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And since I walk with a heavy limp and my face is scarred up, I’m kinda hard to miss.
Maybe it’s deviant of me, but I like the thought of filling my wife with my seed, making her pregnant.
“Widower, huh? Maybe he’ll need a new bride and won’t mind if she’s not strong and kind of ugly.” I laugh nervously, but Emvor doesn’t join in. His jaw tightens and I get the impression I said something wrong.
The way he brightens at the first taste of my food and then sneaks seconds or thirds when he thinks I’m not paying attention.
And then I’m awarded with an easing of tension in her shoulders and a heartbreaking appearance of that dimple. It’s downright unfair that she’s going to belong to someone else.
She makes a sound of pure delight and snuggles up against me like I’m the best thing that’s ever happened to her.
“Should probably save all the face-tasting until we get back to the farm.”
My wife. The thought fills me with pride and a sense of rightness. This is how it should be. We belong together. She’s mine. I’ve never loved the thought of something like that so much.
