Damon informed me that three of my toddlers had made their way downstairs.
I sighed inwardly, thinking, "Oh, those three."
My husband, number two, reassured me, "Worry not, they are coming, and we can get to the bottom of it."
I snapped back, "Do you, you damn idiot, realize they went down the stairs? They could have fallen and gotten seriously hurt! Those things aren't just for decoration. I'll have to ask Wulfe to add a few more spells once he gets back from doing the laundry."
Number eight, who was occupied with his meats, calmly interjected, "Those children are siphons. Wulfe might be able to do something, but you know they can absorb magic so incredibly quickly, and it's a skill we can't fully bind. So, we just need to come up with a few more protective systems to ensure they don't get hurt."
I rolled my eyes and slashed at the horse meat a bit too eagerly, almost cutting myself in the wrong place, which only added to my irritation. Being a parent to unruly toddlers was certainly no walk in the park.
Furthermore, I was in no mood to explain myself to Number One, whose voice I'd heard earlier, carrying an almost unspoken challenge as he sought to know the what, why, when, and every other detail.
Cursing under my breath, my irritation intensified for several reasons. Numbers ten and nine, who had gone to the flower shop, informed me about an influx of orders, meaning I'd have to find time this weekend to create about eight to ten arrangements. Moreover, someone had asked for something from Number Ten, and he wasn't sure which flowers to use, as the requested shades were running low at our shop.
However, I had plenty in stock, and he could complete the arrangement here. The issue was that he was unsure about which roses to use. He envisioned using the most extravagant roses, but the budget was quite meager for those. I'd have to teach him a few things when he got home. They planned to keep the shop open until 3 pm, and it was currently 1:35 pm.
The toddlers had eaten their big meal around 11 and then gone for a nap. Now, refreshed and eager, they began whining for food as their next mealtime, around 2 pm, approached. I told them mealtime was soon, but those three troublemakers weren't appeased.
Soon, I heard the door to our wing open, leading into the upper floors of this immense house, which was almost like a small castle. It had been expanded multiple times through magic, resulting in numerous rooms, many still unpacked and unsorted, though we had the time for such tasks if anyone felt inclined. Taking another deep breath, I tried to control my irritation, but then I remembered what needed to be done.
I could hear the running footsteps of the toddlers, accompanied by several sets of adult steps. Mariella was chirping something to Damon, and I could hear their girls as well. Then, I smelled pheromones. It seemed our alpha male had released them all over the place.
The number two furrowed his brow, as he too smelled the scent of old chalk and vine, indicating that the number one, the alpha male, had released a set of pheromones designed to make toddlers obey. This was as bad as it sounded, as toddlers needed to learn to think, act, and express their desires independently.
"Babe, could you kindly do something about that? It stinks, gives me a headache, and makes me want to shout at him," he grumbled under his breath. I nodded.
As the alpha female—we weren't human but supernatural creatures, akin to felines in human guise with vampire traits, regardless of our origins—our minds and souls were entirely different from humans, and raising toddlers was not like humans did. I released a set of five pheromones.
The first, a scent of jasmine, marked my territory, a normal declaration for an alpha female when others, like Mariella, Damon, or their children, arrived. The next pheromone, smelling of an Icelandic poppy, was an alpha female pheromone, signaling to Mariella's three girls that I was in charge and would care for them. Following that, a scent of burning candles and strawberries signaled the presence of my vampire side, even though my "bitch" side remained calm and subdued. The last of my pheromones, a scent of fresh sea breeze, acted as a neutralizer, rendering Damon's little concoction of obedience useless by granting immunity against those pheromones.
As toddlers ran in and chatted with everyone, I placed my knives on the table. It was time to be a mom again, and honestly, it wasn't easy, but I had to do it; I had no choice. The Salvatores literally left me no option, compelling me to act, perform, and even yell.
I walked over to Sadie, Dash, and Darien, raised my brow, and asked calmly, "Now, you three, what did I say? Did I tell you to run off, into the stairs, get lost, huh?"
Sadie shook her head, while Dash replied, "No, Mommy, we were not supposed to."
I nodded. Sadie kept her head down, and Darien appeared on the verge of tears. Damon leaned against the wall, arms crossed lazily, as Mariella's girls huddled around her. Lepard and Demon entered the kitchen.
Lepard asked me, "You're pissed off, right?"
"Fucking hell, I am," I replied. "You three were naughty and did something Mommy told you not to do. Now, all three of you, go to the living room, wait for food there, and behave."
Dash and Darien turned to go, but Sadie remained, lifting her head and looking at me with sharp eyes.
She declared loudly, "I am hungry, want food!"
"Mealtime is soon," I told her. "Go on, play, show Dad what you can do."
She unleashed her rage, stomped her feet, and announced, "Hungry, give me food!"
I carefully controlled myself, as this was, as usual, a very delicate situation.
I crouched down, looked her in the eye, and said in a low, calm voice with a hint of steel, "Do not do that, Sadie, you know, not that. Now, I know you are hungry. Food will be here soon, and then you can eat as much as you can fit in. It's good that you have an appetite so you actually eat."
She maintained eye contact. I subtly released a bit of my alpha power, suppressing her burgeoning rage. Number Two was nearby, and he was tense as well.
"Baby, what the hell has she...?" Damon's voice, speaking telepathically, broke the silence.
He had finally understood or sensed his daughter's supernatural rage, a fury that mirrored my own.
"Rage, yep," I replied telepathically, "and I've been dealing with it. It's not easy. You remember how long it took me to gain control, even after you came on board? I'd already lived with Adam and Samuel for a few years. She's just a little over two, so this is incredibly delicate. I need to help her control it, meaning not letting it erupt, and at the same time, teach her to deal with her emotions, vampire urges, and all that. The Salvatores can mop up the excess from her mind if it spills over, but it's useless for them to consume it all, as Sadie won't learn that way."
Damon was quiet for a minute or two as Sadie took a breath and finally moved her gaze away from mine. She had regained some semblance of control and, eager to play, turned around. But for how long?
Damon then said aloud, "You need help with her and the others. By God, I've been an idiot. We need to talk, a lot. I have so much explaining to do, and I will plead for forgiveness. But as pack leader, the others and I are moving in here, as we are family, and there is room for all of us."
I nodded. "Fine. When it comes to talking, I'm not much of a talker; I'm a doer. But right now, I'm in the middle of meal prep and need to carry on."
I turned and walked back to my horse meats.
I had already pretty much deboned and portioned them into subprimals and even smaller chunks. However, what was bothering me was a new rule that numbers two and eight had come up with. This meant that while some of us could continue chopping, others would start seasoning and selecting for the upcoming days. Though we might reserve something for today, those who were prepping for the week ahead were eager and quick to pick and choose whatever I had ready.
As Number One and a few others, including the boys, went to inspect perfect rooms for toddlers and babies, Mariella walked beside me. She watched as I separated the muscles in a horse's shoulder, meticulously keeping each one distinct to ensure tenderness.
"It seems you have your hands full, but this also looks pretty damn perfect," she said telepathically, her voice reaching me in our private hive-mind channel meant for mothers, ensuring no males could overhear. "I can sense their love for you, your bond with them – I'm talking about the Salvatores."
I replied, "It is wonderful, but as you know, there's always a 'but.' Let's just say I've learned a big lesson: be fucking careful what you wish for."
She raised her brows, clearly not understanding my sudden irritation.
"Do you want to see?" I asked. "I'm not in the most patient mood, so this might get heated pretty fast. Be prepared for several arrogant bastards soon enough."
She remained quite clueless.
Summoning all the patience I could muster, I muttered under my breath in Italian, "Questo dannato cavallo è fottutamente duro. E se qualcuno verrà a portarmi via un altro pezzo, giuro che io..." (This damn horse is so fucking tough. And if someone comes to snatch another piece, I swear that I...).
This prompted Number Two to immediately correct me. "Baby, remember this is Italian, not French. Don't slur your words; you need sharpness. Remember it's 'Questo,' with hardness, so 'queso' as you tend to slur it."
He then switched to Italian himself, speaking rapidly but with an arrogant air, "Mia cara moglie, questa è solo una semplice sfida, sicuramente non sarà insormontabile per una persona con la tua esperienza." (My dear wife, this is just a simple challenge; surely it will not be insurmountable for someone with your experience.)
I took a breath and replied in Italian, trying to spit everything out as sharply as I could.
I swear, I could feel the spit flying out of my mouth as I said, "Niente affatto, marito mio, questo è solo un cavallo da tiro, un cavallo da lavoro che è stato macellato in tarda età, quindi è una carne molto dura. E tu mi conosci, amore mio eterno, sai che sono sempre pronta ad affrontare le sfide." (Not at all, my husband, this is just a draft horse, a workhorse that was slaughtered in ripe old age, so this is very tough meat. And you do know me, my eternal lover. I am always up to challenges.)
He then replied in English, "Now, remember it is more of K than S. Do not soften when you say 'cavallo,' and do not swallow your sounds. You need to rehearse, so keep it simple and maintain a moderate pace."
Frustrated, I switched to Finnish cussing, letting out, "Voi vittujen käki ja kuusitoista kusimulkkua. Mie näytän siulle kohtuullisen rytmin senkin saatanan ylimielinen paskantärkeä pikkumies!" (Oh, fucking cuckoo and sixteen assholes. I'll show you a reasonable rhythm, you damn arrogant little shit!)
This outburst triggered number eight comment to respond in Finnish as well. "No mikäs, mättää pikkuvaimoke, eikö kantti kestä? Voi pientä, anna isi auttaa, vaikka se on kohta viikonloppu niin enköhän mie saan siut huutamaaan kiimasta kun mie tungen miun valtavan paksun mulkun siun ahneeseen pilluun ja nussin siut tajuttomaksi." (Well, what's up, you little bitch, can't you stand it? Oh, little one, let Daddy help, even though it's almost the weekend, I wonder if I'll make you scream with lust when I shove my huge, thick dick into your greedy pussy and fuck you until you're unconscious.)
This crude remark made Mariella raise her brows.
I explained to her in our shared "hive" (a private communication channel), "Yeah, they're teaching me Italian properly this time, at least according to them. I'm like a French drunk housewife who mail-ordered an Italian learning kit and used it while drinking. So, they teach me to talk in Italian, correct me, and when I've had enough, I cuss in Finnish, and they respond with dirty talk in Finnish. It's our little system."
Mariella giggled and then said out loud, "That's actually quite funny, but yeah, I can see why you couldn't take this either. Not that I'm any good at any language, as Damon has usually just dumped knowledge on me, but my speaking, sure, it sounds awful."
She was quiet for a while, then looked restlessly at Number Eight. He had truly scared her shitless, and she hadn't quite gotten over it.
"Yes, Number Eight is one of the most knotted ones," I explained. "I've only begun to unravel him, and it takes time because he has unique issues. He's tense and carries deep-seated problems from long before I came along. Then there's me, and you, and he's simply not sure of anything yet."
We were still conversing in our private space when she replied, "It seems I need to delve into him. I admit, he was frightening, but if he has deep trauma, then talking is the answer, not… well, not fucking. I've been doing a lot of work on Number One ever since your herb incident. That really woke me up, you know? I realized that this is it; if you're out of commission, it falls to me to lead, to be the woman and take action, not engage in… that. Ever since then, I've made the Salvatores talk, just as I worked on myself. Now, I'm making them work on themselves too."
I nodded, finally understanding why so many Salvatores resided upstairs. They hadn't always been so willing to converse, but with Mariella and Number One moving in, it was clear that talking was about to become a regular occurrence. I continued chopping my meat as Mariella approached Number Eight.
In a firm voice, she addressed him, "Damon, I know you're hurting; I can sense it. We will talk, and we need to talk. I understand you're incredibly knotted up; I can literally feel it, as my savior radar is activating properly for the first time in centuries. I'm going to do what I should have done long ago: heal you. I should have done it when you were found, but I was a lazy, lust-filled creature with no sense. For that, I am truly sorry."
Number Eight turned from his meat, his knife still in hand. I saw Number One saunter into the kitchen, leaning against the wall and observing.
Number Eight said, "I'm not one of your charity projects. I have issues, God knows I have them."
He glanced at me as if seeking refuge, a glance that Number One, who was also listening and using his empathic abilities to gauge Number Eight's state, keenly noticed, his expression sharpening.
"Damon, come on," Mariella insisted, her voice firm. "I am your wife, and I need you to listen. Tell me, just one thing, what is bothering you? Anything."
Her unwavering tone prompted Number Two to smirk darkly. "Good going, baby," he murmured to me via hive. "You gave her one hell of a target."
He, too, had his issues and wasn't yet ready to confide in Mariella, though perhaps someday he would be.
Number Eight took a breath, lifting the knife he'd been holding while chopping his fatty, tough pork.
His voice was a quiet whisper. "Once upon a time, I bet Number One hasn't told you about our wildest times. Well, I was restless. It wasn't Damien; it was a certain side of me, you remember? I wanted to let it out. Let's just say the press got Jack the Ripper all wrong. I hid most of my victims, didn't drain them, but just killed them and had fun."
Mariella, ever so patiently, responded, "Yeah, and then what? You had your fun, but tell me why? Why did you do it? Think before answering. Why?"
Number Eight remained silent, furrowing his brow in thought.
Finally, he said, "I was kind of bored, and they were ugly, from the inside. As you know, whores. Besides, I needed them for my experiments, thus the removal of organs."
Number One added quietly, "And most of them had some form of venereal disease, even if it wasn't a well-known fact. Part of me loved the hunt, but then again, my clinical side..." He glanced at me, a look reminiscent of our time in Austria long ago, when he'd tortured me with the detached air of a cold clinician. "...enjoyed it from a medical aspect. I wanted to learn, study, and yes, I did write letters to the newspapers. Why call myself Jack? Well, I had befriended a guy called Jack who was less nice, a conman, so I was kind of pissed off at him."
Mariella sighed. "Fine. We will talk about this side, your experiments, as you've told me very little about them. You too, Eight. You will talk. No fucking; it's not helpful. We will elevate sex into something beautiful."
Number Two moved closer, leaning against my back.
He whispered, "Tell me, Mimi, my love, is it always beautiful, what we do in the nighttime?"
Mariella raised her brows, clearly surprised.
I stated aloud, "I am being fucked every night, which is part of my life, my therapy, and my mental wellness program. This keeps my cortisol down and my serotonin and dopamine levels high. I feel fulfilled, my blood is tasted, my stress is managed, and my mental space is monitored and cleaned, pretty much preventing my syndrome. It also pushes down my darkness, keeping my vampire side and killer instinct in check."
Number one simply grunted, looking at Number two as if engaged in a telepathic discussion.
Mariella then declared, "Good, that makes it easier for me to start working on you, Missy. You are now part of my therapy as well. We will talk, so don't even think you're going to avoid my little chat times."
I rolled my eyes, as I'm not much of a talker.
Still, I managed to say, keeping my voice neutral as I noticed Wulfe walking back, approaching me after doing laundry, "I'm not much of a talker. Besides, I have my soulmate here and several husbands ensuring no trauma resurfaces. Therefore, I'm not sure how much I can contribute to our conversation."
Wulfe and Mariella then began conversing telepathically. From what I could observe, a slight apprehension flickered across Wulfe's face; his pheromones shifted to a more acidic tone, indicating stress. This suggested Mariella might have threatened him too, compelling him to speak.
It seemed that Mariella had truly tapped into her savior side, and while I was sure it would help others, I was not much of a sharer myself. As I mentioned before, I was cared for, which felt weird—I had to admit it. My life, living as the mother of five toddlers and five demanding babies, was exhausting. I was incredibly thankful for my carers; without them, I would surely be one big mess, mentally and physically.
Besides, nighttime kept us close in a way that was intense and intimate. Once Salvatore saw me a few times with Adam, Charles, and Wulfe, the boys seemed to own me completely. They didn't just try to win me over anymore; they made me shudder, whimper, and writhe, unable to do anything but moan and orgasm. They almost competed to see who could make me explode the most times. Sure, it was rough and brutal—not the kind of lovemaking you'd imagine on a beach—but the experience was undeniably powerful.
To paint a vivid picture: I might be on all fours, with Adam coming up from below to fuck me, while number two took me from behind, fucking my ass brutally, fast, yanking my arms behind my back and pulling my hair. Meanwhile, number five or eight would have me eat his dick, as they would fuck my face, no mercy.
No one spared any strength, not me and not them. This left me bruised, but by God, it unlocked something inside me. Being used and filled so intensely produced orgasms that were out of this world. The way my body reacted seemed to sever the connection between feeling and thinking, leaving me in the throes of pleasure. As supernatural chimera females, we were, crudely put, made to be used as hard as possible.
Amidst all this, swirling in my mind, I was trying to plan ahead regarding what I was doing with my "meats." Meanwhile, the boys—and May, Lily, Emmylee, and Vivian—were taking care of the kids and babies, which freed up the rest of the men to come and help.
Since we knew it was Tortilla pocket day and there was meat available, they were busy preparing it. With mealtime approaching, cooks were making sure the toddlers' and babies' food was ready as well. This was what I called "messy mealtime," and it required a lot of adults.
I wasn't sure how Mariella's brood was eating—perhaps someone might ask her about that. But for now, a big change had once again landed in my lap, and all I could do was go with the fucking flow and hope for the best.