“What was that?” I asked, turning back to her.
“I said, I don’t have any clean clothes.” Her shirt from before was pinned between her collarbones and the edge of the table and she leaned forward on her elbows. She let her hands drift idly through the air, her limbs swaying back and forth, as the last layer of salve sank in. “I only brought a couple of outfits. I didn’t have room for more.”
Her bag was still on the kitchen floor, and it was open. It was a good size. She should have been able to bring much more.
I went to it, using my tail to pull at the opening. The bag was full of items, and many of them were types of clothing.
But not hers.
Tiny little outfits in shades of blue and pink and white took up a good portion of space in the bag. Socks so small I doubted they would fit upon my thumb. Hats that were likewise as miniature.
Baby things.
I felt suddenly bruised, marked by a tender sort of agony, when I thought of Jolene packing so little for herself. Meanwhile, she had devoted so much thought and space to what her child would need. My own mother had died when I was very young. I had no memory of her, and neither my father nor Meryn spoke of her much.
I looked at Jolene’s bag, the sole thing she had brought with her into her future, stuffed with things for somebody else, and I could not say if my mother would have done the same.
I’d have to make her some clothing. For now, we’d launder the things she had. But what would she wear in the meantime?
I imagined Jolene wandering naked through my house all day long while her things dried on the clothesline, and my loins heated mercilessly.
“Stay here,” I grumbled, turning from her and heading to the bedroom. I did have at least one thing that she could borrow. My best, cleanest shirt.
My wedding shirt.
I had not stayed for Fallon’s wedding, but I’d seen him that day at the warden’s station. I’d watched him greet his bride wearing his human-style suit, with its crisp, white, buttoned shirt.
I’d made one just like it for myself the very next day. Not that I would ever admit such a thing to anyone. Because Fallon was a moron.
But at the very least, Fallon had a human bride who accepted him. And I had to admit that it was because of him that I now had a clean garment to offer my own bride.
I pulled the shirt from its place in the bedroom closet and returned with it to the kitchen.
“Put this on for now.” I held the shirt out to Jolene.
“Oh. That’s fancy. Looks like something a politician would wear,” she said, taking the shirt.
Why human politicians would dress as if for a wedding, I had no idea. I returned to the bedroom again, bundling the bedding up into my arms along with a natural, homemade detergent and carrying it all outside to the tub. Unceremoniously, I dumped the bedding in and added the detergent, then I crouched by the side of the tub and took out all of my sexually frustrated energy on vigorously squeezing and scrubbing the bedding.
“I’ve known a lot of cowboys,” came Jolene’s voice from the doorway into the house, “and some doctors, too. And I can honestly say that I’ve never seen anybody work the way you do.”
I glanced up to find her in my shirt and her boots, the rest of her clothing held in a big pile in front of her, presumably to add to the tub once the bedding was done.
“What do you mean?” I asked her, not stopping my hands. Between the detergent and the agitation of my movements, the tub’s water had turned to a rapidly swirling white froth.
“You work like… Like you’re running out of time.” She stepped out of the house and came down to where I was. “You work like you think you’ll die if you don’t. You work like you’re angry. At everything.”
My fingers clenched around the bedding so hard I felt a claw slice clean through the quilt.
She was right. Had it become so obvious? Distance from Zabria, from the tempering influence of my sister, was fraying my control.
A good Zabrian male was a master of himself – always. Master of his desires. Of his temper. Of his eyes. As the water slowed, I saw the untamed white glow of my own gaze reflected tauntingly back at me.
I’d never been like Meryn or my father. I’d never been capable of their cool reserve, their inner core of calm so revered inside the empire. I’d been able to pretend well enough. I’d learned to keep the hot writhe of unacceptable emotions locked away, channelling the fusion of that inner fire into my medical studies. Pursuing something as demanding as a degree at the Medical Academy of Zabria before reaching the age of fifteen cycles had given me an opportunity to strictly focus myself with ruthless discipline. I let the relentless drive of my seething, unseemly desires achieve something productive. And for a time, it had worked. Better than I ever could have imagined.
But then there had been Xander. And Meryn’s pregnancy. And every piece of carefully cultivated control went exploding outwards with such force that it left a full-grown man bleeding out between my boots.
I’d watched him bleed, knowing that I’d done it, knowing that I’d had the skills to save him.
