Epilogue
Although they’d made plans all winter long to deconstruct Balar’s cabin and use the timber to add onto Imogen’s cottage, when spring came, plans had to be delayed for a fortnight.
She didn’t mind; there were goat kids to care for and seeds to plant in the garden.
What Imogen did mind was the moody way all the manticores wandered around the meadow, looking faintly miserable.
Usually Soren was the only one with the thundercloud brow, but over early spring, they all managed to seem more wretched day after day.
Even bouncy Kiri and teasing Akila became unhappy souls, scratching and moaning as they shlepped around the property.
She’d noticed Akila missing a feather some weeks ago and had asked over it. Strangely, he’d tucked his wings tight to his back and scampered away. Imogen had thought to ask Balar about it, but then they’d all begun to act strangely.
Balar was affected, too; although they lived together and shared a bed, somehow Imogen saw little of him.
It was when he came out of their bedchamber one morning, covered in his big blanket and looking more sullen than a child denied a sweet, that Imogen had finally had enough.
Pointing a finger at him so that he knew he couldn’t slink away, she demanded, “Will you tell me what’s the matter? Take that blanket off and have breakfast.”
“No,” he pouted. “I’m not hungry.”
Imogen rolled her eyes. “You’re always hungry. Sit.” She even pulled a kitchen chair out to underscore her point.
He huffed and puffed and looked like he wanted to argue, but when he saw the way she planted her fists on her hips, he sighed with the drama of a troubadour and sat. The blanket remained over his head and about his shoulders.
“What’s wrong?” she asked more gently, tugging at the blanket. “You’ve all been acting so strangely.”
Balar grumbled. “It’s…pa-ket mus.”
“Pa-ket mus,” she repeated. “And what is that?” She’d been doing her best to learn their mantii language but hadn’t heard that phrase before. It definitely wasn’t when is supper or it’s my turn in the sun; she already knew those.
Another grumble and sigh. “It means the molt is upon us.” He said molt like it was a curse.
“I see. So you’re shedding like Shadow does?”
As if on cue, her dog scratched at his ear with a back foot, tongue lolling as he hit a good spot.
Balar scoffed in offense. “Worse. Far worse. Our fur sheds and our wings loose old feathers. Usually it happens further apart, but this cursed cold weather has made both come at once.”
Imogen bit her lips together to keep from laughing. He looked downright despondent, sulking in his seat.
No wonder they were all miserable if they were shedding fur and feathers all at once. The ducks were always cranky when they molted, and Chestnut could get positively murderous if a goat tried to encroach on her scratching post during shedding season.
Laying her hand gently on his blanketed head, she asked, “Is it painful?”
“No,” he grumbled, “not truly. But it’s the height of discomfort.”
Making soothing noises in her throat, Imogen circled behind him to rummage through a cupboard. She kept a few old brushes to help the animals shed their winter coats. Finding one with shorter bristles and not too much of Shadow’s fur from last year stuck in it, Imogen again tugged at the blanket.
“Let me see what we’re dealing with.”
But he held the blanket tight. “No. I can’t be seen like this.”
“Balar, I’ve seen you naked enough times now.
This won’t shock me.” There had been plenty of days over winter, when they’d been holed up in the cabin alone together, that he went around naked.
She’d gotten quite used to seeing his taut, tawny backside, actually.
She found it charming, especially how his tail sat right above it and would swish behind him.
The tip of that tail, curled up on the floor, flicked moodily.
“It’s precisely that reason that you can’t see me now.”
“So I’m just not supposed to look at you until your mane comes back?”
“Yes!”
Imogen rolled her eyes. “That’s not happening. Come on, let me help. You’ll feel better.”
“It cannot be helped—I’m ugly.”
Her inhale was sharp and her patience gone. Taking hold of his big dumb face between her hands, she lifted it so he had to look at her when she said, “None of that. You could never be ugly.”
His green-gold eyes glittered. “Do you mean it, kigara?”
“Of course I do. You’re the handsomest man I know.”
“In the whole world?”
Imogen smiled. “In the whole world.”
Balar rumbled more agreeably. “I don’t mean to be silly, urisá, it’s just…a man’s pride is his mane and wings.”
“No, a man’s pride is how he cares for his people, and you’ve got much to be proud of.”
A reluctant purr buzzed in his chest, muted somewhat by the blanket. “You’re good to say that.”
“It’s the truth. Now, will you let me help you feel better?”
He hesitated another moment, but then he let the blanket slump away onto the chairback.
Honestly, from the way he was going on, she’d half-expected to find him bald.
Instead, his mane was thinner and patchy, yes, but it was still a mane.
It was around his shoulders that the largest tufts congregated, and she could pull these out easily with her fingers.
Rolling up her sleeves, Imogen got to work.
She set the chair back to give her room and laid old blankets along the floor to catch the shed hair and feathers.
Untying his loose linen kilt—his house kilt, he called it—he stood naked for her while she brushed out his legs, then sat as she did his arms and chest. It wasn’t long before his loud purr filled the cottage—as did his fur.
She was amazed by how much he lost but still had plenty left.
His mane took a little teasing, and she ended up cutting a few mats from behind his ears—after assuring him it wouldn’t look uneven. Imogen found a wide-toothed comb worked best for it, and after some careful grooming, he looked as fluffy and regal as ever.
His wings took more thought, and he showed her how to tell which feathers were ready to be plucked. She ended up using her fingers, carding them through his feathers to find which were loose. He sighed and moaned with relief as one after the other came away.
By the time she was finished, his coat was glossy, his wings were shiny, and his cock stood upright. Imogen had done her best to ignore it, not wanting to get distracted, but when the final feather was plucked, she circled round to his front and dropped to her knees between his legs.
His purr cut off in surprise, and he started to say something, but then her hand wrapped around his shaft.
“Imogen—” he choked.
“I promised I’d make you feel better,” she said.
He might’ve said more, but his growling purr cut off whatever it was.
Instead, his hand found its way into her hair as she bobbed her head up and down, taking what she could of him.
His thighs twitched as she swirled her tongue round the spade-shaped head, and his tail thumped heavily on the ground when she teased the slit.
Imogen moaned when his claws gently scraped her scalp, and she let him feel the vibrations of her throat. A hiss of pleasure slid between his teeth as his cock shuttled between her lips. His feline nose wrinkled, and his ears flattened against his skull as she worked him.
Even though she was the one on her knees, Imogen swelled with pride.
She knew from experience that she held the power here; more than just his cock in her hand, she held his heart, his happiness.
That she could bring a big, beautiful man like this to his own knees, leave him shaking with want, was a heady thing.
When her fingers trailed down his shaft to tease at his knot, Balar tightened his grip in her hair, pulling her back.
“Enough teasing, nitlam. Get on my cock and ride it.”
Rising to her feet, she undid her trou just before he slid them and her underthings down her thighs. He pushed a paw greedily between her legs, questing fingers sliding through her slick cunt.
“So warm for me already. You like sucking on my cock, Imogen?”
“I like making you feel good,” she said, trying to focus on stepping out of her trou even as his hand teased her.
“I’m the luckiest male alive,” he purred, big hands framing her hips as he helped her sling a leg across his lap.
Balancing with a grip on his shoulders, Imogen let him guide her down as he held himself by the base. She moaned when she felt the hot tip tease her, his cockhead pushing unerringly up inside her.
After a moment, his hand came away, allowing her to set the pace. He filled his paws instead with her backside, squeezing and kneading the generous cheeks.
Imogen lowered herself down down down, hardly breathing as he filled her to the brim. She didn’t stop until she felt the burn of his knot at her entrance; only then did she dare take a breath.
Balar purred eagerly, hands keeping her steady as she began to rock on his lap.
“That’s it, urisá. Make us feel good.”
Arms around his neck, Imogen dropped her head to his, capturing his big mouth. She felt his pleased purr against her lips, and when his tongue slid inside her mouth, she tried to roll her hips to keep time.
They’d tried this position before, and she enjoyed it immensely because she got to kiss him the whole time.
With their difference in height, that wasn’t always the case, and so she took full advantage.
He teased her tongue with his, goading her into a chase and capture; all the while, his hands slid up and down her thighs and backside, the trail of his claws an added sensation that sent her spiraling higher quicker.
It didn’t take long for Imogen to feel her body tightening up, ready for release. A needy little sound escaped her, and Balar rumbled in agreement. Hands spanning her waist and hips, he took hold of her and began to move her up and down.
All she could do was hold on, fingers buried in his mane, as he used her. His hips thrust up to meet every downstroke, a brutal rhythm that saw them both flying off the edge.
With her name on his lips, he thrust home, his knot popping inside. Imogen gasped and shuddered, the feeling of fullness overwhelming her in the best way. He filled her up, spend leaking between them as he pumped and ground.
The world reduced to golden bursts, and all Imogen could see, feel, and hear was him. Her heart somehow felt fuller than her clenching cunt; Balar did that. Every day, he filled her up with happiness. And often his cock, but always happiness, love, and affection.
Imogen didn’t know how she’d ever thought herself incapable or unworthy. Every day, he showed her in his actions how much he valued and enjoyed and loved her.
She wouldn’t trade him for anything—even an unmarked face.
Caught together in the afterglow, they sat shaking in each other’s arms. His knot remained engorged inside her, and she knew by now it’d be a while yet before they could comfortably part.
That was fine by her. She enjoyed these moments after lovemaking almost as much as the act itself.
It was when she felt closest to him; yes, he was buried deep inside her, physically connected by his knot, but there was more to it.
Their bodies pressed together like this, she could almost feel the tether between their hearts.
Balar had mentioned it before, the mate bond and how it tied them together.
Like this, she could imagine such a link between them, a line between her heart and his.
Balar’s pleased sigh ruffled her hair. “Thank you, urisá. I do feel better.”
“Of course. You make me feel beautiful every day.”
“That’s because you are beautiful.” With a knuckle, he lifted her chin to look her over. “Hmm, perhaps you aren’t believing me today? That means I must prove it.”
“No, I—eep!”
With a booming laugh, Balar caught her in his arms and stood. Still connected by his knot, Imogen could do nothing but hold on tight as he walked them back into their bedchamber. While his cabin hadn’t been moved yet, his big bed had, taking up most of the room.
Laying them down on all the fine, luxurious bedding, Balar grinned mischievously at her. It seemed her plan had worked a little too well.
“How shall I show you how beautiful you are, kigara? Kisses all over your body? My tongue in your cunt? I, your gracious and devoted mate, will let you choose.”
After seeing what Imogen had done for Balar, and watching him strut around the meadow preening all afternoon, the brothers returned the next day with brand new brushes and pleading eyes. And so, Imogen found herself grooming four more manticores.
As she diligently brushed and plucked, the brothers plotted the platform they wanted to build for better sun naps.
There was talk of expanding the clearing in the tree canopy more, and Imogen swore astronomers in Gleanná had tracked stars less than the brothers tracked and measured and considered the sunbeams in the meadow.
The grass was soon carpeted with tawny fur.
Dozens of birds and other animals darted by to pick up tufts for their nests and dens, yet they were still left with a considerable pile.
Imogen joked that they could make pillows to sell from the fur and feathers, which seemed to mildly horrify the brothers, but just made her laugh.
It took all day, and Imogen’s hands were aching and useless by the end of it, but it was worth it to see how they all smiled with relief, their fur and wings practically glowing. She received kisses on her cheek and heaps of praise, and no one let her lift a finger the rest of the day.
Being fawned over by a pride of manticores wasn’t for the faint of heart, but Imogen managed. They were rowdy, loud, and always in the way, but they were family. She’d come to learn what it was to be part of a pride, and she cherished knowing it was right where she belonged.