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A month later, things were changing fast. Vlad is happy. Outwardly. Truly. He smiles big. He makes jokes. He hums to himself when he makes me breakfast. Zanto said there would be a change, and there absolutely was. I knew the heartbreak would always be there, but he made more space for it. At times, I swear I nearly see color in his cheeks. And while Vlad was brown, the winters in Wallachia could be harsh. Or it was the vampirism that made him look a bit washed out at times. Either way, he was glowing. 

He doesn't hide his desire anymore, and neither do I. That had to be the biggest change yet. Verbally expressing desire without shame. Something I was still having an issue with. He doesn't hide his staring either. I wasn't always big on eye contact, but you get used to it when it comes with such positive reinforcement. 

I’m an authorized user on his credit card. He expedited my passport.  My clothes hide in random closets around Poenari and around the Pontchartrain estate. I insist that he leave some of his blood canisters at my house. If he came over, I could feed him at least—a nice change from wine or coffee. He ensured I had his driver, Dimitri, on speed dial. I now have access to his private roads via an identification card.

I got a few new changes to my car, too. I refused to give up my daddy’s 2007 Escalade with his black dice hanging from the mirror. We compromised. New tires on my car. A much-needed oil change. Break pad repair. Vlad did a once-through on my house. The kitchen floors are being redone next weekend. The guest bathroom toilet and sink are being replaced at the top of next month. A few walls are being repainted right along with it. He flicked his spindly fingers against my dishwasher and called in a replacement for that, too—same day. Our big old white refrigerator from the early 2000’s was moved into the garage. Vlad had that replaced with a foreign brand that looked more like a large cabinet than an appliance. It helped that he could hear leaks and problems before they gave out. Apparently, my fridge was on its way out already. 

I had a deep fear that this could become transactional. Vlad, of course, didn’t see it that way at all. We talked about it for quite a long time over dinner. We talked about how the parameters of a typical relationship wouldn't translate well to human-vampire/interspecies relationships. I’ve never heard a guy I'm dating use the word “courting” in my entire life. Apparently, this courting thing doesn’t ever stop. He’s already trying to mesh his lifestyle with mine. I could say “when,” but there was an emphasis on its normality. Vlad and I have two very different lives. He felt it would be better to gradually get me accustomed to his lifestyle. There was a man or woman somewhere in this world—maybe even a few states away going through this exact same thing. Being taken care of in many ways. Vampires who love—love very hard. 

Vampires positioned themselves as caretakers, in a way. Because a vampire who didn’t at least meet their human partner's basic needs and necessities was deemed unfit. It was a moral failing amongst their species. Even in arrangements where a human wanted to serve under a vampire, they too had to be taken care of. It was written in vampiric law. So, when you’ve lived for a few centuries, you have some economic pull, which you naturally use to your advantage. Of course, this was different if they decided you were food. He bugged his eyes out when I explained what love bombing was. 

I jokingly called him Bougee, and he took offense. He said, “ I was in favour of the prolétariat uprising. I supported the French Revolution. Liberté, Égalité, Fraternité. The aristocracy were no fledglings of mine. They were terrible candidates to be one of us. They were the moral equivalent of stray dogs—too many problems. They were going around feeding on the working class. We had to come together, hold court, and decide who would be taken out. Desperation is one thing. To target the weak because you know that nobody will care? Low.” 

... The intensity was worsening. I've never memorized the sound of someone's footsteps before his. I've never gotten excited at the sound of someone's footsteps either. I knew when he was close to me. Similarly, he always had this 6th sense to pick up almost everything about me. It wasn't the mind-reading thing. I trusted him enough to not use it without my consent. He knew when I was hungry, when I was cold, when I woke up. He picked up on my routine with frightening accuracy. I have to ask him if we've always been this way. He confirms it was, and I guess I should have known. I saw it for myself in that projection. This is why they tell women to have a multitude of hobbies when they’re dating someone. He couldn’t be the sun. I can’t allow him to be the center. I’ve tried tirelessly to distance myself from that kind of naivety. I knew heartbreak very well. I knew limerence, too. 

He rewired my brain every time he touched me. I couldn’t stop thinking about him. He has me surrounded from every angle. I’m being taken care of in every way an adult could be. He updated my health and dental insurance for God's sake. I should be pulling away by now. I should be coming up for air. I really, really should…but—I couldn't. 

I think back to Los Angeles. How ethical was it to provide a fantasy? To give in to the deepest desire of a man? One could argue that most men did not deserve it. That some desires are best left where they are. That giving in is a trap. A cycle you'll be doomed to repeat for as long as you stay within his orbit. A desire is a desire. A fantasy is a fantasy. Could I sustain what I’d brought into reality? Could I handle that? Would I be trapped with him in it? I don't think I'll always want control. But that intensity was spreading to every aspect of our dynamic. I wasn't expecting the guilt to come with it.  

Between that plane back to Louisiana last month and Sunday night, we recreated the night in the hotel quite a few times. Each time was equally tantalizing and exhilarating. The meaner I get, the more he unravels. How do I get past the haze? Do I let myself drown in this? To sink deep? At what point does this come crashing down? I once read that wealthy men were some of the most dangerous of all. They could lure you in with a security you've never known, thanks to their endless fountain of resources. Before you know it, you're in a gilded cage. Sometimes intentionally and other times unintentionally. Unintentionally, because they only communicated in transactions and contracts. Life for a man like Vlad was all about the exchange. He's business-minded. What are the chances of that happening to us? 

He’s still bringing me lunch. Sometimes he sleeps over during the week just because I ask. I decide to keep a little more distance between the two of us to clear my head. I take Friday off with the intent to organize my exploding closet. Vlad made sure I looked the part wherever we went, and that meant new outfits and accessories for every occasion. On top of what his stylists put together for me, I was running out of space. I needed to get my house in order and get back to the mundanity. 

I refresh and reset my altar. I take a long shower and press my hair. I clean around the house. I make a small grocery list for later on in the day. Tackling my closet is a beast in itself. The shoes alone require space I don’t have. I decided to make my first purchase with Vlad’s card. I get my groceries delivered along with a couple of shoe organizers and clothing racks. One of the guest rooms would have to be turned into a closet. 

I spend about 2 hours hanging up clothes and putting up shoes. In the afternoon, I came across the bags of lingerie that the twins had packed all those weeks ago. Agent provocateur, I.D Sarrieri, Marjolaine and Empreinte. I twiddle my fingers around the soft white lace material. It’s beautiful. Some pairs look more like bridal lingerie than anything. Then I see a set with garters and a veil. What had the twins heard on that cerebral channel that made them pack me 10 honeymoons' worth of lingerie? I shake my head at the red pair of crotchless panties. Jesus. 

I try on a few pairs. One of my favorites was a bra-and-thong set from Agent Provocateur. I pull on my work pants. No panty line in sight. The bra was super comfortable. My phone buzzes against my dresser. Vlad lets me know he's working a few hours late. I suppose I could bring him dinner. Return the favor for bringing me lunch. He had a habit of depriving himself when he was busy. He’d appreciate the gesture, I think. We’ll talk, and then I’ll go away for a few days and clear my head. Yeah….talk and then clear my head. I’ll lay down some boundaries. I’ll mention wanting some ME time. That’s exactly what I’ll do.

My work uniform was black slacks and a white button-up. It’s business attire—or business casual at least. I’m sure it would be perfect for whatever setting he’s in. Since the agent provocateur fit me so well, I keep it on. I throw on some mascara and a little gloss to look a little more put together. I find the canisters of blood he kept in the fridge, and I pack one of them into a lunch box with ice packs. I call Dimitri, and he picks me up within minutes. Next thing I know, I’m in a black car speeding towards the central business district. 

We cut towards a high-rise skyscraper. Not long after, I'm dashing up an elevator and waiting with a receptionist. Then, I'm clicking down a long hall of frosty offices. At the end of the hall, I can see his name on his office door. The mumbling I hear seep from beneath the door makes me want to turn around and run. I hated interrupting people. I hear a quick ruffling, and then the door clicks open. An orange light poured from the sides of Vlad’s head like some warped halo. “ …Amina”, he purrs. 

“ Is this a bad time?” I mumble nervously. 

“ Perfect time. Come in,” Vlad insists. He steps to the side, and I see he’s on a business call. He stalks back over to his phone and waves his hand, motioning for me to sit down. I walk over to the round table in the corner of the room and take a seat. 

“ Prietene, va trebui să reluăm asta mâine”, he laughs into the phone. 

The mumbling from the other side makes him laugh. I look past him at the New Orleans skyline. There was about an hour and a half of daylight left before sunset. His office was gorgeous, and the city view was breathtaking. It sat at the very top of the building, standing so tall that the people on the street looked like ants. At the far end of the room is a table and seats. A thin couch and two cushioned seats sit in front of his large oak desk. A large TV is behind him, projecting the stock market. I could see the river from here as well. It shimmered in the distance, bouncing off the light of the afternoon sun.

Vlad is chattering away in Romanian. Something I rarely hear from him. Clearly, he was in his element and likely more relaxed because he was understood from a linguistic standpoint, of course. I pull out his canister of blood and set it on the table. 

“Ne apropiem. Da, vom vorbi mâine”, he says before hanging up the call. He turns and fixes me with a look, and I feel my stomach flutter. Something that’s only gotten worse the more time we spend together. We’re matching, except his tie is also black. 

“ I see you brought me food?” he says with a warm tone.

“ Well, you’ve done it for me. I figured I should return the favor, and I didn’t know if you’ve eaten”, I shrug. 

“ I’m in stock”, he points to a mini fridge in his office. 

“ Oh. I should have known”, I sigh. 

“ No, no. What’s one more?  Besides, it’s the perfect excuse to see each other again. Frumusețea feței tale e ca un suspin de ușurare”, he laughs softly, closing in on me from across the room. 

I look up at him. “ What does that mean?” I grab his hand, interlocking it with mine. He towers over me, slowly leaning down to peck my mouth a few times. I lift up in my seat slightly when he pulls away. 

“ Your beauty is like a sigh of relief”, he murmurs against my cheek. I smile at that. 

“ I thought you were getting tired of me”, he teases, squatting down to meet my height. 

“ I don’t think that’s possible at this point”, I shake my head. 

“ No?” He insists. A playfulness dances in his eyes. 

“ No”, I parrot. 

His eyes search mine for a moment before looking down at my outfit curiously. “ You didn’t work today?” he asks. 

I shake my head. “ No, I got dressed up for you. It’s twin day, apparently,” I joke. “ I just wanted to talk to you. I missed you, and I’ve had a lot on my mind”, I said. His attention turns to another call. He excuses himself and picks it up, staring at me the entire time. 

He loosens his tie as he goes on and on about stocks

and other shit I have no clue about. I nervously tap my foot as I wait for the call to be over. He’s back beside me ten minutes later, sitting across from me at the table. 

It comes out in a clattered mess. In a clunky, clattered mess. Rushed and panicked. And nervous—all that. I hate how inexperienced I sounded around him. I have experience. I just don't have healthy experience. I don't have experience in “Constructive adult conversation about relationship insecurities.” I talk about everything from my fear of losing myself, from the intensity, from the feelings that I don’t know what to do with, from sex, from how overwhelmed I am, from how mind-bending all of this is. I mean, he’s a vampire. If this keeps going, what does the next 10 years look like? Twenty? Thirty? It all comes out, and when I realize how long I’ve been talking, I just abruptly stop and stare at him. And he’s staring at me intently and quietly. No nervous laughter or jokes. 

I can feel myself start to cringe. “ …You know what? I think… I'm gonna go…home….” A slow and nervous smile spreads across my face as I begin to slowly stand from my seat. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

“ Sit down”, he says sternly. 

I drop my bottom right back into the hardwood and sit up straighter. He pulls out a chair and scoots across from me, sitting in it with as much grace as a swan or something. " There’s a lot on your mind, obviously. You’re scared to lose… who you are? You’ve done that before? With that ex… what's his name? Bryan?”, he squints in thought. 

My eyes widen. “ You knew…?”, I trail off. 

He frowns in disgust. “ Terrible to witness. He’s balding now. And he also still thinks about you. He can’t keep a relationship because he has a terrible gambling problem as well as early-stage erectile dysfunction”, he lists. 

I gasp. “ It’s them percs…”, I shake my head in disbelief. 

“ It is in fact 'them' percs,” he nods in unison. 

“Everything is such a non-issue… I don’t know why I came. I’m overthinking all of this. Let me just shut up before I fuck it all up…”, I shrug in embarrassment. I go to stand again, and he gently grabs my hand. 

“ I can always feel it for you”, he suggests gently. I look down at him carefully. 

“ That’s a very romantic way to say mind reading”, I scoff. 

He smiles knowingly. “ I am not human. There are many, many things we can relate to, but it doesn't negate the fact that there is a barrier. We don't process information the same way that mortals do. Giving me a peek into your head can help me better understand how all of this feels for you, without projecting what I think you should feel onto you. What do you say?” he suggests.

I slowly sit back down and nod, giving him permission because clearly I couldn’t voice any of this. Not in a coherent, organized way, at least. So he sits there, absorbing everything. His gaze sharpens as he concentrates, pupils doing that weird shaky thing they always do. It takes him all but maybe two minutes to process everything. 

“ I can only hope you don’t think that every time I touch you, I expect some grand performance. You’re not some medium for me to express my desires. The part that you won't say out loud is that you think you'll be used in the long run. This version of the world you live in”, he gestures around the room and then out the window as he speaks. “ This world believes that every time a woman has sex, she loses something. And because you grew up in it, you secretly believe it too”, he states. 

I begin to shake my head. “ No…I don't. I don’t think that at all…”, I refuse shyly. 

He nods in protest. “ I was just in your head. It's so buried deep that you don't even know it's there. Plus, the exchange of it all. The transactional aspect. The gifts, the sex, the lifestyle. You don't think you deserve any of it because you don't think you worked for it”, he hums. 

I close my eyes in defeat. I didn't want a commentary. I don't know why I didn't expect one. 

“ I don’t believe vampires to be morally superior to humans. Some of them do terrible things. There is one thing I’ve always admired about our kind however…”, he pauses and walks to his minibar for a drink. He offers me one, and I decline. He’s back beside me with bourbon. “ We don’t overcomplicate the desires of the heart and the flesh. We don’t operate in shame. Pleasure is pleasure. And we express pleasure and give it freely. No politics or morality attached. It’s as simple as breathing. It can be used as a medium for love and passion, art, and anger. It’s life. You’ve unfortunately met men who see it as leverage. A tool used for control. I see it as an offering”, he sighs boredly. I watch his Adam's apple bob as he takes a sip of his drink. 

“ An offering...”, I test. 

“ We give it away because it is endless. I can’t expect you to see it this way, given the world that molded you into who you are. It would take years of deconstruction to see it my way. I don’t see sex as a favor. You were my wife. You’re also your own person. We can both get what we need in this. It’s not a contract. Exploration does not equate to obligation. I can appreciate your desire to please me. But it's not your job to do something simply because you think it will get me off. What you want also matters. Allow yourself to let go of the pressure in this situation. We are two beings learning each other's likes and dislikes. Let it be simple”, he suggests. 

I blink in thought. “ Well, don’t get me wrong. I did enjoy slapping the shit out of you”, I blurt. His soft laugh lightens the load.

“ You want to know why I like it when you hurt me?” he tilts his head. He picked that up, too. A thought from the hotel. I kept wondering what he got out of it.  My eyes trail up to his face. Crinkled in sincerity and urgency. I nod quietly. 

“ The pain. I felt like I was alchemizing it for you. I thought that maybe I was digesting what you couldn’t. Before you I only knew pain. I knew it raw and plain. Then I became a man, and it was my turn to hand it out. Inflicting it quelled the desire at first, but then it wasn’t enough. And maybe the idea is sick and fucked up. We were sick and fucked up together—all those years ago. I loved you in the best way I knew how. I was devoted to you entirely, and every second of discomfort from you made me feel alive. Shit…maybe I was already dead before I became what I am. I just grew tired of all the reverence. My title took away my humanity, and you gave it back. And you gave some of it back in that hotel room…”, he breathes. I watch the way his hands tighten at certain words. The way his body language opens. 

I'm completely speechless, staring at him. I don't even have a response; I'm just wide-eyed and stunned. His fingers seep into my palms until he's holding them. 

He continues. “ You feel you have to reanimate parts of yourself that have passed on. Every version of you is different. You're a Medina, You’re a Smith, You’re a Boudreaux. I should have made it clearer—I want to know Amina Boudreaux. You’re you. And there are nuances and differences in your very being. Which means that the parameters on how you show up in this relationship should be built entirely on your own ideals. I don't always need the pain. Sometimes I want you and nothing else. No frills,” he soothes. 

And I’m melting again. And I’m softening. And I’m leaning into the palm outstretched against my face. And I realize how silly this whole thing is. 

His eyes roll over my lips and then my eyes. I want to kiss him. “ There is no catch. It’s never coming. Yes…Maybe I have been coming on a little strong. This has been a lot to process for you. You're right, I can't be the center. There are so many other interesting things about you, not just me. Some of those things you haven’t even begun to discover yet. How about…I give you some time to yourself. We’ll put a pin in the gifts, the travel, and the repairs. And after you’ve had some time to recenter, we can do whatever you want. You said you want to host me. I’ll let you host me”, he says. 

“ Well…wait. I mean— I mean yes. Yes to all of that, but maybe I haven’t been completely honest with myself about the Kink shit ”, I rush. I shift in my seat uncomfortably. He just told me to find myself, and I’m getting aroused. Horrifically horrible timing. 

When his eyes darken, I know he can feel it. Be a thought or a shift in my body chemistry or whatever. “Tell me “, he prompts. The energy in the room shifts. His breathing slows, and his focus on me borders on fixation. 

And I don’t have the words for it. The feeling is too big for my body. I'm pinching the inside of my palms, foot tapping nervously against the floor. My heart is racing. “ L-look. I think I get what you’re trying to say. We decide what our dynamic looks like. We don’t hold anything against each other. I can appreciate that, and that’s wayyy more wise and measured than how I initially saw it. A-and if that’s the case then…”, I trail off. 

He nods. Waiting patiently. 

“ I— I've wondered what you got out of it. So..thanks for…for giving me your perspective and shit. I think I understand. I can admit that sometimes I don’t want all the control. Amina Medina seems to have had a very dominant personality overall. I have my moments for sure. But I do have an urge…at times”, I explain carefully. I’m moving my hands around. I’m talking in circles. Looking stupid as fuck. 

There’s a knowing look on his face. Almost as if he sees no point in torturing me any further. “Do you want me to find it?” he asks quietly. I nod. 

He goes quiet again, and he digs around inside my head, and it takes him barely anytime to find it. I know he's found it when he straightens in his seat. His face rests in confirmation, but his eyes. No more green or brown…no. Just black in the iris. Blown out. “ I can give you what you want, but your mind is mine until you leave this office? Not only for your safety but for my use.  Do you agree with those conditions?” 

I blink and look around the office. “ Now, here?' I question. My hands are balling anxiously in my lap. 

He nods calmly. “Right here, right now,” he sighs. 

“H-How many people are in the building?” I ask nervously. 

“ It’s the end of the day. My floor is empty, except for the receptionist and the janitor. You won't need to worry about sound, though. Nobody will be able to hear you if I will it into reality”, he threw his ankle over the top of his knee and leaned back into his seat. “ So, do you agree to those conditions ?” he asks again. No urgency in his voice. All patience. 

I pause for a moment. The fuck am I doing????

“ Fine. That’s fine…”, I sigh nervously. 

“ Fine”, he parrots. And for a moment, he sits there in silence. And the quieter he is, the more my emotions bind up. I haven't the slightest idea as to what he’ll do. There’s no list and red ink like back at the hotel. With my mind open to him, he’ll easily be able to pick up on what I like and what I don’t. But the anticipation is nearly unbearable. Pretty soon, I realize that’s the point. 

5 whole minutes pass, and I’m throbbing with need. There’s a tremor in my hands that I hide with my fists, blanketing one hand on top of the other. 

“ That’s your secret…to be treated in such a way. To understand it firsthand. You know how to surprise, I'll give you that,” he chuckles darkly, pulling off his tie and resting it on the table. 

I still say nothing. Do nothing. Heart beating out of my chest. Eyes wandering the room. Wondering where I’d end up. Would it be the floor? The table? On the desk? The arm of the couch? The window? I don’t know what side he’s coming from. I knew he was going to fuck with me—he always does. He likes to see me squirm. 

“ You’re right, I do,” he smiles brightly. 

My eyes cut to him. Every single thought that manifested in my skull was being funneled into his own. I'm fucked. So, I think about rainbows. About puppies! Something nice and unassuming. He laughs as he stands over me, shrugging off his jacket. 

“Unbutton your shirt ”, he says in a quiet tone. His words turn downward. No time to think. Just do it. 

My trembling hands unbutton from the top down. Each thump of the cotton as it releases from the button reveals layer upon layer of lace. When I get to my navel, his eyes curiously graze my cleavage. 

“ You just wanted to talk, hmm?”, he teases quietly.

I look down at the last button and unloosen it, revealing the lingerie underneath. I see no point in pleading my case or proving my innocence. It wouldn’t convince him. 

“ You convinced yourself, draga. Lift up,” he signals for my pants. 

I lift my hips from my seat, and he unbuttons my pants and pulls them down to my ankles. His hands trail up my thigh as he loops his finger under the band of my thong. 

“ You know what….I think I like white on you better than black now…”, he rasps, hands roaming my body at his leisure. I feel his thumb press against my nipple through the lace. I’m sensitive all over, something I’ve noticed since we got together. I feel my body in places I didn’t before. Teasing my breasts never used to get much of a reaction out of me, but with him, it’s different. His mouth sucks my nipples through the lace of my bra, and I can’t help but throw my head back. My clit is throbbing again. He takes his time with it until I can see my flesh poke through the thin white material. Then his fingers swirl around it, pressing and flicking, watching the way the material strangulates it. His hot tongue wets the fabric to the point that I can feel the wetness. 

Then he trails down to my lace panties that don’t hide much. He kissed the outside of them, pressing his lips to my clothed clit before placing his nose against the material. He rubs it up and down the lace to the point that I can feel the sensitivity ignite against my bundle of nerves. I thank god for his wide nose. I’m practically rolling my hips into his face as his hot and heavy tongue laps over the fabric. 

“ Fuck”, I slur. He hums against me in a chuckle when I start to discreetly hump his tongue. He pulls away, pressing his thumb over my clit, the lace a barrier of annoyance at this point. 

“ Please…”, I whined. 

He looks at me. "There will come a moment when you’ll want me to have absolutely nothing to do with this. Be careful what you ask for", he warns.

I lean forward to kiss him. His hand wraps around my throat, more so as a support than as a display of dominance. His lips touch me like I’m fragile as our foreheads meet and press together. It burned slowly until it got harder. Our lips rush into each other so hard our teeth knock. I don’t fight for what I want. I let his tongue have its way. He’s leaning over me in the chair when he pulls away and kisses down my neck, smelling that too. A grunt of appreciation leaves him. As if the blood rushing below my skin were a bouquet of roses or a pot full of food. 

He levels his face with mine before he gets back on his knees. I can see the fangs elongate in his mouth. He’s going to bite me, and he’s not going to tell me where. I brace my body for the attack, and in an instant, sharp teeth penetrate the skin on my inner thigh. His grip is firm around it, likely a precaution to prevent the injury from worsening. I yelp when I feel it. 

The pain is molten hot. So hot that I’m pushing him away when he starts drinking. I take a deep gulp of air as my finger furls around the sides of the chair. The pain feels so much more pronounced here. He pulls away and licks at the skin until the blood begins to coagulate. It’s still throbbing in pain, and I’m waiting and waiting and waiting. My chest is moving rapidly as I try to regain my composure. When he pulls away and licks his lips, I feel the trickle of wetness in the corners of my mouth. I wipe my face. Black streaks of mascara paint my fingers. 

What little makeup I had on was ruined, and I’m sure I look deranged. When the pain begins to taper off, he pulls my pants back up to my hips and buttons my shirt up halfway. 

“ Vlad,” I groan pathetically. My head whips back and forth to see where I’m going as he pushes my chair under the table and places my hands on top of it.

My knee jerks into the table, knocking down the canister of blood, causing it to bust open and splatter against the floor. I’m writhing in my chair from the sensation. A bite to the thigh turned into more than pleasure. Arousal to the highest degree. My nipples cut through the lace of my bra so sharply that it stings. The colors in the room brighten. Every part of my body was alive and pulsating. Goosebumps litter my entire body, and the sound in the room becomes dampened with the beat of my heart. I’m so wet, and I’m so tightly wound up.

I throw my head back in a long and low moan that cracks behind my lips. The feeling is like being on the precipice of climax but never reaching the top. Vlad walks up behind me, and I can feel his fingers sink into my hair as he gently cranks my head to look up at him. 

His tone is dark and authoritative. So quietly reprimanding and booming

“ Look at the mess you made..”, he tsks. Then he firmly but slowly jerks my head in the direction of the mess. I’m biting my lip to stop the sound from getting out. My thighs squeeze together. His silk tie is carefully nudged between the slit of my mouth. He fastens it behind my head and ties it. 

“ There. Nice and presentable”, Vlad hums. I feel his fingers straightening my collar and fixing my hair. 

“ Mmmph!”, I mumble around the gag. My back bends from the wood. I’m dangling over the edge of my climax only to be suspended there. I need to cum so badly. So badly that I almost don’t care about my restriction on talking. 

“ Do not move your hands from this table”, he warns. My hands flatten against the glossy oak. I’m unable to lift them from the table. He’s compelled me. Fucking bastard! 

He stands in front of me, the table between us nothing but an obstacle and an annoyance. He folds his arms as if to discipline. “ I’ll have to call the janitor and tell him to come and clean up the mess you made”, he sighs.  My eyes widen into saucers. He just looovess that. My panic has him chomping at the bit. 

With his tie prohibiting my speech, my threats sound less like “Vlad!” And more like “Babahh!”

My legs kick out from under me as Vlad calls for the janitor. I can hear heavy footsteps approaching as he opens the door, rolling in with a mop. The man stands at just under 6 feet, late 30s, greying, with a long beard and hair. His panicked expression does nothing for the torturous feeling in my core. 

I’m desperately trying to suppress the sound seeping behind the silk in my mouth, but a wave of pleasure wracks my body as I shout, throwing my head back as I wriggle in my seat. Squeaking loudly as I slide down my chair, hands still stuck to the table like they were glued there. 

“ Don’t be a hero”, Vlad’s eyes narrow at the janitor. 

It’s as if the feeling upped the ante when the janitor came in. My head is throbbing with the sound of my heart. I’m so close I can taste it. Slyly, I begin squeeze my legs together, applying pressure to my clit. It’s enough stimulation to give me the release I’ve been looking for, and when I do, my forehead falls on the table, and my back bends outward, knees reaching for my chest. I let out a long, haughty moan that tapers off into small whimpers. I turn my cheek and press the side of my face into the table as I watch the janitor mop the floor. 

The janitor and I make eye contact, and he’s trying to compute if this is a hostile situation, something kinky, or both. So I do us both a favor and wink at him. His shoulders seem to relax, but he’s still weirded out. I don’t have enough time to feel sorry for him because that wave of arousal finds me again, working me back up. I’m back to groaning and whining, wriggling like I was on some substance. Vlad’s eyes are pure fire as he watches me. I’ve never seen him so angry. The janitor finishes up and wipes the wet floor with a paper towel. The silence is thick as nothing, but the sounds of my groans and moans fill the 800-square-foot office.

“ You will forget you saw her when you leave my office and have no memory of cleaning this mess”, Vlad commands. The janitor is in a daze as he nods zombie-like and walks out the door. The door closes on its own accord behind him, thanks to Vlad’s creepy little tricks. 

When Vlad sets his sights back on me, I feel my stomach drop. He’s on me in seconds, standing behind me and lifting me under my arms and pulling me onto the table. My pants are pushed down to my ankles. I’m bent over it, with my left arm pinned against my back. 

I have no time to compute anything besides the sting on my ass. I’m being spanked on both cheeks, one by one. I’m squirming in his grasp, but he’s leaning over me in such a way that I can’t run. 

What was supposed to be an “ OOww wait, sorry!” came out as an “OOHOHHOHhnmmm!”,  behind my silk. I sound like a basset sound as I squeal under his grasp. 

“ What would make you think it was okay to do that? You’ll pay for what you took”, he seethes in my ear. He doesn't stop until my skin is hot. I’m trembling under him, legs shaking. I got maybe 20-40 lashes and with such a swift hand, his palms stung more than I anticipated. When he finally pulls away, I can feel fresh tears trailing down to my chin. 

He leaves me pressed face-first against the table and comes back with the ice pack from the lunch pail. He presses the pack against my skin, and I let out a long, drawn sigh of relief. He alternates between each cheek, pressing for 30 seconds, then switching. This goes on and on for about ten minutes as I lean over the table, compromised, teary, and ashamed. He stops and places the ice packs next to me. I can feel his fingers pull my panties to the side and press against my slit. 

I’m sopping wet. So wet that his fingers slip together over my skin. He shakes his head. “You’re a fucking problem”, he scoffs. 

“ Sorry,” is slurred behind my gag. 

He fixes my panties but leaves off my pants and sets me down in my seat. His hands come down to my shoulders as he stands behind me authoritatively. Slowly, he leans down next to my ear. “You will not get up from this seat until I come to retrieve you. If you get up before I tell you to, the consequences will not be enjoyable for you. Not in the slightest. There will be more tears? Do you understand me, Amina?” he hums quietly. I nod with urgency. Swearing not to make the same mistake twice. 

 He left me there, suspended and wanting and writhing for 1 whole hour. In that time span, I swear I went through every stage of grief. The sun got lower as he spoke rapidly into the phone, jumping from Romanian to Spanish to Italian to French to Amharic. He doesn’t look up at me once. He speaks louder when I get belligerent. I start to wonder if he’s going to forget about me. 

I’ve died and come back to life so many times that by the time he comes back over to get me, I don’t even get excited. I can see him undo the tie and remove the gag from my mouth. He tilts my jaw up at him, tucking his hand under my face. 

“ Are you ready to follow instructions?” he asks me carefully. His face is chastising me. One hour ago, I would have wanted to claw his eyes out. Something had changed since then. An hour of edging has made me most agreeable. I don’t know what he’s unlocked or rewired in my brain, but my mouth is watering. I know what comes next by the way he adjusted himself earlier. 

“I'm ready to do whatever you want me to do...”, I beg. 

With the lasting effects of the bite worn off, I’m just left with the throb of need. Knowing how Vlad is, he will likely draw this out. He unzips his trousers, and then he unbuttons my shirt, pulling it off me. I drop down to my knees in a hurry, balancing my hands on his knees. First, his slacks drop, and then his trousers, and when he pulls himself out, I feel like I’ve struck gold. I could feel the heat radiating off of it. His scarred chest expands as he towers above me 

“ Can I…please?”, I groan. He gives me the nod of approval, and I waste no time. I grab him and shove him so deeply into my mouth that it hurts. I don’t stop until I feel my drool coat and pool down to my chest. I pull back and spit on him and then turn my head to twist my mouth up and down his base. I sink deep into him until I feel the tip of him reach the back of my tongue. I gag loudly, pushing past the reflex and swallowing him down. He hisses when he feels the tightness of my airway. A harsh gag pushes him out as I cum up for air. 

“ Fuck. Amina…don’t hurt yourself”, he spat. He grabs the back of my hair, looking at me incredulously. 

“ Where’d the tough guy act go?” I tease breathlessly. I blow bubbles underneath his base, running my lips along the skin. 

His fingers sink into the back of my hair. I open my mouth wide, and he shoves himself inside to the hilt. “Stick out your tongue”, he groans. I do, and I completely ruin my bra with saliva. My nose rubs against the trimmed hair on his pelvis as he slides down my throat with an ease that surprises me. If I were going to find extra throat for anybody, it would always be him. My throat constricts around him, and he grunts in approval before I pull away quickly for air. I'm gasping, eyes watery and blurry, tapping him on my tongue. I suction my mouth around the head nice and tight. He hisses through it. I massage his sack slowly, in time with the bobs of my head. 

It’s weirdly masochistic the way I enjoy choking myself out on him. I shouldn’t derive pleasure from this. It’s wet and constricting. I have to time my breathing. But I lose myself in it, and my mouth goes all numb. and tingly, and I’m making such a huge mess. Every sound he makes is fuel…it’s food, damn near. I’m rolling my face into him, tapping him against my cheek and tongue. 

I pull away and open my mouth to wait. I seem to have surprised him because he stops for a moment before he reads my mind. A line of spit webs its way from his mouth into mine, and I fuck my mouth onto him with it. I pull him out, mouth open, waiting again. He repeats, and I fuck my mouth with it. Again, and again and again. A sounds gurgles from the back of my throat that borders on deviant. 

“ More, please,” I groan with my mouth open. He spits again, and I use the extra lubrication to push him to the hilt until his knees are buckling. I pull him out and tap him against my lips. 

“ You are fucking filthy. Do you know that?” he grunts. I smile in agreement. And it sounds less like an insult and more like a declaration of admiration. It makes me giggle into his sack, suctioning the skin into my mouth as I round my hand over his tip. 

I spit on the tip, lick it off, and spit again before I sink myself back onto him. A loud noise comes from him, sounding like a shout but verging on a cry. He looks down at me, blissed out. “ Ai un contorsionist ascuns în gât, dragostea mea?” He groans. I know he just said something disgusting. Something....about a contortionist???

Giving a man a head was an ugly thing. And I’m sure it was a sensory nightmare for some people. But when you love someone, it’s almost like their pleasure is funneled back to you. Whatever I’m doing, I’m doing it right beside him, and he can’t stop grunting in broken Romanian. Learning Romanian was on my to-do. For no other reason but to understand the dirty shit he said. “ Gâtul tău e un vid fără fund. Unde le ascunzi pe toate? Iubirea mea. La naiba!. Fuuuckkk!”, he sneers. He’s thrusting into my throat with a dizzying speed, and I’m gagging with every plunge. His tip tickles the back of my throat, and his eyes roll into the back of his head. 

“Așteaptă. Așteaptă, așteaptă, iubito”, he pleads, hands wrapped around himself as he pulls out. A string of my drool follows him as he pulls away. I lick my lips, wanting more but knowing my limits. He lifts my chin and kisses me on my mouth, sucking my tongue and my lips. 

He reaches past me and slips his fingers under the lace of my bra. He sweeps over my nipples, looking down at me, muttering things in his own language. When he pulls at the skin, I hiss at the sensitivity. I can feel him swiftly undo my bra, allowing it to tumble to the floor. 

He reaches behind me and palms my ass before pulling my thong to the side to touch me. He groans when he feels the wetness clinging to my skin. " I should be selfish today. But you look so delicious. I’ll find a way to compromise”, he purrs as his fingers sink around my clit. I want to rock against him and finish, but I know the skin on my ass would be worse for wear. 

I crawl to the couch after his command, bending over the back of it, as he positions himself behind me. He peels my thong off slowly, and I can feel the air hit my wet skin. He discards them somewhere in the room.  A hot tongue sweeps through my folds, and my nails dig into the back of the couch for support. His hands rub against the globe of my ass, soothing the sting he left behind earlier. I rest my face on the couch, pushing back against his tongue.

His face presses into the back of my thighs as his tongue nestles inside me. I’ve failed to ask him how he moves like that, but my mind soon goes blank the moment his tongue swirls around my clit. I groan into the padding of the couch as I rock against his mouth. One of his arms wraps around my legs, holding them together as he suctioned himself flat to me. 

He laps at me with just the right pressure, and I have half the mind to reach around and grab the back of his head. The moment the thought forms in my mind, he pops my ass for it. I grunt out an apology, which he accepts with a suck on my clit that makes my toes curl. 

His tongue implants itself so deeply inside of me that with the right angle, he could fuck me and get me off on it. He spreads the back of my thighs to get even deeper, and I'm sighing profanities that don't even make sense. 

With his tongue thrashing against my walls, he slides his skilled and slender fingers underneath me. His pointer and middle digits find my clit, and he does that thing he does. Who needs an hitachi wand when there's him. With lethal precision, he combines the two sensations of his fingers and his tongue, and my back bends in the way that frightened cats do. That earns me a swift and firm pop on the side of my thigh. 

I bend my back, squirming away from the stimulation by moving my hips. That earns me another pop to my inner thigh that makes me yowl. Vlad moves his head, pushing his tongue in and out of me as I cry out in bliss. 

His tongue laves over me, and it goes up and up and up until there's practically nowhere else to go but ONE place. And when I think “nah, he won't,” he surprises me. He completely hurries his face into my backside and tongues with vigour. He makes a pleased sound. As if he just dunked his head into fresh pie. 

“ Fuck….”, I choke into a nervous laugh. Which then rolls into a butchered moan from the absurdity, or rather, the audacity. And the incredulous feeling of his tongue and how I was on the verge of actually coming from something like this. 

With his nibble fingers still buzzing around my clit, he hums into my cheeks. “What am I doing to you? Say it,” he spanks my left cheek. 

I gasp. “ Y-You’re llicking me”, I groan. My hips swivel back towards him. Not wanting him to stop. 

“Where?”, he groans into me, licking my again. Tongue sinking deeper.

“My aoohhhhhmmm”, I sputter. I don’t make it far. I cum from the dual sensation, bending away from his fingers and mouth. He holds me there until I finish before pulling away with a final lick. 

I'm still bound tight from my orgasm as he pushes into me, feeling the resistance of my walls. Still riddled with aftershocks as he hisses in pleasure, settling inside bit by bit. 

I sigh at the familiar feeling of having him inside of me as I bend over the couch cushion. He doesn’t waste time once he’s fully seated inside of me to rock me back and forth into the pleated cotton. I’m digging into the armrest for support as our skins slap together in a bright and loud echo. 

One hand is at my hip, and the other cups my throat. I can feel his stomach on my back as he leans into me. The scrape of his fangs on the side of my face sends a shiver down my spine. 

My mind goes blank as I close my eyes. I can’t even be bothered to make a sound, I just let him drop into me. And I realize maybe this was all I wanted. All I wanted was a moment of silence. To slow my thoughts down. I can feel the welts of his scars sliding down my back. And he’s so warm and hard in the right places. His hand around the front of my throat is an anchor. He doesn’t squeeze, though I secretly wish he would. I don’t have time to anticipate my release. It just happens. It happens so intensely that he can barely move inside of me when I do it.

And it happens again, and once more, and then I feel that familiar spurt of wetness between my legs. The couch is ruined. He’s lost the grip of his feet on the floor. He curses quietly and pulls out of me to inspect the mess. He spanks me hard, on both cheeks. I’m squirming away, and he pulls me up on my feet, hand buried in the back of my hair. 

I can see the irritation bubbling behind his eyes, but I don’t think it’s because I messed up his couch. Rather, he’s angry because he had to stop. “ Look at that mess you made? Who’s going to clean that up?” he sneers, pointing my Head in the direction of the slippery floor. 

“I’ll make it right ”, I beg. I don’t even recognize my voice. It borders on begging. I don’t beg. I’ve never really had to. 

“You’re going to make it right?” he taunts. I’m grabbing onto his wrists behind my hair. He’s not hurting me, but I feel the tug. 

“Yes— I’ll make it right”, I pout. 

“ Kneel right where you made that mess”, he tests. I drop to the floor without an ounce of hesitation. My knees and chin are wet as I take him back into my mouth. My hands rest behind me on the couch. He controls the speed as I unlock the tension in my jaw. At one point, I wonder if maybe his venom had to do with my slackness because my mouth stretched to capacities that I didn’t even think were capable. 

I take back a little control, wrapping a hand around him. 

He’s sweating as I swallow him down, sticking out my tongue to pet the underside of his skin. I play with him by slinking him in and out of the side of my cheek, pressing him into the elasticity of the smoothed flesh. I follow it with a firm suckle to the tip of his Head. He calls it quits and pulls himself out of my mouth. 

I’m being told to keep my hands on the couch as he kneels me over the seat. My knees on the ground are throbbing, slipping through the wetness if I don’t stay still. His tie is back over my mouth. On his feet, he inches himself back into me. Dropping into me at an angle that makes me gasp. 

The tops of my feet slap against the floor as I mutter intelligibly around the silk on my mouth. He's brushing up against everything I need him to. His fingers snake under my belly to rub my clit, syncing up with his angled thrust. I'm drooling around the tie with my eyes rolled back into my head. 

“ Don’t scream...”, he mutters in a breathless tone. He’s twitching inside me. At first, I think it’s just his body's reaction to me. I’ve felt him do it before—maybe unintentionally. But he does it again and again until I realize what he’s attempting to do. Just like with his hands, I feel that flickering of his skin deep inside me. 

My eyes widen when I realize what this evil fucker was doing. From tip to base, he’s buried inside of me so deep, vibrating so quickly that I yelp.

“ Quiet”, he whispers. I want to scream, and god do I try. But I can’t. He’s compelled me into near silence. Flesh buzzing into my flesh. Not a single insertable inch left to spare. Thrashing underneath him earns me another firm press from his hips. 

He moves his hand to my neck. His hands are so long that they nearly wrap around the entirety of it. He uses it to bounce me off him. His other fist pins my hands behind my back. I’m wheezing behind my gag; every noise I make is closer to a bleating animal than the supposed sex bot I was earlier. 

My body absorbs the shock of his thrusts as our skin slaps together at a rapid pace. I’m seeing stars and going seconds between thrusts without breathing. I cry into a release that leaves tears pooling at the corners of my eyes. He’s persistent, his hips barely faltering when I cum. 

He’s seesawing against my G-spot, barely pulling himself out before he rushes back in. My body is locked up so tight that my muscles ache. The vibration on his tip is the harshest there. I can’t scream, though I so badly need to. Sound relieves pressure. It expanded my mental bandwidth. Without the ability, I’m winding up and up and up. Pinpricks litter my body, starting at my toes and spreading everywhere. My head is fuzzy. 

….Holy shit, I might just pass out. 

I’m lifted onto the couch like nothing. I’m on my back, and Vlad presses the back of my thighs flat against my chest. He slides into me without an ounce of resistance, resuming with the flutter of his length burrowed inside me. He’s so deep I can see the imprint at the bottom of my belly. And even though he wasn’t actually IN my stomach, he might as well have been. 

It’s even more unbearable in this position. Even worse, he’s got my legs locked in place as he thrusts in and up into me. I can’t buck out of his grip. I’m gridlocked with my legs nearly behind my head. My hands scour his expansive build, trying to grip or scratch something. I can’t get more than a squeak out of my throat, and I feel like tearing my hair out. It’s so much. Too much. Too good—if good ever bordered on bad. There was such a thing as too much of a good thing, right? I mean, surely there were limits on the human psyche. 

Couldn’t this hedonistic motherfucker understand that? Mortals break under far milder circumstances. Grief, isolation, hurt feelings, confinement—drugs!. My hands reach for his face, and he moves it just out of my reach, pinning one of them to my stomach. I should be getting numb by now. After you overstimulate the nerves, eventually they fizzle out for a few hours. I’ve already cum so many times, but it seems like there was no ceiling to this sort of thing. 

My throat is tight from my cries—or lack thereof. I reach for the tie in my mouth, and he stops me. “ Do not take that tie off”, he grunts between thrusts. His eyes send a warning. Compelled again. 

And then my hands are back to his chest and stomach, pushing, balling my fists until my nails bite my skin. 

“ MMhmmmFffuuhmmm!!!”, I whine, looking down at the complete mess forming between us. If he were human, I’m certain I wouldn’t been pregnant an hour ago. He’s so deep I have to open my mouth around the fabric to get a full breath.

And somehow he turns the dial on how hard he’s buzzing inside of me, and I’m thrashing into him. His thrusts get heavier and more controlled. Could you dry-clean a couch? 

He leans over me, pelvis to pelvis. I can see the wheels turning in his head. His fingers wipe my tears, and then they go straight for my clit. He spits onto his target and rolls his thumb over it. Pitched squeaks seep past my lips as he begins to massage my pussy with his slippery fingers. 

“ You know what I want. We can be here all day. I would hate to have to bring in reinforcements”, he taunts. His eyes dart from the mess between us to my face. I’m so fucked out that it feels like it takes ten years to cover my hand over his thumb. It doesn’t make much difference. He continues to massage it. 

“ Mmmm. Mm. Nmhmm”, I protest behind my gag. I'm begging and pleading, and it seems to fall on deaf ears. He's tunnel-visioned at this point, and I'm far too wound up to stop now. I’m biting down so hard on his tie that I’m sure I look more like an electric chair victim than anything.

Vlad’s patience is through. It would seem he was running low on it today, because when I feel the growing, persistent buzz from his fingers, I stop breathing. Full stop.

“Vreau binecuvântarea ta asupra penisului meu. Ești atât de strâns încât îți pot simți bătăile inimii”, he whispers in a sickly sweet tone. As if this were romance and not him pushing me towards the brink of insanity. Saying disgusting shit to me in a Shakespearean manner. He's turning up the heat now. I'm hissing. Labored breath was partially obstructed by the cloth. My head bangs back and forth into the couch. Digging away from him for distance. Reprieve. 

He pulls himself all the way out and then pushes back in, thumb steady, vibrating against my clit. It's as if he were taking an anatomy lesson, or maybe he loves the way he disappeared in such a small place. The slower he went, the more the pleasure thickened. Every single vein dragged along my walls and lit my body up. I feel him in my feet. He moans.” Mă uimești. Și găurița ta mică e contorsionistă? E atât de însetată după pula mea. E vreun centimetru pe care n-o să-mi accepți dragostea?” 

He reaches down to slip my gag down, and I take a deep gulp of air. “OH my god, oh my god, oh my god. Ohhmygod VladOhm…”, I whimper. He grabs the back of my head and tips my chin to my chest so that I can watch him fuck me closely. He leans down to suck and bite on my nipple, meticulously swirling his tongue around my bud the same way he does my clit. In tandem, his thumb sinks and presses onto my clit, ramping up my need. I make a guttural sound. 

I practically erupt. It's so intense in my body that I close my eyes and try to turn away to no avail. I hear a big gush that leaves me shivering all over. Vlad finally… finally pulls out, and I can breathe again. When I open my eyes, I can see that his entire torso is soaked. His couch is fucked. You'd think by now he'd anticipate the damage, but he’ll likely get a new one. It would be criminal to let anybody sit there. 

He's playing in the mess between my legs with the tip of himself. Sloshing himself from the top and bottom of my pussy. Nudging into my clit. I have to dig my nails into the couch cushions when he dives his tongue between my legs. He doesn't leave a single part untouched. Not a single crevice. I jumped again when I felt his tongue sweep into my ass a second time.

When he pulls away, I realize he hasn't finished. I use what's left of my strength to lift up from the couch and slide down to my knees. 

I hold onto his thighs, mouth open. I grab onto the base of him and stroke him in the direction of my mouth. His haggard breathing is the only thing I hear besides my begging. 

“ Please, I need it…”, I whine. I twist my slippery hands around the base, up and down, rounding my hand around the head. 

His body tenses up, shoulders rounding and hiking, ribs expanding, hissing as he nears release. 

“Give it to me, please. That's all I've wanted all day. Please…please…”, I murmur. 

A choked sound leaves his throat as the spurt of his release lands on my outstretched tongue, coating it with warmth and salt and something appealing. If vampires were built to entice the senses and every part of them was appealing, that applied to every single facet. Even the way he tastes. 

I spit some of it back onto the tip, and it licks it off over and over again, rushing underneath it to catch it with my mouth. Looking up at him as I push him back down. His eyes are fearful that I won't stop, and he's nearly as sensitive as I am. I hear him mutter something about how filthy I am again before I pull away and stick out my tongue. I show him that it's all gone. He’s shuddering. 

He bends down to wrap his fingers around my neck and then kisses me. All possessive and messy and disgusting. The bottom half of my face is covered in drool, and he doesn’t give a single fuck. 

I’m pulled up to my feet and escorted to a bathroom where Vlad helps me clean up. My undergarments, he insists on keeping. I find a claw clip in my bag. My once-straight hair was puffy at the roots. I rinse my face off and try to look somewhat normal before I step back out. 

I’ve got a bottle of Voss in my hand and the underwear that I stole back from him. Every time I say that I’m leaving, we end up kissing. The 5th time was the charm. When I head towards the door, he grabs my shoulders and compels me one last time. 

“ I’m going to be old news to you until next weekend. Use that time to make something out of what you feel right now. Make some art. Sit with your thoughts. After that, I want you to call me when you're done” 

I don’t remember getting home or anything else, other than changing into my overalls and mixing paint in my shed. I look around at all the paintings I’ve done over the last ten years. Hallways and castles and roses and snow. At the time, it all felt so far away. A strange mysticism wafted from them all. The world I’d painted had finally come to life. The turmoil from the “unknown” made it nearly impossible to create anything else but what I dreamt. And for the first time in years, I didn’t want to paint some old-world architecture. Or dark figures or bats in the sky. 

I prime my canvas and add my gamsol to my palette before I splat red right down the center. For the first time, there’s no sketching or outlining. There are no reference photos as a guide. It’s whatever I feel. I work only in shades of red for this piece. Merlot, brick, scarlet, crimson, rose. The paintings make themselves. In a haze of red, I find two bodies melting into each other. They reveal themselves the more I paint around them. And then another, in all blue, blurred faces morphing into one, a swamp of colors. All static and fuzzy. Almost disorienting. 

Female silhouettes with sparks bursting out of the back of her head, slouched over a bed, daydreaming. I think back to the times I’d be in bed, windows closed, sunlight blaring behind blackout curtains. The mundanity of the dust in the air would be the only thing that could pull me out of my miserable rumination. I find room for that too. A way to translate it on canvas.

The glow of a phone in the dark and a looming figure. What would seem like a threat to the untrained eye was actually protection. The sex is there, but I don’t make it obvious. Focusing more on the feeling rather than the mechanics because that’s what counted. Portraits of eyes were my favorite. I found a way to tell a story with them. Glazed brown orbs stare off into the distance. If you look closely enough, you can see the illusion on the inside. 

When I go to work, I can only think about what I’ll paint next. I barely remember the week. Mr.Landry inquired about that dinner. Nya must have brought up Vlad because Mr.Landry wants to meet him. And with him basically becoming a surrogate father to me, there was no room to decline. So I just pushed it to the end of the month, which was about 3 weeks away. Plenty of time to bring it up over a date night or something. 

I don't notice my lack of sleep until I get to my last painting. Bodies walking through portals. Contrasting between life and death. Each portrait encompassed my life for the last few weeks. I put the finishing touches on the painting and left it on the easel to dry. I begin a long clean-up process, collecting my brushes to put in a cleaning solution. My phone rings as I open the shed door to let in more fresh air. It’s Nya. I smile when I see her contact pop up on the screen. “Hey, pumpkin!” she sings into the phone speaker. 

I laugh. “ Pumpkin… is that my new nickname now?”, I question skeptically. 

I can almost hear her roll her eyes, “ Yes, of course”, she sighs.

I squint. “ May I ask why?”

“'Cause you been in that house getting gutted like one”, she blurts. 

“ Nya!”, I scoff. 

“ What?! It’s true”, she snorts. 

“ I’ll have you know that I’ve been painting! I haven’t seen that man in a week !”, I say in defense. 

She laughs hard. " Lord knows you had to stop. He was about to stomp a crater in your shit”, she tsks. 

“Must you be so dramatic? No hello, how are you??”, I groan. 

“ Hello, how are ya? I’ll ask once more. Papa Landry needs to vet this dude if you’re gonna be cooped up in the house with him”, she hints. 

I hold my breath. “Uhhhhhh well I told your dad the end of the month so..”, I trail off. 

“ Well, let’s do it then because we need to get this nigga on the grill and see if he can cook. You know you can tell the quality of the man by the way he grills–that’s what my daddy said. I’m telling you right now if he burns a single hot dog, I'm kicking him in his stomach”, she warns playfully. 

I chuckle, “ You’re threatening my man with bodily harm now? I should tell him you said that. Besides, I don't think he grills. He pays people to do that. Don't get your hopes up.”

"..So what you saying? This white-collar nigga can't hold a spatula? Can he at least screw a light bulb? I have high standards for my friend”, she warns. 

“He screwed my light bulb. That’s all that counts”, I joke suggestively. 

“MMmmm….Right. I need to come over and get the deets about that”, she hints. 

I giggle, “I can’t tell you what my man and I are doing.”

“ Oh, please. All this proper shit. You ain’t fooling nobody, hoe,” she snorts.

I changed the subject to “What do you want for your birthday?”

“A real nigga”, she hums.

“Answer me this. How does your birthday fall on Easter, but you’re a demon?” I ask.

“If you want to get me something for my birthday, find me one of those rich friends your man got. That’ll make my life a helluva lot easier, " she blurts.

“ I’m feeling generous, so I’ll inquire for you, " I chortle. “ I forgot to ask…Whatever happened to that radiologist ?”

She lets out a long, dramatic sigh. “ He made me pay for everything, including my Uber. He asked to split the bill after he suggested this nice ass restaurant on the river. He was from the West Bank, I shoulda known.”

“ Blue collar seems to be where it’s at. You’re the one who said those healthcare dudes are duds”, I remind her. 

“ Yeah, yeah, I did. I’m off these niggas forreal. Anyway, what have you been painting?” she asks. 

I take a deep breath, looking at all the paintings I've created in the last week. There were dozens. “ A lot. A lot of everything. The nightmares I’ve been having are practically gone now. I'm starting to paint other things. Less straightforward and more message-forward. I was thinking about putting my stuff in a gallery. Vlad has one and…”, I trail off with uncertainty. 

A loud cackle echoes from her lips and into my speaker

“All these years I been preaching about you putting something on display, and this nigga beats me to it in a few months ?! What kinda dick he got? Ambitious dick?!”

I stutter. “ Well, it’s not like it was something I pursued. He practically saved a spot for me! It wasn’t even something I asked him about.” 

“ I’m not even gonna argue. Just DO it. You’re sitting on a gold mine, and you don’t even realize it”, she urges. 

“ Yeah, well…I’m building up the courage, I guess. I’m gonna call him tonight and figure out the process”, I admit. 

“Do not back out”, she warns. 

“I won’t. I won’t!”, I swear. 

“ I’m serious. You have no idea how many things are gonna open up for you when you put yourself out there. Trust me,” she says in a cautious tone. 

“I know…”, I trail off, unsure. 

“ Figure out the dates for the dinner. I want to meet this dude. And I’m coming over Sunday. We’re gonna do breakfast. I love you”, she says. 

“Love you more”, I smile before hanging up. 

I kept my word not only to Nya but to myself. For the first time in a while, I don’t betray myself. I called Vlad up for help with the portfolio. It seems like he breathed a sigh of relief when he heard me ask him. As if he’d been waiting for me to say those words. 

It’s painful asking for help. 

Vlad set me up with his assistant at the gallery, Mark, who helped me put it together. Nya helped me pick which paintings to include in my physical portfolio over brunch on Sunday. The digital portfolio took a bit longer to set up as I was shooting for perfection.  I needed 10-15 high-quality images, an artist statement, and a resume. 

Vlad approached this with a level of professionalism that I’d never experienced from him before. I didn't want handouts, and he knew that. I wanted to earn it. The realization stuck with him because his tone lacked any flirtation. It frightened me a bit, but I supposed that I should get used to it. If I commit to my art, there will come a day when I will be faced with speaking to some snooty art director at another gallery. And they won’t be inclined to be as polite as Vlad. 

Early Saturday morning, I’m outside his gallery. I can’t help but notice he pushed the grand opening back. I knew he didn’t want the debut without my pieces, and the thought makes me smile as I walk back into his office. He's dressed down in a black tee, jeans, and a hat. Blending with his environment. He could be a chameleon sometimes. 

I’m so nervous at the interview with Vlad that I feel sick to my stomach. My lack of experience shows. My first job was at a drive-thru right out of high school. My second job was working for Mr. Landry. I make art at home. I've never even had my work showcased in a restaurant. I knew if I asked Mr. Landry, he would do it—because he cares. But I couldn't bring my sled to ask. My voice shakes when I talk about the vision behind some of my choices. His eyes roll over the physical portfolio. His steely gaze softens when he sees an expressionist painting of a man in red rain smoking. The head is the only part that's true to color, and only his profile gives a hint at his identity. He doesn’t ask about it, but it’s implied to be him. I know that he knows it's him. 

“ I’ve seen what I needed to see. I think your art will be the perfect addition to the gallery. How soon can you submit?'' He leans back in his chair, clicking his pen. 

I stutter in disbelief, “ I-I have a couple pieces in my car…”

“ Perfect”, he smiles. 

He preaches to me about the importance of business cards, continuing to build my website, and documenting my work as I go. Apparently, I’ll also need prints and a mix of high-value and low-value merch. Shirts, apparel, totes, keychains, phone cases, posters, high-quality prints and canvas prints, mugs, greeting cards, notebooks, calendars, and jewelry. He stressed the importance of starting small inventory-wise. He warned that next time he saw me, when he cycles into the fall exhibit, I should have my own business cards and gain experience if I want another spot. 

I watch him install 6 pieces all by himself, climbing on a ladder and hammering away. I stare in disbelief as the spotlights shine on my finished pieces. In January, I never thought this would be my life. I never thought I would see my art hanging in a gallery. A NICE one. With fucking marble floors and Jacob Lawrence pieces for decor—not even a part of the exhibit. 

I cry on my way home. Nya screams when I tell her I did it. That small voice in my head tries to convince me that this wasn't special because it was a handout. That he was only doing this because he loves me. I start to voice it to Nya, and she immediately shuts it down. Refuting those claims. “ You've started a pattern now. Vlad won't be the only person who knows Amina Boudreaux’s work in the next 6 months. He got you in the door now, take that opportunity and use it! ”

I tell Vlad my family friends want to meet him. The way his face lights up makes me giggle at the thought. I was pushing it off for quite a while. I didn't know how we'd go about it. But Vlad insists that he wants to meet them. Somehow, before the weekend is over, I've rerouted all Easter plans to my house. He promises to help me cook and clean up after the event.

“ You do know that many families go to church before their easter dinner….right?”, I warn carefully. 

“ Yeah....so??", he nods.

“ Are you sure you won't burst into flames the minute you step in there with me?” I joke, pouring him something to drink from one of the canisters in my fridge. 

“ I’m certain”, he grins. Pulling me into his lap and taking the drink graciously “. 

I gasp. “ Wait!…what about the food ??”

“I'll eat what I can”, he says flippantly. As if it doesn’t matter. 

I shake my head. “You can't eat at all, Vlad.” 

He stares in thought. “ The excuse will be a food allergy, but I'll keep up appearances when I need to.” 

“Just compel them not to notice”, I urge. 

He turns to me with a thoughtful look on his face.

“I know how protective you are of your loved ones. You feel a sense of betrayal when you lie and the compelling doesn’t make it any better. I picked this up about you when we first met. Why make this harder? I will eat a bit. It's no sacrifice.”

I frown. “It’s a sacrifice to your stomach”, I plead. 

“ It’s no sacrifice”, he repeats softly, then he kisses my forehead. 

I think about what next week will look like. “ You're good with really, really loud and sticky children…right?”

Vlad Tepes Pov

It was our 5th wedding anniversary at a beachfront restaurant in Dakar.  By then, we’d traveled all over the world together. Dakar was our favorite destination by far. The first time we visited, I played her songs from my music collection on my antique record player and cooked her a nice meal. That was the night I asked her to marry me. And because she was a witch, she already saw it coming. We always came back to Dakar at least once a year. Our 5th anniversary was no exception to the rule. We’d made love 4 times in a row on that particular evening. I eventually convinced her to get dressed and come out to celebrate properly.

I know every detail about that special night. The hour, the temperature, what the bartender was thinking, what the air smelled like. And yet, the most important detail I can remember was how she looked at me. A humidity hung in the air, clinging to her like a second skin, though her clothes left little to the imagination. She was shining. God lived in her face. Really, her beauty was proof that there was someone out there behind the curtain, one called life. 

The slit in her dress stretched from her chest all the way down to her belly button. If she turned, I could see her entire back from top to bottom. Her wedding ring matched the piercing on her navel. Absolutely superb, she was. She no longer flinched at my stare. She grew used to it. There was a self-assurance she accumulated with each new year of her life. She was 34, the oldest and most striking she’d ever been. I was relieved when she reached her thirties. It was all I ever wanted for her—for her to live her life. And she had. 

The assertiveness was always there deep down. It came on slowly as Amina became more successful.  Her financial independence from me was a ship that passed years ago by that point. At the very least, she appeased me by letting me pay for dinner. She vacationed on the other side of the world with Nya, who was in medical school at the time. She drove a paid-off car that she bought within her first year as a professional painter. Paid the rent on a brownstone in Manhattan to make traveling for work easier. Frequented the Four Season spa like it was her religion. She was all grown up in every sense of the word. 

 Everybody wanted a piece of Amina Boudreaux. Less than 6 months into her studies at Ironwood, she took off like a shooting star and never looked back. Her paintings had been featured in movies and television productions. Her art had been everywhere from Art Basel to MoMoA. Work trips were booked out months in advance. People invited her to boards to speak on her journey as an artist. Somehow, she’d mastered the art of storytelling so well that she got a book deal. With our shared passion for art, we opened a co-owned gallery in Los Angeles. 

Sure, I was acclaimed in the business world, and my philanthropy made my name known far and wide, but Amina's success was different. More public. At least one person stopped her when we were out together, and it always started with…

“ Are you…???.”

And then she’d go, “Yes. That’s me.”

And it would always end with, “ Oh my god! I love your work!” 

She didn’t slack on her spiritual pursuits. She’d always had this innate ability to heal, and that talent grew. Over the years, she helped countless women with a multitude of issues, from illness to infertility to familial hexes. If nothing else, this was a woman who had it all. Who’d proven to other women that they, too, could have it all. The relationship, the job, the lifestyle. Everything. 

It all started with a singular question, that night in Dakar. One that had been dancing along the outermost margins of her tongue for years. I had my suspicions about why she was so steadfast in her studying to become a High Witch. Having been the quickest to rise into her position, it was time for her to gently herd me where she wanted me. And herd—she did. 

She swirled the decorative umbrella around her drink, pulling it out to taste it. “ Have you had any second thoughts about not wanting any kids?” she asked through her calculated, glowing, brown pools. In fleeting moments, I forget which version of her was staring back at me. 

“ Well, when you look at me like that, I reconsider it”, I half-joke. 

She smiled softly. A giddiness hidden behind her gaze. Still, she reacted to me as she did when we first met. Though we’d since fallen into a rhythm of comfort, the passion was still there. Still burning strong like the embers of the hearth in our Poenari bedroom. There was always something there. I would never be able to get my fill of her. Not then. Not now. Not ever. “ I’m being serious”, she said.

“ Once or twice. I only think about our children, though. It’s more of a daydream, really. I let my mind wander at the thought...” I excused. Years prior, during our first date, I insisted that I’d closed that chapter of my life. I felt that it was the safe answer. I had my gargoyles. I had my job. I thought it could be enough. How could I have told her, " Of course, if you can miraculously give birth to our deceased children.” 

She leaned in, seemingly captivated. It wasn’t something we talked about often. The wound was still too fresh back then. But when she rested her chin in her palm and blinked up at me with those piercing eyes, I failed to resist. I continued. “ I used to have this silly thought…Maybe I wake up from some dream, open my eyes, and they’re standing at the foot of our bed, all a little older but still needy. Still, little kids. I used to think about what they’d say. How they’d sound”, I pondered.

She smiled warmly at me. The dimples in her cheek imprint the exact spots where I kiss her every single morning. “ It’s not silly. Keep going. What do you think they’d say?”, she hums. 

I let out a long sigh, shoulders loosening. “ Alexandru would tell me some facts he learned about the world. About an animal or a country. Something he just discovered—he loved reading. Petru would accuse him of hitting him earlier. He’d probably skip past me and crawl under you. And Hamda. I didn’t get to know her for long. I imagine she’d be a lot like you. Just…observing. In her own little world, she is special and curious. Maybe even a little mischievous…” I shake my head as if to clear the fantasy away. 

“ No, no. Stay there. Go further. You gotta’ take me to the end of it. I love it when you talk like that…”, she pressed. 

I smiled at the hopefulness in her face. I thought it was endearing how she always juxtaposed our dynamic as teacher and student. She always wanted to know about the world from my perspective, but I’d learned so much from her already. “ From time to time I think about what they’d have been like as adults….”, I hint. 

“ I think Alexandru would be a lot like you. Quiet maybe? What do you think?” she suggests. 

I chuckled defensively, shaking my head. “ I don’t want him to be like me.”

“ That’s because you don’t see what I see...”, she said. I feel her feet sink into my lap from under the table. “ But, go on ”, she urged. 

“ I like to think that Alexandru would be loud—at least when he has to be, especially with the stutter and all. I didn’t want him to be afraid to speak”, I pressed. My tone was more serious than I wanted it to be ….

She nodded quietly, giving me her full, undivided attention. I look away from her to gather my thoughts. “ Alexandru would have loved academia. And…Petru would be the wild card, I think. He was obsessed with swords and fighting. I think he would have been a skilled swordsman. A fighter. But he didn't just love fighting. He was passionate about what he loved—you.” I snorted. She laughed out loud. She saw those visions firsthand, and by then she could see everything. She shared those memories with me like home videos. 

“ And…Hamda”, she trailed off curiously. 

“ The boss”, I joked. 

Her face lit up at the thought. “ I like the sound of that. She would whip all of you into shape”, she laughed. 

We went quiet for a moment, then she muttered, “Your voice to the universe’s ears, right? Or whoever and whatever you subscribe to?” She shrugged. She didn’t push for more in that moment, but instead took another long swig of her drink, looking out to the water. Hook, line, and sinker. I was already in a thought spiral by then. I was so sure that I knew the possibilities of this world. I gave way to a community that defied all physics and logic. I didn’t want to get my hopes up. There are some things in this world that you can only experience once. But I was wrong. So, so wrong. 

Later in the night, we continued watching the waves from our balcony in Dakar. It was very late at night, and we burned through an entire bottle of wine. We hadn’t spoken to each other for hours. A habit we formed when we first met. We knew how to enjoy each other's company, even without speaking. This time, though, we were both thinking. I  knew she was working up the courage to ask me more. Suddenly, she let the words slip quietly to me. “ If I told you that I think that I can get them back, would you let me try?” 

For every excuse I made, she had a rebuttal. For every doubt I voiced, she had a counterargument. It really all came down to fear. This was the one thing I knew that I couldn’t give her. My mind couldn’t grasp how much legwork her magic could do. “ Don’t you think about how unfair it is that we’re here and they’re not?” she asked. That was the final straw. No more debates. We owed it to our children to at least try. 

She anticipated that a viable pregnancy would take a few years, so she decided to stop aging. She was at her ideal health. Minimal drinking, no smoking, healthy diet, working out, and minimal stress. Being a High Witch allowed her this perk, which she used to her advantage. She didn't want to risk waiting too long and falling into perimenopause, which could happen as early as the mid to late 30s in some cases. Key word—some. The added fear-mongering about “Advanced Maternal Age” from human experts didn't make things much easier. Did I think that would happen? No. I knew that it wouldn’t, but human doctors were so finicky about the correlation between age and reproductive health. It was her choice, of course. 

I underestimated the number of detours and pivots that would take place. Amina’s career had morphed into this multi-tiered otherworldly state. She often straddled the line between a miracle worker, an artist, a witch, a teacher, an alchemist, and a scientist. We’d become ships in the night, with her even busier than I was. Ironwood needed her expertise as the headmaster of the potion and herbology department. Naturally, we were being torn in different directions. What little time we had together was spent on working towards an objective. Making a baby. 

She believed she could temporarily heal me. I can’t count how many concoctions she made me drink. Some tasted fairly nice, and others were absolutely wretched. I’d turned into her guinea pig. I couldn’t, and still can’t, digest anything, yet her genius somehow made it so that it all went down smoothly. Nothing came back up. Once again, a master in her field. I had to give her credit for it. 

On the topic of souls, they were still a mystery to me at the time. Amina had to get approval from a witch council to bring our children back to us. As Deborah warned, ethics were always being brought into question. Why should a soul be brought back? In many cases, there was little reason to bring anyone back. We were sure the committee would forbid her, but as it turns out, they have a soft spot for children. 

It would be a two-step process. Get her pregnant and then allow the souls to enter her body. “Soul Regeneration,” Zanto called it. As an expert in mediumship, Zanto was of great value to us. I knew little of the Ins and Outs. What I did know, however, was that it started with a collection of items. Dolls, teething necklaces, toys, clothes, locks of hair, and baby teeth. Anything that could possibly create an energetic charge large enough to call the child back. This could happen nowhere but Poenari. Zanto would help guide the children back into Amina.  It wasn't a guarantee, and it didn't always work. Notably, Amina would have to make it past 4 weeks pregnant before any regeneration could take place. Why? Well, Zanto hadn’t seen it work before a certain point. There was a “sweet spot” for this sort of thing. Witch rules were always so one-off and specific yet also unspecific? I left it to the professionals.

Amina made a habit of roaming the halls of Poenari, collecting the marbles that the gargoyles brought to her over the years. I only knew them to be peace offerings. They’d taken a strong liking to her, eventually becoming more protective than they needed to be. She came around over the years, growing affectionate towards them. One evening, she ran to me with a pouch of the marbles she’d collected over the years. She ran in place, stomping her feet as she tried to find the words. I looked over my laptop, watching her jump and down. “ Do you know what these are ?!?!”, she squealed. 

“ Marbles..??”, I chuckled. 

“ Eyes”, she whispered, pulling one out of the bag. She held it up over her eyeball. They were, in fact, eyes. Brown eyes, yellow eyes. Pupils and all. “ I used this wolf eye on you in my spell. They brought it back, but they found others too. This one is Hamda’s eye”, she pulled another marble out of the bag. Then Petru. Then Alexandru. Each child had a varying shade of brown.

I looked back at the little stone bodies peeping around the corner at us. 

“ Brilliant... Even for them”, I chuckle. 

“ It’s almost like they knew this whole time”, she grinned, rolling them around her hand. “They’re going with the kids' stuff,” she called, taking off down the hall. Her little legion followed her closely. 

For a while, nothing happened. No baby. No heart beat. She had all her parts. A working and healthy uterus. A perfectly regular cycle. Two normal ovaries. It was I who was defective. Every concoction she conjured up was to somehow fix that for a very short window.  As one would imagine, it was no easy feat. Here she was, a woman who had relieved so many other people of their reproductive issues, struggling to have a child to call her own. I blamed myself. She blamed her magic. 

Every now and then, we’d get really close. I’d notice a change in how I felt. We would try again, what followed resulted in... almosts. The almosts hurt us both to the core. The lines were so faint on the pregnancy test that blood work had to confirm it. Too early to take that sigh of relief. Too early for any definitive symptoms, even. A slight change in her chemistry would have prompted me to tell her to see the doctor. One week there would be a positive and the next, nothing.  It wouldn’t take. We couldn’t make it past the 4th week. We’d later find that my DNA damage was causing the issue. In other words, once again, I was the problem. 

Dr. Bach was a willing collaborator in our journey. He was not only a physician but also the leading researcher in vampirism, which meant his expertise was most needed. Amina was attempting to do something no other witch or human had ever done. Creating a live viable embryo from a man who was practically dead. That had to be documented and studied. 

Together, they’d already transformed the research on vampire biology and physiology. 

“ Mr. Tepes, I mean no offense when I say this, but you are no spring chicken. The smoking and drinking stop today. If we’re going to do this, then we’re going to do it right. I don’t care if the libations and the tobacco have no direct damage to your heart or lungs. We need to approach this as if you were a mortal man. We need to reverse the DNA damage and improve the quality of the sperm”, Dr. Bach lectured. 

Amina shakes her head. “ I don’t understand. Is this a sperm health issue? Shouldn’t my magic be able to replace whatever is depleted?” she scoffed. 

“ If you’re making a pathway for his body to create live sperm, and you’re only doing it for a very short window, then what’s present at the time of conception needs to be healthy and intact. Creating pathways for pregnancy is one thing. Fixing the damage is the other half of the battle”, he preached.

I can’t even remember how many times I apologized to her. The last thing I wanted was to be the midwife to her suffering. Amina entered a tunnel-visioned state after Dr.Bach left. She left herself no time to grieve or process, insisting, “ Ya’ don’t know what ya’ don’t know.” Somehow, our last almost pushed our attempts into overdrive. There were too many people involved. Too many people waiting. The doctors' appointments were nonstop, and every small change was documented. 

It felt like the entire world knew we were trying, from Zanto to Dr. Bach to the twins, to the married couples we hosted from time to time. Vampires I haven’t spoken to in years sent us flowers and unisex baby clothes. Organic diapers and expensive nipple balms. The pressure was getting worse. Amina was no longer interested in the passion or the excitement of starting a family. She only wanted a result. The longer it took, the more personal she took it. Our breaking point was when Nya announced her first child with Alex. 

The couple broke the news at a family get-together. Alex and Nya had been married for three years and had no issues conceiving. I could hear her heart beating out of her chest when she turned to Amina for her reaction. Amina was happy for Nya. They talked extensively about their children being best friends for life. Amina even started arrangements for a top-of-the-line baby shower to celebrate her friend. But at night, I could hear the exhaustion in her voice. 

After I rummaged through the sound of the squirrel running by our pool, the maid doing her last load of laundry, the low rumble of TikTok playing on our chef's phone, the splat of a cricket landing in the pool, the rustling of a bird in its nest, I finally fine-tune my hearing to the 2nd floor to the far right. In a low, muffled tone, I hear the familiar sniffle of her cries. 

“ Please come back. Please. Come back to me”, she begged. 

I sent the staff home and tried to approach her gently. At first, she insisted that she didn’t want to talk, but I insisted. I owed it to her to be honest. “ Maybe it’s time we took another break?” I suggested carefully.

She was sitting on the closet floor holding Petru’s bonnet. Her eyes and nose were rubbed and raw from the number of times she wiped her face. She was on defense the moment I walked into the closet. 

“ No”, she said defensively. 

I squat down to meet her gaze. “ This is taking a lot out of you right now, Amina”, I soothe. 

“ Well, that’s easy for you to say”, she scoffed as she stood up. I could already see where this was headed. “ You’re not the one who starts fucking bleeding out every time it fails.” 

My brows shoot up from the sharpness of her words. In an instant, she went from wounded to defensive. My mouth tries to find the words before my mind could. I blinked a few times, trying to recalibrate. “ None of this has been easy. I’m just saying it’s really distressing to watch you go through this and not be able to fix it. You’re overworking yourself…”, I warn. 

She dismissively cuts her eyes at me.  “ You didn’t really want this. Not like I wanted it. I should have known when you made all those excuses back in Dakar. I couldn’t take no for an answer,” she muttered under her breath. 

“ Amina”, I warn. 

She continues. “ You have no idea what this feels like. To be so physically attached to this. To be so powerless over this. To know that I’m the one behind how fucked up everything is. I don’t want you to tell me how I didn’t fail. I want this to work”, she sneers.

“ We’ve been trying. I’ve tried, but this isn’t working for Amina. Things are changing between us. I barely see you, and when I do, you’re upset. …”, I sigh tiredly. 

She rolled her eyes. “ All you have to do is stick it in”, she spat. 

I turn towards the entrance, momentarily contemplating whether I should leave. I felt myself losing patience, but my anger won. For a millisecond, we just stood there, looking at each other. I was so stunned at the words that left her mouth that all  I could do was squint at her and shake my head in disbelief. “ If I didn’t want this, do you think I would have done all those things that you and our doctors asked me to do?”, I croaked. I run a tired hand over my forehead, trying to calm myself. “ It was my loss too, Amina. Do you think it makes me feel good to hear my wife lose her composure at the end of every month for the one thing I can’t fucking give her? Then all these people are in our fucking business, treating me like a goddamned science experiment. People I haven’t talked to in years are asking me personal questions. Questions they have absolutely NO business asking. Every time I go to an appointment, I'm getting grilled by the doctor for failing to rise to the occasion. You never stopped to think about how that might have made me feel?”, I sneered. The words were bitter in my mouth. Talking to her like that made me hate myself. Truly. 

I noticed her gaze soften, and she pulled back. She lets out a long sigh, wiping a hand over her face. “ Look, I’m sorry…that I didn’t ask you about how you felt in all of this. To answer your question, no, I didn’t think about it. At least not extensively”, she paused. Her eyes dart around the room in panicked desperation. Already so scared that I would shut the whole thing down. “ I just need a little bit more time.  I- It’s a part of the process. We’re getting closer. I can feel it!” she begged. 

“ This isn’t healthy anymore, Amina. You’re becoming a shell of yourself. We’ve been trying for years. I don’t want to disappoint you anymore”, I plead. 

She rolled her eyes dismissively. “ It’s not you. My spells aren't—.”

My temper flares. For the first time ever, I actually shout at her. 

“IT'S ME”!!, I say with my hands out. “ IM FUCKED. ITS ME! THIS IS NOT WORKING!”

She flinched, and I despised it. I heard her heart racing all the way from across the room. Her composure crumbled, and she broke down, sinking back onto the wooden floor. I backed away, as if the distance would give her some relief. It didnt. At the time, I believed that I fucked this whole thing up even more.  

“ I’m sorry…”, I stammer. I sway from one foot to the other. In disbelief that I lost control like that. Control was the onlything I had. It was the only thing that made our dynamic safe. It was the only thing that gave her autonomy. Her face rested in her hands as she curled up, away from me. I wanted to hide from her. I wanted to hide from this. But if I walked away, I knew the damage it would have done. 

I met her at her level, sitting beside her before I pulled her into my lap, bridal style. She didn't try to slink away from me. She just further collapsed into me as if the physical comfort was what she wanted all along. I sunk my face into the top of her soft hair. 

“ I’m sorry”, we said in unison. She sniffled, rubbing her wet cheek into my shirt before leaning back to look at me. “ I didn’t ask how all of this made you feel, did I? I didn’t ask permission to let so many people in. I just let it spread like wildfire”, she hiccuped.

I hated to see Amina upset. We'd never experienced those kinds of issues in our marriage before then. After we talked a bit more, we eventually reached an understanding. She calmed down before she straddled me, throwing her arms around my shoulders. “ I just wanted to make this right”, she sighs. 

“ You already made it right. You didn’t fail, Draga", I reassured her quietly. 

I pull her back into me. From my shoulder she mutters in finality. “ Yeah, actually…a break would be good. I’m tired now”, she sniffles. “ I’m tired now…” 

We took a year-long break. During that time, Amina and I opened another dual-owned gallery in Baton Rouge. She sold her highest-selling painting yet and showcased her work overseas. Focusing on Nya’s pregnancy eventually became cathartic for her. She was of great help to her friend, taking her to her doctor's appointments when Alex was away on business. We were ecstatic when we were offered to be the godparents to her little girl. Alex was so enamored by his daughter that he lost his train of thought when he looked at her. I remember those days fondly. We offered to help, but we knew the couples had large families, which meant no shortage of extra hands. 

We circled back to the idea of parenthood and agreed to give it one last shot, working towards our goal discreetly. We fine-tuned the process. I continued abstaining from smoking and drinking, as did she. There wouldn’t be the continued testing, however.  We detested anything that would stress us both out. 

I turn to her. “Maybe our mistake was allowing all of this to feel closer to building a machine than to making a life”, I commented in bed. I flipped through a book about postpartum hormonal shifts.  Amina placed Hamda’s mittens under her pillow before fluffing it. 

She shrugged slowly. “Aren’t we all machines in a sense?”

I grimace, closing the book and setting it down on the nightstand. “ That’s debatable”. 

She turned to look at me on her side. “ Is it? Our hearts are electricity. Our brains are the computer. Our muscles, the engines…” She yawns. 

“ Eyeing this so closely, I feel, is taking away from the process of bringing a child into the world. The spontaneity of the way it comes to us.  Up close, of course, it will seem as if there is no progress. When’s the last time we really took our time?” I suggested. 

Her eyebrow raised curiously, smiling at what I’m sure were old memories. “ If I let you take your time, I’d be stuck in Poenari for days, and we have jobs ”, she countered. 

I shook my head. “ Is that so horrible?” 

She goes quiet, looking back at the tv. She was already becoming invested. I heard her heart quicken by a few beats. Excitement. “ You know, I think you need an attitude adjustment. You need some of your humility back”, I teased quietly, flipping through the book. 

Her head swung to me in surprise. “Excuse me ?!”, she chuckled. 

I smirked. “ Oh yes. That’s what’s been missing”, I nod to myself. 

Amina crossed her arms. “I’ve got plenty of humility.” 

I shrugged. “ Of course you do. I'm simply referring to the kind you get from my hand”, I hint. I hold my palm up, turning the back of it towards her. Her eyes grazed over my knuckles and then back at me.

She abdicated, needing the break much as I did. With so many residences, there would be times when I’m in one country and she’s in the other. So we left the next morning. We hadn’t even been fully inside the Poenari before I started peeling her clothes off. A mouthful of her couldn’t even satiate me, I was on her in a way that bordered on concerning the moment our feet touched marble. Sounds came out of her mouth that would have worried any bystander. I relieve staff for most of the day. But I knew my wife with my hands tied and my eyes covered. I knew her limits. I’ve been in her head. It didn't scare me in the slightest. 

It was as if we were under some spell. Candlelight dinners were flipped in seconds. She'd end up crawling on the table while trays of food shattered to the floor. We left dinner picking gelatin from our hair. We couldn't leave each other's sight. Every single word we spoke was a confession. I'd grown addicted to the raw honesty I pulled from her in those heightened states. 

We flitted through the halls like newlyweds. Ancient memories blended with new ones until I had trouble remembering what century I was in. It was as if we were retracing old steps. Spilling old secrets. We frequented the places we used to spend time together. There was finally nowhere to go. No appointment to rush to. I took my wife in the old way. Before, time seemed to quicken. Before facial recognition and speeding cameras. Before, life seemed to run a mile per minute. A slow, measured, and all-consuming pace. 

Then Spring came, the snow melted from the mountains, and the ice stuck to the edges of Poenari was washed away by the sun. Something had changed. What was supposed to be two weeks of retreat turned into another three. 

The two lines on her test read "pregnant." Then came the blood test. Yet again, Pregnant. At her official appointment, she was five weeks along. Even more of a shock, the fetuses looked larger than they should have been. I nearly passed out when I saw the three gestational sacs on the screen. 

All of those sessions with Zanto had worked. Everything finally worked. Triplets, as rare as they were, were no coincidence. Somehow. Amina was able to bring our children back.

Amina spent most of her pregnancy in Poenari. She couldn’t get quite as comfortable anywhere else. I ensured that Amina had the best care, providing her with a private obstetrician familiar with supernatural maternal care. This way she’d receive a personalized treatment plan with frequent communication throughout the week.  We were on the precipice of something extraordinary. Her pregnancy was in a league of its own. It was yet to be determined if the children would possess any of my vampiric abilities. 

At that time, I never knew a human being could sleep so much. Symptoms-wise, her pregnancy was fair. Morning sickness was rare, and heartburn was strictly associated with red sauces and oranges. Otherwise, she got on pretty well, all things considered. There was no getting around the fact that a triplet pregnancy was high risk. I hated to be the one to give lectures on the importance of slowing down, but it had to be said. I loved seeing her waddle to the bathroom in the mornings to fix her hair even though she wasn’t going anywhere. She was gorgeous all the way to the end. No matter how much she complained about her swollen ankles or fingers. No matter how much she missed her old T-shirts. She was stunning. 

Over time, it became clear that she would not make it to a “full-term” twin pregnancy. Her discomfort was constant in those last weeks. With their lungs and brains fully developed, our children wouldn’t need extensive medical intervention, her doctor felt. A decision was made to schedule an early cesarean at 28 weeks. 

I found the procedure fairly barbaric. Sure, I’ve had some fairly brutish moments over the past few hundred years, but this was different. The pushing of the organs, the separating of flesh, the digging. I used research to quell my anxiety, but in the end, it did little to settle me. And to think that in my time, these procedures were a last-ditch effort to save the child and not the mother. Long ago, I had night terrors of having to make that choice. Having to choose between my son and my wife. I couldn’t imagine a worse fate for our family.

A few weeks before her cesarean, Amina had been wanting to see her aunt for quite some time. Aunt Sheila was getting older and trips over 30 minutes were irritating for her arthritis. Both of us worked out a plan so that Amina could see her before her due date. 

Having to show up at an 80+-year-old woman’s house and compel her and her family to let me take her to Wallachia via shadow travel felt like a testy situation. Ever since that day Sheila threatened me, I’ve been steering clear of her. I wasn’t entirely sure if she even liked me, and to be honest, she wasn’t sure either, from her thoughts. She thought I’d take care of her niece, though, at the very least. 

“ My lord. What in the world? What is this place?”, Sheila gasped, looking around at the grand paintings. I step back from my protective embrace around her shoulders. 

I waited until her gaze met mine again and compelled her. “ Right now you don't care about this place. You have no curiosity about where you are. Your only objective is to visit Amina. You think the gargoyles are puppies. When you leave this place, your memory will be that you visited Amina at her house in New Orleans.” 

A dazed look settled over her tired eyes, and she repeated the command back to me. “I don’t care about this place. I think the gargoyles are puppies. I’m visiting Amina in the 8th ward…” she slurs back. 

“ I drove you to visit Amina”, I add. 

She slowly nodded, still under my control. “ You drove me to visit Amina. 

She broke out of her daze and quietly followed me to the bedroom. Amina was lying in bed reading a book. When she heard her aunt round the corner, she was already beaming, attempting to get up. 

“Oh, Don’t you get up, Mimi. My goodness, have you got yourself in a situation?” Aunt Sheila cooed as she closed in on her niece. 

The two embrace. Amina mouthed a “thank you” over her shoulder as she nuzzled into her aunt. I smiled at the exchange.  Sheila pulled away, and Amina lifted her shirt over her belly and pressed her aunt's hand to it. 

“ Girl, you’re about to pop. Three?”, Sheila hissed dramatically. 

Amina just laughed. “ Yeah. I can’t even believe myself sometimes…” she said. 

“Sleep while you can”, Aunt Sheila joked. 

“ That’s what everybody has been telling me”, Amina sighed. 

One of the gargoyles runs in, circling the bed posts. I try to coax them out of the room. “ You two sure are animal lovers. Bless your hearts. One moe' thing to do", Aunt Sheila observed. Her tone slightly borders on judgy. 

“ Already starting with the shade”, Amina snorted. Sheila smirks, knowing her niece caught that. “ We’ll have plenty of help.” 

“ Good. Good. And how ya’ feeling?” said Sheila as he leaned in to press her hand to the side of Amina’s cheek. 

Amina shrugged, but I could see the tears forming in her eyes. Aunt Sheila grabbed her niece's hand. I quietly left the room so the two of them could talk. At the time, she was terrified about going under the knife. Multiple times per day, I had to diffuse her growing anxiety about her due date. Now that she was going to be a mother, her own mortality had come into question so many times. She herself was motherless now. She didn’t want that for our children. I knew that a visit from Aunt Sheila would settle her. They spent the afternoon in deep conversation, which I tuned out for the sake of their privacy.

A few weeks later, we found ourselves in the operating room. My fingers wrapped firmly around Amina's hand as she looked up at the OR lights. She was strapped to the operating table with one free arm. I briefly slipped the surgical mask down on my face to press a kiss to her forehead. She was shivering all over. Dr.Ngozi said it was a side effect of the epidural. The needle was so long that I had to actively look away. Everything about women’s health was so overly complicated and harsh. One would think they’d have found an easier way to achieve the same result. 

I remember the indescribable look on her face when she stared back at me. No tears. Just pure fear.  It was her first surgery in her life.  All she could manage was “I wish my mom were here.” I tried my best to soothe her, but I was just as terrified as she was. During the entire pregnancy, neither one of us could fully relax. I could feel her worry from the other end of the house daily. Then suddenly it had all come to a head. 

I heard the first cry. Dr. Ngozi held each twin over the sterile field so we could see their faces. Amina was as quiet as a church mouse. At the time, it didn’t register with her that she was a mother. All she could focus on was the fact that she’d been cut open, and I couldn’t blame her. I didn’t want to leave her here or allow her mind to part ways from her body.  I stayed seated beside her as the nurses ran tests. 

Hamda was placed in my arms. There was a pink fitted hat on her head, and I remember how perplexed I was at her size. She was so tiny that I was afraid I’d break her if I held her too tight. I stared at her little face, cranky and fussy. I bounced her softly, lulling her to the sound of my voice. She opened her big, dark eyes, squinting in the OR light. They roll around the room, introspective, as she calms down. 

Amina holds our sons in each of her arms. Her eyes swam from one face to another. She can't believe they're real. She was quietly trying to verify who was who between the two of them.  We shared the same look. Disbelief. I looked down at Hamda, who was now sucking her fingers quietly as she fell back to sleep. It had been so long since I felt my heart again. Their presence had wounded something in me. Opened something in me that had long closed. It’s pain and love coexisting. I shouldn’t have been given a chance to do it over… but I was. 

 https://pandora.app.link/rMrHOulHn4b

In the quiet of the recovery room, sometime around midnight, all three of them were wide awake. Their tiny eyes blinked around the room, mixed up on their nights and days. Amina sat in her hospital bed staring at Hamda and Petru inspecting their tiny fingernails. Their feet weren’t much wider than the pads of my thumbs. It almost felt wrong for something so sweet and so defenseless to be born into a world like this one. 

The tears finally hit her then, in the dark. The realization fell over her like a heavy blanket. That they were, in fact, her children. Children she grew and made from scratch. That our lives would be changed forever. In a sense, who we were before was gone now. Something of the past. The future belonged to them. Priorities shift when our eyes meet. “ Thankyou”, I cry. “Thank you. I'm sorry I ever doubted you."

Nothing can prepare anyone for how much space such a tiny human can take up in your life. Let alone three. With each passing month, the decision to leave my forward-facing position at my company grew stronger. The triplets were simply a handful. Even with hired help, they were a handful. Even the gargoyles have trouble keeping up with them. They weren't regular children. They were advanced. They hit milestones well before they were supposed to. There were little things that tipped us off to how different they were. They were talking early, walking early, taller than other children their age. Their hand-eye coordination was well beyond what would be considered appropriate. Dr.Bach would stop by to run a few tests every few months. His hypothesis was that they were already displaying vampiric traits in secret. He found a collection of toys stuck to the ceiling in one of the watch towers. It was easy to think that gargoyles were doing it at first. I’ll admit I had my dismissive moments. 

What truly confirmed their true nature was when they got into my stash. The three of them had worked together on a secret plan at just 18 months old. They came running into the study with their hands and mouths covered in red. Amina screamed, checking them for injuries. 

They led us to the absolute mess they made. Bloody handprints stained the walls and carpet, and their footprints were outlined on the marble floor. Hamda walked to the edge, licking it before a trail of blood could slink to the floor. They never asked for it again. We let Dr. Bach know, and he warned us that there may come a time when they would request blood. Neither Amina nor I was ready for that day. 

They eventually had a growth spurt, a tricky facet of childhood I had long forgotten. There were groans of “I'm hungry” every hour. We offered a multitude of foods, including yogurt pouches, crackers, fruits, and cheese. It was as if they couldn't get full enough. I vividly remember filling each of their sippy cups with blood from the canisters I kept in a separate room. Amina seemed terrified, unsure if it would work, but at her wit's end. They took to it immediately, and the whining stopped. We had finally figured out what had been missing from their diet. The growth spurt that ensued afterward had our heads on a swivel.

At age two, they would have periods where they would sleep half the day and then barely sleep at all. Their habits would change monthly. Amina and I tried everything to get them down. Then the next month they'd sleep from 7pm to noon. We lined up numerous doctors' appointments, and to no avail, they were perfectly healthy on all fronts. Dr. Bach suggested that as they grew older, their sleeping patterns would change. They wouldn't have to sleep as much as a normal human, but would certainly need more than a vampire. 

I eventually decided to step away from my work, relinquishing my title as CEO while still profiting as the Founder and Chairman Emeritus. This would cut my work down to five hours per week, only stepping in to make major decisions for Meridian Property Group. New ventures or acquisitions would only require my approval signature. My main goal is to focus on long-term investments, succession planning, and major acquisitions. Anything too large for the CEO to handle, I would take ownership of. This meant fewer meetings, only needing about 1 every month. Any in-person visits to the office would be reduced to a few times per year. Long story short, the money would make itself. As an international company, it had all the tools it needed to sustain itself. This was my second chance with my children, and I wouldn't miss a moment. Not like before.

Amina was hesitant at first when I posed the idea. I had made it clear to her that I wanted to be the primary parent while she focused on her expanding career. Besides, I wouldn’t be doing it alone. There were so many people ready and willing to lighten the load, from Nya to her aunt Sheila and, of course, Zanto, whom Amina had grown very close to. And of course staff. We had a few nannies on standby.  It took a while for her to fully let go. Eventually, she started taking on more opportunities almost 2 years postpartum. Returning to Manhattan 2 days out of the week to network. 

We found our rhythm as parents. Managing children with growing abilities while still finding time for our own hobbies. During our downtime, we filed through art portfolios, selecting art to feature in one of the galleries. Amina loved to help me pick the artists to feature over dinner. Date nights were still and always would be designated for Fridays. 

Now 4 years old, the triplets are in their last full year with me. I felt proud to say that I taught them most of what they knew. I taught them how to read, how to count, and how to brush their teeth. I taught them their colors and numbers. Of all the things I've accomplished, nothing in this world made me prouder than my own children. 

They’d be starting school next fall, which meant less time with us. I was torn about it. I liked the idea of having a little more time to myself, but when I was away from them, I thought about them constantly. Amina and I had been looking into schools for children like ours. The supernatural world had but so few. 

I designated myself to make breakfast in the mornings. My staff could have done it but I wanted it to be special for the kids. Besides, I'm always the first one up. My morning starts the same as it always does. Hygiene, read over company reports, smoke, then prepare breakfast. The kids were creatures of habit like me, so they had the same thing every morning. Fruit, eggs, meat of choice. Though they had an affinity for bacon more than anything. 

Hamda loves Strawberries, Petru loves Bananas, and Alexandru loves Kiwi. After I get them ready for the day, they sit patiently in the dining room, playing with Legos. I have to re-cook the bacon because I burned it while defusing an argument between Petru and Hamda. Ethiopian Jazz keeps them relatively calm in the morning, lessening the likelihood of any meltdowns. The Melodies sweep through the house from the overhead speakers as I plate up the last of the bacon. 

I round the corner, seeing Hamda press her finger against her sharp little fangs, retracting them into her mouth when she sees the food. They put their toys away as I set the table. A little arm wraps around my leg, which pulls me out of my focus. It’s Alexandru, now the youngest and the neediest. This time around, I'm the favorite, and he's my little shadow in more ways than one. 

“ Sit down.. I'm almost done”, I instruct gently. Alexandru doesn't move an inch until I guide him back to his seat. He fidgets around as expected for a kid his age.  I don’t yell at him when he slides from his seat again and wraps his arms back around my leg. What had I forgotten this morning? Then I realized that I hadn't said good morning to him, nor had I given him a hug. Hugs were big in this house, especially between multiples. The inevitable fights always ended in a truce. A hug was a peace offering. A reset. But they were also how I started the morning. My mind must have been somewhere else. I swept through the morning, going straight into their routine by taking them to the bathroom to fix their hair and guiding them as they brushed their teeth. 

I find that the most trivial and quizzical things matter to a child. The things we forget in adulthood. Of all my children, Alexandru, the one who looked the most like me, had the most gentle heart. I suppose I had one once upon a time, too. Though it's too far away to remember. To be the first face he sees in the morning was surely impactful for someone who had lived only 4 years. I pick him up because that's all he really wanted anyway. I wrap him in a bear hug, swinging him side to side playfully. I feel the vibration of his giggles against my chest and kiss him on the top of his head. “ Good morning, Alexandru,” I muttered into his temple.

Every time I do this, I feel that I am undoing something terrible that happened to me. When I look into his eyes, it makes me wonder how it was so easy for my father to harm me. He knows nothing about the world, yet everything about it. I’m in awe of his curiosity. His gentleness. His receptiveness to the moods of others and his watchfulness.  He is four feet tall of walking truth, a mirror to all that he encounters. He broke me open completely. All of my children have in different ways, I suppose. Maybe this is why people become enraged with children—because their humanity and innocence are a reminder of what they’ve lost or given up. Most of all, they have exposed where I have been most wounded and where I have stopped growing. 

I set him down, and all is well as he climbs back into his seat. Once I've filled their plates, I sit at the table and talk with the kids, cradling a cup of coffee. A ritual older than they realize. As soon as the triplets could sit up by themselves, I’d wake them up, make their bottles, fix myself a cup of coffee and sit in the green room. I’d always believed black coffee to be a dad drink. I want them to be able to say “my dad drinks coffee” with children their age. Or even, “My dad drinks coffee in the morning with me” 

One normal thing. One normal thing to tell their friends along the way. To know they had a father who was as simple as he was complicated. To know that their father wasn’t all that different from most dads who tried. That...I loved them despite how different our family was. Despite how different they would surely become. If there was nothing else in this world they could relate to, they had this. They could turn on the TV and see the dad in the sitcom drinking coffee in the morning and say, “ My dad does that too.” 

“ What did you dream about, Dad?” Hamda asks me. A smile just like her mother's when she beams at me. The question is a testament to how often we talked to them. 

“ Hmm”, I tap the table, looking around. “ I dreamt about your mom coming home.” I smile. 

“ I miss mommy”, Petru says with a mouth full of bacon. 

“ Me too”, Alexandru chimes in. 

“ Me three”, I said. “ Who’s ready to ride the horses today?”

A choir of “Me!” echoed off the walls of the dining room. Some of the smaller gargoyles hung around the table waiting for the triplets' inevitable burst of energy. They seemed to be the only creatures in this house that could tire them out. It created a nice distraction so that I could answer some weekly emails. 

“ What should we do after the horses?” I ask patiently. 

Hamda perks up at the questions. I already knew what she’d say. “ We should play Mancala!” The boys agreed with her, just like her mom. She loved games. 

“ Okay. Mancala. Then what will we have for lunch?”, I chuckle. 

“ Pizza!” the three of them said in unison. I’d been outnumbered. BUT it was Thursday. They’d always wanted pizza on Thursdays. 

“ Petru. You get to pick the movie today”, I remind him. 

“ What movie do you want to watch, Petru?” Alexandru asks. 

He thinks for a moment, mouth smeared with the ketchup he requested for his eggs. “ Hmm…Ratatouille”, he says astutely, as if we hadn’t watched that very same movie last month. Alexandru and Hamda groaned because he’d always choose from the same 4 movies. Ratatouille, Spy Kids, Brother Bear, or Rugrats in Paris. But fair is fair, and the kids loved the sentient street rat subplot more than anything. 

After breakfast, I put away the dishes and got the kids ready for their horse lessons, which last all but three hours. As Hamda requested, we all played Mancala before lunch. Demitri ran and got pizza for the kids. They jumped up and down in excitement as he passed the box to one of the nannies. Pizza and then a movie before nap time. 

After nap time they had their snack before going to their foreign language lessons and any of their other extracurricular’s before dinner. They were nearly fluent in Romanian and Arabic, but still chipping away at Spanish. Amina said that I could be intense when I set a goal for the kids. I took every parenting book that I read very seriously. Before they were born, one of the books expressed the importance of teaching a child a new language before age 7. I started with teaching them the basics from the moment they could form a sentence.

Amina had also dedicated time to learning Romanian and had since moved on to Arabic. It was beautiful to hear her speak in what was technically her mother tongue. Learning foreign languages had opened up a whole new world to her. She was reading from manuscripts brought to Poenari by her past life with proficiency. 

As our day wound down, the chefs worked on dinner while I helped the kids get clean for bed. I braided Hamda’s hair into two pigtails to make it easier to style in the morning. She always fussed about it and tonight was no different. After dinner, we waited up for Amina. 

Amina’s keys jiggle in the doorway, and the kids stampede her. “HII!!”, she squeals as they jump on her and tackle her to the floor. She picked each of them up into bear hugs, kissing their smiling faces. 

“ Alright, Alright. Let her breathe”, I chuckled as she fought to get off the floor. The staff takes her luggage, but I go for her coat and hang it in the coat closet. Before she could get settled, she was hit with a wall of questions. 

“ Did you sell a lot of paintings?” 

“ Do you see any tigers in Thailand?!”

“ Did you bring me back any dessert?” 

“ Yes, no, and yes”, she chuckled. She opened up her tote and pulled out three packs of Thai candy. The kids started to jump around as they held up their bags of sweets. 

“ Anybody who wants candy tonight is going to be brushing their teeth a second time”, I warn. They didn’t care, they raced to the living room to open their snacks. 

“ Honey. I’m hooomee....”, Amina sang in a teasing manner, arms outstretched and waiting for me. I didn’t watch much TV in the ’50s, but I did know about I Love Lucy. She joked that I was a ’50s housewife. I never really minded it. In fact, I found it pretty funny because a couple of hundred years ago, it was starkly different. I don’t think I would have minded it back then if I could have done so without judgment. 

I pull her in by the waist, slotting my lips over her own. All these years later, she’s still not immune to my touch. I felt the same way about her. The tension in her body melts, and her mouth opens ever so slightly, giving me permission to deepen the kiss. She’s sweet against me. I don’t know whether it was the candy she ate before she got here or just her. The closer she presses into me, the more I believe it’s just her. Her essence alone. If it were a trap, I’d lose every time. 

Her hand sinks into the back of my head. It unravels whatever civility is left in me as I lean forward, leaning her back as I dive into her mouth. A giggle comes up but fizzles out when my hands press into the globe of her backside. 

We rush at the speed of two people, governed by three very nosy children. Rushes and hushed and hard. Her hand reaches under my shirt. Pulling me closer and closer until the inevitable chorus of “mama” and “Papa” subdued us both. She pulls away first, muttering something about bedtime. I peck her between every other word, over and over until we hear tiny footsteps running in our direction. 

“ Papa”, Petru called. “ Can we watch another movie?” he asks hopefully. I’m so eager for my wife that I let the kids have it. I knew it wouldn’t be long before they crashed. I hear them run back to the couch, crumpling more candy wrappers. She steals a kiss before clicking down the hallway in her stilettos. I’m not ashamed to say that I watched her leave before I was pulled back into the living room by Hamda. 

Amina reemerged about 5 minutes later, hair pinned up and hands washed. She joined the kids and me on the couch. Every single one of them scooted onto her, leaning against her. Petru finally chose something different, a movie called “The Parent Trap” from our endless collection of physical media. Movies were the only screen time we allowed the kids, and they cherished movie nights more than anything.

Stolen glances across the couch say what we can’t. Thank god the kids don’t last long- maybe 15 minutes before they drift off to sleep. They’re all splayed across Amina like a litter of puppies, squirming every time she moves. Eventually, we carried them off to their bedrooms. I balance two kids on my shoulders, and Amina handles Hamda. We put them in their respective rooms, closing their doors quietly.

Amina and I tiptoed down the hall and the stairs until we got back to the living room. We pick up the stuffed animals, puzzle pieces, and board games from the floor. The maids close out their shifts, leaving the quietness of Poenari to ourselves. I pour her a tall glass of wine, and one for myself. 

Any kiss after we were alone was just indulgent. The perfect word to describe this marriage. I don’t believe in too much of a good thing. But then again, I never really have. I don’t question just how much we enjoy each other's company. I don’t care why we do. Be it from chemistry, astrology, or instinct. We just do.

We end up sitting on our bedroom floor, door closed and terrace doors wide open. With our backs against the bed, we flip through her father's old CD collection. The soft notes of Al Green flit between the empty spaces of the master bedroom. Nights usually ended like this. A drink or a smoke or both. We made a vow to always set aside time every day. To this day, it hasn't changed. 

“ So. How much did it go for?” I prompt. 

She lands on the Marvin Gaye section of the collection. 

“ Mm… 1,635,000 Thai Baht”, she hummed casually. Clearly a mild day for her. I do the calculation in my head. 50 thousand American dollars. I would expect nothing less from Thai nobility. 

“ Did he like it?” I ask.

She nodded enthusiastically. “ He cried. Which I was really surprised by, because portraits aren’t really my strong suit, but they insisted he wanted me. He said I really captured her spirit”, she smiled fondly. “ He obviously doesn’t know that she visited me and told me what to put on the canvas”, she snorts. Amina had found a way to merge her artistic gifts and her spiritual gifts. As it turns out, spirits could be pretty particular about how they're depicted in art. 

“ Well, did she like it?” I ask in a hopeful tone.

“ She said it was fine and left.” She shrugged, taking a last swig of her wine. 

“ I consider that a job well done”, I quipped, pulling her into my lap. She pulled the cigarette from behind my ear and offered the end to me. I light it with the tip of my finger. She takes a few drags before placing it in the corner of my lips. I look at the doorway, noting the blankets stuffed under the door. We only smoke here. We don’t let them see, per my request. 

“Where’d you pick up that nasty habit ?” I joke, turning my head to exhale the smoke. 

She snorts playfully. “There’s this guy…” 

It starts raining, and I hear her yawn. I knew then that we wouldn’t be up for much longer. I couldn’t blame her, though. I’m sure the jet lag was getting to her.

She starts. “ One of the K-12 schools called me back. They seemed really eager to have the kids. The dean kept going on and on about the diversity of the students. You know, at first, I thought she was talking about race, but then she started listing all these different creatures. Werewolves, elves, orcs, Minotaurs. I don’t know when any of this will finally feel normal”, she sighs.

The things that go bump in the night have children of their own. It’s not often that it happens, but it did happen. Until a few short years ago, it never happened for vampires. Our children were one of a kind. It brought us both great pride and great worry. Parenting them was a learning curve. I shake my head, feeling the worry seep in before any of the excitement could. “ Where is this school?” I ask curiously. 

She perked up. “ It’s hidden like ironwood. They’ll need portals to get to and from”, she says.

I frown. “ We could always homeschool”, I suggest. 

Amina’s expression flattened as she shook her head at me. “ They need to be around kids their own age if they’re going to have any sense of normalcy. Playdates at Nya’s and with their cousins aren’t enough. They need to be socialized, Vlad”, she warned gently. 

“ Is there anything normal about our lives?? They certainly won’t have a normal one..”, I counter. 

She playfully rolls her eyes. “ You’re scared to let go. Admit it”, she teased. “ With the triplets enrolling in school…Haven't you thought about putting the suit back on? I think some time to do your own thing will be good for you. You do an awful lot for all of us.” 

I scoff. “ If you saw how big a 4-year-old Minotaur was, you wouldn’t want that little shit around your kids either.” 

Amina’s jaw drops. “ OH my god???” she blubbers. “ Oh my god, you’re….terrible”, she cackled. 

“ What?!” I ask. 

She slaps my chest. “ I would say racist, but that wouldn’t be the right word. The word, I think, would be species—st,”  she huffs, trying not to hold back a laugh. 

I roll my eyes playfully, taking another long hit of my cig. “ I don’t want the kids hurt…is all”, I explain. 

She turns around, straddling me to get a good look in my eye. “ Getting hurt is a part of life, Vlad. I think you need to be more concerned about our kids hurting somebody else’s kids. They are very smart and cerebral, like you. If their abilities continue to develop, they’ll have a lot of unchecked power that they’ll have to learn how to handle in social settings. Being around other kids will teach them the importance of self-control and patience. Especially patience with people who are different from them”, she pleads sweetly. “ Besides, I thought you liked having something to do. Ya’ know? Having something else to think about other than doctors' visits, and horse riding lessons and who’s leaving crumbs in the bed.” 

I pause for a beat, thinking. “You… may be right”, I sigh tiredly. I knew I’d already lost this battle. School taught children how to be functional adults. There was no way around it. I pass the cig back to her, turning my head to exhale my smoke. I caught a glimpse of a handmade Father’s Day card sitting on the TV mantle behind us. “I have plenty to do between the kids and the galleries. If nothing else, I’ve had a lot of time to grapple with what I was put on this earth to do, and honestly, I think I’m just meant to be a dad. That’s my job”, I confess. 

Her gaze softens as she presses the flat of her hand against my cheek. I already see the tears forming in her eyes. She’d been so tender-hearted since she became a mom. She could cry at the drop of a hat—as the Americans say. I was the same way now, too. It left us both so surprised by how children could deepen our capacity to love one another. 

She leans over to kiss me on the cheek. “You really are the best daddy.” She begins to trail a line of kisses from my cheek all the way to my mouth. 

“ And you take really, really, really good care of your wife”, she mutters against my skin. 

I expect her to turn away, but she deepens the kiss, settling the seam of her dress pants at my crotch. Soft nips at my bottom lip put my body on alert. As she pulls away slowly, she uses her left hand to pop the buttons on my shirt. Starting at the bottom, she unfastens each button while watching for my reaction. She takes a long drag of her cigarette with her slender manicured nails, making no move to deter the smoke from my face as she reaches the last button at the top. 

“ I should take good care of you too, huh?” she asks innocently. Her tone isn’t doing much to hide the intentions of her face. I can feel arousal begin to course through my body.  There were a lot of things I loved about my wife. Her resilience, her empathy, her motherhood, her power, her weaknesses. But at the top of the list was her unwillingness to pull her punches. It’s no surprise I like it when she makes it hurt. 

I’m staring too long and too hard. She tilts her head patiently. She was clearly waiting on an answer. “ Yes”, I mutter quietly. I’m perfectly still. I don’t want any sudden movement to ruin the momentum of this moment. 

For as sturdy and stoic as most onlookers took Terry Richmond to be due to the constant resting neutrality to his face, hardened physique by way of years training in the physical disciplines of the martial arts and US Marine corp, his somewhat reserved speech, and that overall demeanor that screamed 'I'm not for the fuck shit'.

There was always one group of beings who still have never deterred from dwelling in his presence. Those beings are children.

For whatever reason ever since his adolescence, young children had always had an unexplainable draw to Terry. And maybe it had been the eldest sibling energy he exuded or how somewhat mature he’d seemed from an early time in his life due to unfortunate traumas occurring before he was old enough to properly process them, leaving him no choice but to both accelerate parts of his growth and unknowingly stunt some of it as well. At points robbing himself of parts of his childhood. Blind.

But it was also part of the reason why it was so easy for him to attain his high school community service hours through tutoring younger students in math and science based subjects, and also why he had the prowess to continually lead himself and his underclassmen teammates to numerous victories on the court.

It was just unexplainably easy for him to get along with these beings. And why wouldn't it be. Children were honest, humorous, and most of all pure within intentions. All things Terry found himself striving to constantly be everyday.

And while children seemed to adore Terry to moon and beyond the stars, as quiet as it was kept, he too secretly adored them back. Never minding the company of a young soul to be a companion to his elder one.

Something that proved to still ring true on a random cool Sunday afternoon almost two years ago, as he was kneeled on the ground tending to the still growing patch of ivory tullips in the front yard of his new inherited home.

He'd been outside for quite some time working at pulling the aggravating weeds and sneaking dandelions away from his uncle's legacy when he felt the presence appear behind him.

Face already preparing to fix with a scowl at who could be interrupting this sacred time, he found his features immediately softening at the sight of the little tawny girl in front of him with her lavender glasses and barrette sealed pigtails hanging past her ear, perched on her little purple bike as she stared at him in curiosity.

He'd recognized her as Laila, the daughter of his down the way neighbor Deja McAdams, a widowed single mother and Liberian for one of the local middle schools. She’d also been classmates with Dallas in high school.

" Well hello there. " He offered a somber smile, taking a moment to reach over and wipe his hands of the dirt on them.

" Hi." She chirped.

Looking around at the slightly sparse sidewalks, he attempted to locate a sign of her mother or one of her elder brothers he could recall seeing a few times before turning back to her, " Say young lady. Where are your people? It's not good to be wandering around by yourself. Not safe."

" I wasn't by myself." She replied, pointing further down the street, " I was riding bikes with my brothers. But they left me cause' I couldn't keep up on a count I can't use my pedals."

Frowning and taking another look at the bike, he asked, " Why aren't you using your pedals? You know how to ride it, right?”

The young girl nodded before explaining, " Yes. Pedals don't work."

" I see." Terry hummed, slowly standing up to his full height and almost laughing when seen the expression of wonder appear on her little face, " You mind if I take a look at it?”

This earned him another nod as she carefully allowed him to turn the bike over and inspect it until he found the problem of her cracked bottom bracket as the culprit.

With a purposely dramatic deep sigh as he stood up, he watched the anticipation rise on her face, " Well?”

" Well. I think I might be able to fix this for you." He started, already piecing together what tools he needed grab from his kit for the job, " But only on two conditions."

" What? " She scrunched up, ready to hear his price.

" One, if I fix this you have to promise me that you won't be wandering alone again without your brothers or mama watching you, alright? If they leave you again, go home and tell your mama." He instructed and watched her nod.

" And two, you have to promise me that the next time you stop here for a visit, you won't ride your bike on Mr. Terry's freshly cut grass, okay." He motioned to the small tire marks that had begun to form on the ground.

" Oh! " She offered a sheepish smile, " Sorry!"

" Hey. That's alright. No big deal...this time." He playfully raised an eyebrow ensuing small giggles from his little hopeful dealmaker, " But does that mean we have a deal?"

"Mmmm..." The first grader paused to mimic a moment of thought like she'd seen in the movies she watched, before sticking out her hand, " Deal."

" Okay." He laughed, making sure to gently shake hers back, " Got our selves a deal then. Now show me where your mama is so I can explain to her what I'm about to do to your bike." He instructed, picking up the bike and following a chattering Laila all the way to her home.

From there visits from young Laila became frequent, whether to inquire about Mr. Terry fixing and upgrading something on her bike, using him as a willing audience for all of her pageant practice while he diligently carried on his yardwork, and eventually to sometimes say hello to the pretty funeral lady that sat with him somedays on his porch and offered sweet snacks.

It wasn't long before the other neighborhood children would hear from the jabbering princess all about Laila’s newly minted Uncle Terry, the Mr. Incredible like man who supplied big boy strength, laughter, and occasional baked goods he sourced from Dallas.

Soon they all found themselves gravitating to the house with the pretty white flowers by its mailbox. With Terry welcoming each and every one just the same until it fully evolved into Terry stepping into his role as everybody’s neighborhood uncle for the last year and some change.

To which he accepted, providing as much love, tender, discipline, and guidance as he could possibly give them. 

And just like that Terry found his porch quickly becoming a safe space for any and every child who stepped foot into the space that Terry had once worked tirelessly to restore alongside some of his colleagues when he decided to move in and refurbish the home his uncle had left him.

And whether haircuts were being given to a little head sitting on the stoop in the evening, helping with homework after school on the steps, refereeing street football games in front of the house, young voices gathering to debate who could take who across a multiverse of Anime shows, and even holding a small ted talk one evening to show some of the young boys how to brush their hair and tie a durag by the southern standard. Terry thoroughly enjoyed having little laughs, curious questions, and cheer around his house that helped him on those days when he felt the memories stuck in the walls and floorboards would consume him.

But it didn’t stop there, since the early summer had started Terry had attended…

Four spelling bees. 

Eleven basketball and soccer games combined. 

Two track meets.

Two school graduations. 

One state science fair. 

And even a Little Miss Peach Blossom pageant to watch little Laila participate. 

With Dallas accompanying him to witness the 6’3 ex-marine quietly cheer and whop with a large glittering sign in hand, amongst the sea of mainly older middle age women, with almost the same ferocity he would at a Hawk’s game. 

Though, she also unfortunately got to witness the display he’d later put on for her on the way home after Laila had taken home second place with a smile and a courteous polite wave just the way they’d practiced on his porch many times before, much to Terry’s disgruntlement. 

“ That’s okay, baby girl. Chin up.” He had patted her on the back while carrying her tired form through the venue’s parking lot for her mother, “ You were the prettiest little peach up there. Proud of you.” He affirmed the sleepy princess, before buckling her in, seeing them off, and then proceeding to throw a fit to his girlfriend in his truck. 

 “ That little girl who won had uppers in her kitten heels, baby! I saw it! And her tutu wasn’t all that. Couldn’t even do the full four step duchess twirl in it the right way anyway.” Terry huffed, peeling out of the parking lot, “ It’s step, twirl, blow a kiss, then regal wave!” 

“ That little girl blew a kiss first, then stepped, waved, and twirled. It’s wrong! Her routine was sloppy and her mama helped her with her question portion. Mouthing shit to her.” Terry fumed, while Dallas did her best to suppress her laughter at her boyfriend’s surprising investment and growing miniature tantrum that rivaled that of some of the actual toddlers they’d seen that day.

“ I told Deja , I think we should outta’ dispute this whole thing.” He shook his head, “ I wanna know how high up this shit goes.”

And at that statement Dallas decided to finally intervene, “ Terry, it was a beauty pageant for 3 to 10 year old's in the conference center of a Marriott, babe. Where the grand prize winner got $200 and a meal at the Cheesecake Factory.” She reached over to place a calming hand on his thigh, “ It’s not that serious, even Deja said so.”

Still that wasn’t enough to settle him, “  Dallas I don’t give a damn.” He fussed, “ That money could go in her college fund and you know that baby deserves her twenty five dollar spaghetti and piece of cold ass cheesecake.”

“ But that’s okay.” He nodded, tapping his steering wheel like Denzel in Training Day, “ We’ll be back for that crown. Believe that.” 

And with all that combined, it didn’t come as a surprise to Dallas when loud knocks began on the pecan colored door while she brushed her teeth. Hurriedly she went and swung it open to find ten young kids, big and small alike, rallied on her boyfriend’s porch at 10:30 on a Saturday morning, eager to collect their favorite person.

“ Well Good Mornin’ everyone.” Dallas chirped, adjusting the white silk bonnet higher on her forehead, “ How are all of you today?” 

A chorus of “ Morning Miss Dubois”, mixed with a couple “ Hi Miss Funeral Lady” and follow up responses of collective a “ Good” came from every which way, sending her into a fit of giggles at the adorable group of children in front of her. 

“ That’s awesome, you guys. Well what can I do for you brood of little mighty people this morning?” A promise ringed hand finding a home on her hip. " And unfortunately before anyone asks, I don't quite have any treats today. Sorry, maybe next weekend."

The comment sending a wave of temporary pouts and mumbles of disapproval through the crowd until a voice rose above to bring them back to a focus.

“ We’re looking for Uncle Terry, ma’am.” One of the eldest, Morty, stepped forward, “ He’s supposed to be taking all of us in his truck to the basketball court this mornin’ for practice.” 

“ We were also promised snacks!” Another voice in the back added among the mutters of agreeance as Dallas could recall large assorted Powerade packs and chip boxes on the backseat floor of his truck.

“ Oh I see.” She nodded, glancing at each individual little face, that all held the same excitement, “ Well, he’s just getting up right now. He got home a little later than usual from work last night and was tired, so he slept in a little bit. But let me go grab him real quick so he can give y’all your rundown for the day. Stay right here.”

She had coached them, before walking toward the back end of the house to go and awaken her lightly snoring boyfriend. 

“ Bubs.” She lightly shook his shoulder, leaning down to place a kiss to his sleep line marked face.

Damn he was sleeping good. 

“ Bubba.” Her shakes increased in force, “ Baby you gotta' get up.” Still her attempts were met with minimal noise or movement, meaning she had to up the ante.

Deciding to begin nipping at what skin the large forest green blanket didn’t cover, she had just made it to his neck when he decided to roll onto his back, instincts having him reach out and wrap his arms around the young mortician to guide her on his chest to hold her close.

“ Mmm.” He hummed, “ Baby I love you. But I need five more minutes before I’m cognizant enough to rock your world, girl.”

“ Oh my—” She huffed, taking in his smug sleepy smile, “ I didn’t wake you up for that, sir.” 

Her fingers began to lightly play with the gold chain that sat idly on his bare chest, “ I woke you up because there are about ten kids on your front porch, all dressed up in their little basketball gear, asking for you.”

At this information, internally Terry groaned from fatigue, but on the outside his soft smile grew a couple more inches wide at the thought of his little group of miniature humans looking for him.

“ What time is it? “ The question escaping with a yawn. 

“ A quarter to eleven.”

“ Damn.” He sighed, reaching for his phone to confirm her statement. A picture of Dallas smiling big on a playground swing appeared behind the correct white numbers on the screen, “ You let me sleep this late?” 

“ You were tired.” She reasoned, pushing her face into the crook of his neck inhaling in his natural musk, “ You did almost ten hours in the hot ass Georgia sun on that site yesterday. You needed the rest.” 

“ Mmm.” He hummed, running his hands up and down the grooves of her back, “ Still am.”

“ I know, Bubs. But—”

B A N G  B A N G  B A N G! 

The loud and erratic pounds against the door were soon accompanied by distant loud but small voices beginning to fill with impatience.

“ C’mon you gotta' get up. They’re getting antsy cause I told them you were already up, so you gotta' hustle. Your disciples await you.” She teased, leaning up, amused at the frown on his face,“ What?!” 

“ Don’t say it like that, baby. Like I’m forming a cult of the neighborhood youth.” 

“ No, maybe not that.” Dallas got up to her feet, moving around to collect her things, “ But they do worship the ground you walk on. You know that. “ 

“ And for why. I don’t know. I’m just regular ole’ me.” He shrugged clambering to his feet to stretch out his long and tired limbs. “ Nothing special.”

Reaching on the floor for his wife beater he’d discarded from himself at some point in the night from overheating, he casually walked by a bent over Dallas, administering a firm tap to her backside as he exited the room as his form of a proper “Good Morning.” 

Trudging through the hall to the front door, he took a deep breath before swinging it open and being met with the instant chaos that ensued when too many overly hyper voices began to speak all at once about a hundred different things. 

“ Aye’ whoa whoa whoa.” He held up both hands, “ Wait a minute now.’ Y’all are too amped up and some people around here are still trying to enjoy sleeping in. So let’s be mindful of that.” His laugh came out in a deeper register as the remnants of sleep still lingered in his voice.

“ Everybody take a deep breath, one.” He instructed, watching as each kid took in a deep breath to hold for thirty seconds, “ Then let’s exhale, two.” 

“ Repeat, one more time. And inhale, one.” 

“ And exhale, two.” He said, watching the now settled down bunch carefully.

“ Okay. Now. Good Mornin’ y’all. Y’all sleep good? Ready to put some work in on the court?” 

“ Yeah! “ They answered in unison, with Jamison Kimber being the one to point out,“ Told us you’d be ready at eleven. It’s…Eric what time it is?” 

He asked his peer who carried the digital Pokémon watch on his wrist, “ It’s 11:14.” Eric informed, pushing up his matching classes on his nose. 

“ Yeah. Which means you’re late.” Jamison pointed out, ensuing a string of after comments that made Terry grin with how goofy and entertaining they were at attempting to be disgruntled.

“ I know. My fault. My fault. My fault. Add some push ups on for my lateness once we hit the court.” He said, sticking to his own rule he’d previously set for them. 

“ I woke up late. And I still need some time to get ready. So while I’m doing that, why don’t y’all step in the front yard and start some stretches and warm ups for 45. Then I’ll be ready to roll, alright.” 

Looking toward the only girl in the brigade, whose game was better than most of her male peers surrounding her, Terry pointed in her direction.“ Goose is gonna be the caller and timer.” 

“ So listen to her, alright. Because if I come back out and Goose tells me someone gave her a hard time we’ll have to cancel and try this again next week.”

“ Can everyone dig that?” He called out.

“ WITH A SHOVEL! ” They all gleefully responded. 

 Terry flashed all 32 of his teeth at the brood of children who quickly threw down their bags before racing to form a line in the front yard and begin their light stretches as told. 

Dallas watched him shut the loud screen door behind him and he stop in his tracks when he spotted her standing there looking at him with a wide dopey smile on her face. 

Eyebrows raised with a nervous smile, he questioned her appearance, “ What?” 

“ Nothing.” She grinned, shaking her head and throwing up her hands in playful defense, “ Just admiring how good Uncle Terry is with the neighborhood kids. They really do adore you, babe.” She walked over, wrapping her arms around her his waist and leaning up for a sweet peck to his cheek that he happily reciprocated with about four more of his own. 

“ I adore them too. Most days.” He added, “ When they’re not being mouthy, fighting each other, or all smelling like a fresh onion patch. They aight’.”  

“ It’s a couple of them though, whose parents I’ve been meaning to ask for permission to have a conversation about hygiene with their kids. Because with the hotter it keeps outside…Ouueeee.”  Terry goofed, shaking his head. “ Cannot have my truck smelling like a damn farm all summer.” 

“ Well I’m sure they’d be okay with it. It takes a village, babe.” Dallas said resting her head against his chest just as Terry’s eyes caught where all her bags sat packed and ready to go.

“ You leaving? “ His pout instantaneous, not bothering to hide the natural little hint of disappointment in his voice at the prospect of his favorite girl leaving him. 

Because if he had his way, she would never go. A thought that reminded him that he soon needed to reignite an important shelved conversation between the two of them.

“ Yeah.” She sighed, “ I’m gonna go a head’ and mosey on home. Need to get started on my list for the day.”

“ Gotta' feed Grimmey and then get started on some paperwork in my home office for the Grangier case before I head into the hospital later to assist on an autopsy.” 

“ Oh? That sounds interesting. What, no bodies for you at the home today?” His hand, unconsciously softly kneading parts of her backside.  

She shook her head pulling away from his embrace, “ Nope, we got two new ones yesterday but Macy is gonna embalm them this morning. She should actually already be done with the first one by now and starting on the second, which is why I offered to be an assistant at the hospital. For the hours.” 

“ Right. And how long will that take?” 

“Uh…for a whole procedure…It’s about four hours give or take. It’s a family requested one so we might run a bit over. But we’re starting at two. So I should be done and home showering by seven thirty.” She zipped the top of her Vera Bradley duffel closed. “Why? You need something?” 

“ Nothing too crazy.” He shrugged, “ Was just hoping you’d be open to spending the night again. Mainly so I can return the favor from last night.” 

With the favor being that after hearing how agitated and tired he was in the middle of a rather grueling work day on site managing a new build that wasn’t quite coming along right through a brief phone call exchanged on her lunch, Dallas had shown up extra early to his house before he got home with a refreshed  ‘spend a night bag’ from her previous visit. 

And supplies purchased from the local grocer, which included food that turned into a meal that delighted Terry’s senses the second he dragged his poor aching body through the front door. 

As well as herbs and bubble bath that she mixed together with some epsom salt he already had lying around. So that after she fed him his nice home cooked meal of Mississippi pot roast, through much sleepy negotiations with the testy bear she had managed to coax him into a bath for him to marinate in her mixture while she washed the day off his body.

Then to seal the deal she had guided him to the bed and moisturized him down while searching for and massaging any sore muscles or strained ligaments. And finally, after that it wasn’t much else to do but to clothe the sleepy giant and lay him down for a well deserved rest. 

“ Bubba, you don’t have to do all that just because I did.” Dallas reminded him, “ I didn’t do all that cause I was expecting anything in return, I did it because I love you.” She affirmed, unknowingly sending waves of warm bubbly feelings shooting through his chest when the three letter phrase he could never get tired of her saying met his ears. 

“ I know that, baby.” He smirked, taking in the absolute blessing he found his girlfriend to be, “ But that still won’t sway me away from doing the same for you. You deserve it.”

And deserve it she did. Because for as hard as Terry felt he worked to keep his family’s business running smoothly, he believed that he watched Dallas work almost ten times as hard with her being a young black female owner of a generational critically acclaimed and highly lucrative mortuary business that has three locations spanning between two states. All whilst also keeping her autopsy assistant certification active at the hospital and constantly traveling to attend a plethora of different black business expos and other conferences who sought her attendance.

But what always seemed to amaze him the most was that with everything she constantly handled on a day to day basis, it was somehow like she never missed a beat in her personal life. Always managing to be a stable presence in the lives of her loved ones, including Terry’s. Which constantly made him proud at how effortlessly she kept it all together in her Manolo Blahnik heels that no other person in existence could ever dare imagine to try and fill.

My Mrs. Incredible. He thought.

“ Terry…if I come over that’ll make three nights in a row.” She pointed out, “ I dunnoooo.” She dragged, collecting her bags. 

Immediately his previous smile downturned into a slight scowl at her hesitation, “ And…” 

“ And…people talk, Terry.” Dallas sighed, “ It’s already not a good look that I stay here overnight anyway and vice versa when you’re at my place.” 

“ I just don’t want anyone thinking we’re getting ready to shack up with one another is all.” She confessed, nervously swaying where she stood. 

“ And by shack up, you mean us, together.” He motioned between you two, “ Happy and learning how to get comfortable sharing space a with each other for the next forever.”

His comment triggered an eyeroll, “ Terry. You know how I feel about us living together before we’re married, babe. I just don’t feel comfortable with that.” 

“ Oh?” His eyebrows raised toward the ceiling as he said, “ Well say less. Cause we can go right up to city hall first thing Monday morning. Don’t take nothin’ to obtain some paperwork.”

“ Terry!” She chided.

“ Boo! “ He fired back. “ C’mon now. I need you to remember that the only reason you’re not walking around her with a new ring on your finger is because YOU wanted to wait. And I’m doing my best to respect that. But you know had it been up to me, we would've been biblically bound to each other a year ago.”

Still she shook her head and folded her arms across her chest, “ No, that’s not just it. And you know it’s not just me, Terrance. Because you and I both know one of the main reasons is that you and I both know I deserve a better proposal than what you offered me that night out of fear and adrenaline fueled guilt.”

“ Each of us deserves that much at this point.” She concluded.

With her point being one that the two of them could easily agree on. With parts of Terry still regretting his feverish and rash attempt at a proposal on the night of their reconciliation almost two and a half years ago.

Though, it was in the past now, and all Terry could do now was move along with his new plans of the proposal of her dreams, just the way they deserved.

But until then, he’d focused on getting to the bottom of her real reasoning for not wanting to combine households. Because he’d had enough practice at this point to spot a pretty little pageant answer when it was presented to him, and he just knew in his gut that there was something Dallas wasn’t providing.

“ I know, Precious. And I hear you.” He affirmed her with a smile before returning to the original topic at hand, “ But, baby . What is it really though? Huh? Because it can’t be the premarital sex part.” He mused, mind beginning conjure up theories.

“ Because if that’s the case, then I hate to tell you, baby. But we’re way past that point. As evidenced by the way you let me bend you over my bathroom sink the night before last and slow stroke you in the mirror after WE got out of the shower together.”

“ Terrance.” She gasped, going to lightly slap his chest, “ There are children out—

“ Bonnet on and all as I remember.” His laughter cut her off, catching her hand and kissing it before pulling her into him once more. 

“ Terry.” She whined, “ You need to stop playin’ and go get ready before they all appear at the door again. But this time with intent to jump you for wasting time. Those tiny fists will hurt too.”

“ And you need to stop avoiding this conversation.” He quipped, offering her a sincere look and silently hoping to convey just how serious he took the matter.

“ Plus they’ll be alright. Even if that happens you can mend me up tonight after dinner while we have a discussion about your real qualms about our respective living situations possibly becoming one.” He followed up. 

“ Boy! There is no other damn qualm—mmm.” The words passing her lips were cut short when he dipped his head to attach his there instead. Opting for a steamy and silencing smooch.

“ Sweet lips. Taste so good.” He pulled back, “ I’ll get another taste when you get here at 7:30, Precious, alright?” 

When she didn’t say anything and instead continued to glare up at him angrily pouting, his hand made its way to her ass, giving her a timid smack of encouragement, “ Dallas...” He softly sang, head dipping to now place a kiss to her cheek while muttering, “ You know wanna lay in my arms tonight. Nowhere else you’d wanna be, girl.”

Oh, on the contrary.

She could have easily thought of a thousand and one other places she could think of being tonight rather than humid and hot ass Georgia. Yet it was true, she still couldn’t imagine any of these places feeling as good or being more appealing than the warm embrace of her Bubba.

Which is why her mouth found itself surrendering and releasing the words for her agreement just the way he’d wanted.

“ Good.” The smug smile sat on his face, the polar opposite of Dallas’s begrudged frown, “ I look forward to you coming home to me.”

His words doing well to somewhat chip at her attempts of putting up a shallow, almost dry wall, between them in this matter.

“ On second thought give me another kiss goodbye before I watch your fine ass walk out this door to hold me over while I haul these damn kids around all day.” He groaned.