33. Chapter Thirty-Three

Cally

One month later…

Over this last month, I’ve learned a lot about myself.

There were times in my life when I had growth spurts. When I was a kid, I went through physical ones. When I was older, there were several learning spurts where I taught myself photography, and later when I had to master everything there was to know about uploading my book to Amazon. I smile with affection at my younger self, whose fondest hope was that one person besides my proud parents would buy a copy.

But this last month has been an emotional growth spurt. And I have not managed it well. At all.

Right now, for instance. Several emotions are colliding and warring inside me, just as they have been since I crawled under that fence what seems like years ago.

The biggest emotion, the one I’m wearing on my face, is happiness.

We’ve erected a volleyball net across the middle of our dirt road Main Street and have chosen sides. It’s a mixture of splicers and human women.

We’re all playing and having fun with some good-natured teasing thrown in. It’s a joy to be part of this group. This grand experiment of ours is something that hasn’t ever been done in the history of the world, and yet, it feels easy and natural.

I also feel joy watching the Totster observe from the sidelines, his new red bandana proclaiming him as one of the referees. Although Noble threw him for a loop the day they met, my goodest boy met the rest of the splicers with nary a speed bump and enjoys being accepted as one of the pack.

But joy is just the top note in my swirling stew of emotions. Underneath that, mostly simmering, but sometimes coming to a rolling boil, is my lust. One thing is certain; it’s never far from my awareness.

Daytime is the easiest. The busier I am, the better. Sylas is helping me set up a photography and framing shop. Colonel Slater let me order framing equipment and a state-of-the-art printer. After watching hours more YouTube videos, along with some practice, I’ll be competent and open for business when the time comes.

I’ve been taking candid photos and portraits of the splicers individually and as couples. The more I get to know the males, the more impressed I am with their humanity, and, unexpectedly, the more this feels like home.

Mealtimes are rarely a strain. Those are pretty smooth whether we’re eating in the dining room with my new friends or working together in the small kitchen in our home.

It’s the down times, like when we’re reading together on the couch, my feet in his lap, his hooves bracketing my hips, that remind me of the sensual, lustful need swirling and gathering just beneath the surface. We play it cool as we read to one another or get up to make tea or talk about our day. As much as we try to pretend it’s not there, like the elephant in the room, it’s harder to ignore when I’m not distracted by work or other people.

The worst times are in bed. I guess that’s obvious. Mostly, night is easier than in the morning. Sometimes at night, one of us is so tired that we fall asleep quickly, which makes the possibility of sex a non-starter. Even though he’s inches from me and horizontal, if he’s sawing logs, it’s easier to tamp down the pulsing, curling coil of need circling wildly in my belly.

Mornings are the hardest of all because although our minds have declared a moratorium on sex, neither of our bodies received the memo. Every single morning, I wake in a warm, relaxed pile with the male I yearn for.

Often, my leg is slung across his shaggy thighs, my head resting on his warm pec as I wake to the rhythmic sound of his breathing. And why does he have to smell so freaking good? I could be locked in a filthy dungeon, and if someone came in and tossed me a shirt Sylas wore a week ago, my body would respond immediately with hardened nipples and a slick core.

This morning, I woke in a different position. I faced away from him, my back tucked to his front, his arm so tight around my waist it was hard to believe he wasn’t wide awake and hugging me like that on purpose.

His cock, that fucking magnificent cock, was hard as stone, kicking against the crease of my ass. Just remembering it, as I stand in the winter Texas sun, makes me feel as though I’m the one who is in rut. Sadly enough, it’s not seasonal. It’s not like Sylas’s. Won’t go away in a matter of days. It’s permanent.

Something’s got to change. Don’t we know each other well enough by now? Wasn’t that why we decided on this ridiculous sexual drought?

My knowledge about him goes deep, even down to ridiculous, unimportant minutiae. His kitchen habits include using specific knives for various tasks, as if there were a set of rules governing such choices—according to him, there is.

I know the exact timbre of his voice when he gargles after brushing. I know when he wants me to pay attention as he plays his guitar and when he’s working on something new and wants me to ignore him.

And I know when his shower takes too long and he’s palming himself in there. Taking his pleasure even as he denies me.

He doesn’t bugle anymore. Evidently, that’s just a rutting thing. But his sweet, soft, sexy groans pierce through me and zing straight to my core. I want those moans in my ear, his hot breath grazing my skin. I want him buried inside me to the hilt before I lose my fucking mind.

Tonight. Our self-imposed celibacy must end tonight.

As Sylas prepares to serve the ball, I catch his attention and flash him a smoldering smile. It’s mid-morning. I have all day to wink and smile and innocently rub up against him and whisper double entendres and blatant innuendos. By bedtime tonight, I hope I’ll have worked him up to a frenzy and he won’t be able to refuse me.

“Serve already, Sylas,” Brock the bear-like guy gripes.

Before Sylas tears his eyes from me, I slide my palm sensuously down the column of my throat and wink at him. Score one for Cally’s team.

I watch them play. We all know the rules but seldom use them all at the same time. There’s a server, although it’s not exactly necessary to remain behind the line someone drew with red spray paint to designate the back of the court.

The women often step closer to the net, and some of the guys, the really muscular ones, jog farther back so their serves don’t sail out of bounds.

Out-of-bounds is a fluid concept, as the males discover how to direct their energy. The ball could fly half a block away and if one of the guys can reach it and hit it back, it’s still considered to be in play. And the score, well no one has been keeping it since halfway through the first game.

Instead of following the rules, they’ve become more like loose suggestions, which makes the game more fun.

Chance, the centaur, is simply too big to play without hurting someone. At first, he was our designated referee, but since the rules have gone out the window, he’s now our official four-legged cheerleader.

He’s mated to Jo, who is Colonel Slater’s daughter. Although at first he struck me as kind of shy, Chance has taken to his new job with relish as his deep, bass voice encourages everyone.

“You’re up, Amber. This time you’ll serve it over the net for sure,” his deep voice encourages.

Warren, a decidedly wolfy guy, is definitely the MVP. He’s clearly the most competitive of the lot. Nyx the naga does surprisingly well, considering he has no legs.

“When are you going to quit taking pictures and join us?” Tyler asks. He’s loaded with Bengal tiger DNA and wins the award for the happiest person I’ve ever met. He loves to dance and always has a compliment at the ready. Olivia, his mate, doesn’t share his sunny personality, but seems happier when he’s around.

“I’ll play the next game. I promise.” I’m no asset to any team, and would rather stay on the sidelines and take pictures, but I love being accepted by this big, odd, happy family and wouldn’t consider refusing his invitation.

Just as Colonel Slater predicted, I quickly got used to the splicers. No one terrifies me anymore. Being exposed to these males, seeing their humanity and laughter and struggles, has made me blind, for the most part, to their fangs and tails and backward knees. I just see… people. Which is exactly what I hope my book will do when it’s finally released.

I have my Nikon ready, aiming to capture the precise moment when Nyx the naga’s sleek, scaled body contorts gracefully as he prepares to make a daring save. However, my concentration is disrupted by the sudden appearance of Colonel Slater striding toward us from across the street.

The happy crowd noises grow dull, his presence putting a damper on things. Even though he’s always supportive, he’s still the CO of the base and can make decisions that would turn our worlds upside down in a heartbeat.

“Carry on, you guys. You act as though I’m going to punish you for having fun.” His tone is as steely as those hard, gray eyes.

“How is your project coming, Ms. Quinn?”

“How many times have I asked you to call me Cally?”

“It’s not every day I’m in the presence of a bestselling author.”

“Actually, sir, it is.”

We both laugh. He’s as calm and full of humor as he’s ever going to be. There’s a question I’ve been wanting to ask for weeks now. It’s been burning and growing like a living thing inside me. Maybe it’s the happy sunshine or Slater’s good mood, or simply that I’ve been here a month and I’m pretty sure he can’t change his mind and throw me in the brig even if I overstep my bounds.

“Colonel?”

His flinty gaze whips toward me. Something about my tone must have tipped him off that what’s coming next is not going to be a softball question.

“Out with it, Miss Quinn.”

“I… it’s just…” Shit. I practiced this in my head a couple of times. Well, who am I kidding? It’s cycled through my mind like a mantra off and on for weeks.

“Cally. Say it.”

“The reject barracks, sir. I just don’t know why you’re punishing those males. I’ve met them all, and—”

“Reject barracks?” His eyes are blazing. He barked those words so loudly that Brock, the guy with bear DNA, just held onto the ball instead of returning the serve. Everyone is staring, most with eyes rounded, more whites showing than usual. “Frankly, Miss Quinn, I didn’t expect words like that to come out of your mouth.”

“Words like reject barracks?” My tone is incredulous. “What other name is there?”

“The southern barracks.” His tone is icy, clipped. I’ve never seen him this angry, even when his men dragged me into his office. His eyes are narrowed, his mouth a thin line of barely veiled disgust.

“Would it surprise you, sir, to know that until this very moment, I have never heard that term?”

His mouth works, but no words come out. Finally, he turns from me to the group, who are all watching and eavesdropping without a hint of shame. “Tyler, what do you call the barracks to the south?”

“The reject barracks.”

“Warren?”

“Reject barracks.”

“Sylas, where were you living before you met Cally?”

“The reject barracks… sir.”

The Colonel, always proper and starched and ramrod straight, slumps his shoulders and swipes his palm back and forth across his mouth.

“If I hear anyone, military or civilian, call it that again, we will have words.” He repeats his statement, louder, word for word, as he vibrates with anger.

The game resumes, but everyone is still surreptitiously glancing our way.

“I guess I should ask you to finish your question.” His tone is distracted. For a moment, I consider letting the subject drop, but then decide the timing couldn’t be better.

“I was going to ask why those males were rejects, and then enquire when they would meet the women who are already on base. I thought they were supposed to be getting socialized. When will that happen and when will they be trained for jobs?”

“So, so…” His gaze searches mine. “Everyone on base figured those males were there as punishment? What do you think they are being punished for?”

“The way Sylas explained it to me, they weren’t socialized enough or human-looking enough or cooperative enough to come to this side of the property.”

His face contorts as this straight-laced military bigwig tries and fails to school his features and prevent them from crumbling.

“Corporal Barton,” he barks. “I want every on-duty soldier and every civilian who is not a resident of the southern barracks in the Town Hall for a meeting in exactly ten minutes.”

“Thank you, Miss Quinn.” His tone is distracted as he strides away.