Blaidd
I scratched my head and adjusted the laptop screen. She seemed excited about returning to work this morning. Wasn’t Lielit supposed to be happy?
Are they happy or sad? I asked Fenrir.
How did we survive for thirty-seven years?
How is this normal? Crying, laughing, hugging, jumping—and then crying again. Don’t pretend you understood humans all those years.
The woman let out a high-pitched scream when Lielit took off her blazer. Anji bent over and screamed at my children.
Never mind, I said, shutting the laptop.
I’d never understand these people. My tolerance only extended to Lielit, and somehow that was okay. I could do this whole daddy thing.
You want our mate to call you Daddy? Fenrir snickered.
I preferred you before she neutered you.
He laughed louder.
I blanked him and went to brew my coffee. When I opened the fridge, I sighed and began turning all the bottles and cartons around.
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She let out a belch that gurgled. It was the most disgusting sound I’d ever heard.
“Ahh. That was so damn good,” she said, rubbing her belly. “Hm. I don’t know if it might make me gassy tonight. Maybe you should sleep in the spare bedroom.”
“Perhaps you should have dinner at your parents’ house tomorrow,” I said tightly.
“And a sleepover?” she hummed. “I mean, the gas might last for days with all those beans.”
“Sure.”
“Are you sure you said we had to have every meal together?”
One night away was acceptable. It wasn’t a Friday night. How could any woman weaponise biological warfare against me like this?
“One night is acceptable,” I gritted out, glancing up from my plate.
I threw my napkin onto my plate when she started picking food from between her teeth. I knew she was doing it on purpose, and one day I’d return the favour—if I could stomach it.
She stretched her arms out and yawned.
She is a flawless mate, Fenrir said like a sap as we both stared at her belly. At least the guard behaved.
He had no choice with the camera trained on him, I replied, my gaze drifting to the twisted knot resting above her belly.
The dark charcoal dress hugged her curves, and the deep V neckline showcased her perfect mounds. I still remembered the shape and feel of those nipples in my mouth.
She stood, and the material of her dress fell perfectly around her small bump. Her behaviour at dinner made it clear she wasn’t happy about coming home at seven p.m. She could work every day if she wanted, but she would not neglect her body’s need for nourishment—or deny herself rest.
“Once my parents no longer want to kill you, you’ll need to come for dinner one night too,” she said casually, plucking her blazer from the back of her chair.
“Why?” I asked, tracking her as she walked toward the doorway.
“That’s what normal people do.”
I missed the island already.
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I scrubbed the sink, taps, and faucet clean before brushing my teeth.
You owe me for not choking her out.
I wouldn’t let you. You’d cut off air to our children, you fool.
I can dream about it, can’t I?
I spat into the sink, aiming for the drain. Why couldn’t she behave herself?
You’d be bored to death with anyone else.
Yet I’m still not getting laid. I’m suffering through a relationship with no benefits.
I rinsed my toothbrush and placed it back in the holder.
When I returned to the bedroom, her lamp was off, and she lay curled on the bed, asleep. I was within firing range, since she faced the edge of the mattress.
Do you remember all the nasty things you did to her during the heat? Fenrir reminded me as I paused, mid-motion, lifting the covers.
Yes, very disconcerting, I said, sliding into bed.
With my lamp switched off, I listened to her steady heartbeat for a few minutes before inching closer to her scent. It was pointless to dwell on the rut—it only left me with a hard-on and nowhere to bury my knot.
I didn’t fall asleep until my hand was splayed protectively over my children.
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With Lielit guarded and staying with her parents for the night, I kept my appointment at 10 Downing Street.
Security ushered me through with practiced efficiency and into the White Room.
It wasn’t as impressive as I’d imagined.
The walls were dressed in pale plasterwork edged with tired gold leaf, the cornices heavy with age and money.
Old oil paintings stared down from their gilt frames—statesmen, monarchs, wars won and lost—faces preserved long after consequence had faded.
The ceiling was the most deliberate feature: roses, thistles, daffodils, and shamrocks woven into the moulding.
England. Scotland. Wales. Ireland. Unity cast in plaster, cracks carefully painted over.
This was where visiting heads of state were received. Where smiles were rehearsed and photographs staged.
A message, then.
Posturing.
The prime minister was ready to dance.
The large folding doors slid shut behind me as David entered, the soft click sealing us in. His expression hardened the moment he noticed where I was sitting.
His chair.
Right beside the fireplace.
His jaw tightened, feathers ruffled beneath the polish.
“Mr Prothero,” he said, stretching his mouth into a tight approximation of a smile as he extended his hand.
I leaned forward and shook it without standing.
“I’ll cut to the chase, David,” I said calmly. “The documents I have won’t just cost you your position—they’ll trigger a full investigation.”
I handed him my phone.
He took it and sank into the chair reserved for dignitaries during photo calls, his movements slower now, cautious. The screen glowed against the white of the room.
“Keep swiping,” I drawled.
I watched the colour drain from his face.
His swallow was sharp. His breathing shallow. He looked as though he might vomit.
“And if you’re not concerned about your career,” I continued mildly, “perhaps you’ll be more invested in your wife. Or your children.”
His eyes flicked up, pure hostility burning through the veneer.
“It would be unfortunate for them to suffer,” I added. “Private schools can be so… unforgiving. Children are cruel. I can almost hear the whispers already.”
His grip tightened on my phone.
“Such a shame,” I went on, unhurried, “if your wife of sixteen years decided divorce was the only reasonable response.”
I fell silent.
He kept scrolling.
I smoothed my tie, allowing him all the time he needed.
The meeting wouldn’t last long.
He was visibly shaken when he handed my phone back. I took it from his trembling fingers.
“You were once a human rights lawyer,” I murmured, slipping the phone into the inner pocket of my suit jacket.
The audacity of these people was astonishing.
“International and criminal law,” I added softly.
He covered his eyes with one hand. I doubted there was any real remorse behind the gesture.
“What do you want?” he whispered, pitiful at last as his hand fell away.
His shoulders sagged. A fine sheen of sweat gathered along his hairline.
“You currently hold eleven contracts for the national digital ID programme,” I said evenly. “One of those will be terminated to make room for my company.”
He opened his mouth to protest.
I shut him down without raising my voice.
“You’ll find Liam Brannigan firmly on your side,” I said, rising to my feet.
When I turned toward the door, the image of a broken man lingered behind me—folded inward, diminished by the weight of his own compromises.
“I hear you’ve found someone who can tolerate you, Mr Prothero,” he said suddenly.
I didn’t dignify it with a response.
The message was clear.
I had a weakness.
A pressure point of my own.
Fenrir’s low growl followed me all the way to the car.