, so I focused on the scent, trying to identify who was holding me.
To my surprise, there was a faint tang of carnations and a hint of kaffir lime, revealing that this creature, loving me and keeping me close, was actually Number Eight, one of the so-called "fucking machines." There was no hint of sex or lust in his scent now, only his deep, true love for me.
I remembered a time in Paris, early in our relationship, when I was incredibly happy. We were at an art exhibition; I was "Flea" then, and had been in Paris for some sniping. Damon had suddenly appeared and taken me to the exhibition, where he began appraising each piece telepathically with the funniest commentary.
He called Picasso a man with terrible eyesight and no painting talent, and Van Gogh a man with a perpetual freaking tremor who couldn't use a brush properly. He told me that most painters were mentally ill, crazy, but that painting allowed them to express themselves, and humans had no sense of aesthetics.
I tried to maintain a neutral expression while looking at the painting, which depicted a woman seated on the grass, surrounded by her loved ones. The scene, reminiscent of 16th-century artwork, featured a man and a woman in fancy dress. It was summer, and though the colors were muted and the painting was small, it was still a beautiful piece. I could almost feel the sun on my face as I imagined myself in her place.
However, my pleasant daydream took a sharp turn when my husband, Damon, pointed out a detail. He noticed the painter had depicted the woman without underwear, highlighting her pussy. He described the pussyhair and the slight pink tinge of her pussylips. Damon was such a vivid storyteller that I couldn't unsee it.
Soon after, a family approached the artwork. Damon turned to me, asking if he should inform the couple that it was actually a pornographic picture. I pretended to kiss him, attempting to distract myself, but his hands were restless and knew exactly how to arouse me. We slipped into a nearby alcove to indulge our desires. We sanctified the gallery. The most embarrassing part was that a camera was pointed at the alcove.
For the next three weeks, I anxiously consumed every magazine and news outlet, fearing exposure. After six weeks, Damon returned and casually mentioned he'd ensured the camera feed was deleted, adding, "Oops, I forgot to tell you."
It was such a time… In the darkness of bedroom eight, he whispered, "Oh baby, I'm sure there are art exhibitions in here too, and this time, I let them use the feed. Let's put it viral."
His seductive words unlocked a knot within me. He had seen the memory, and it seemed important to him, too. I felt a rush of minds delving into my most vulnerable place, my telepaths diving in and beginning to heal my bruised mind with their love. I fell asleep, knowing there was a future, hope, and love.