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And since I walk with a heavy limp and my face is scarred up, I’m kinda hard to miss.
Somehow, I appreciate that defiance. It fills me with relief even as it makes me angry that I’ve been deceived. She’s not dead-eyed. She’s a fake. “What are you?” I ask, changing my question. “I’m a human,” the female says. “And you can call me Nicola.”
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.
I think of him filling her belly with a child, and it makes me want to put my fist through the table between us.
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.”
That might be the first time I’ve heard her say my name. I like it, almost as much as I like the face tasting. “I’m sure. You’re mine and that’s that.” “That’s that,” she echoes, a happy sigh in her voice. “I didn’t think you liked me.” “Like you too much,” I admit to her, and I’m rewarded with another wide smile. Complimenting her makes me feel good. Gonna have to do it more often, I think.
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.
