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But love never forgets.
And I have him.
Sixteen
Turin
I have managed to get along with the humans as best I can.
For the first few months, it was difficult integrating with the males. I helped where I was needed. I kept out of the way when they seemed the most on-edge.
At the bottom of their hearts, they can’t stand that I’m here, walking about freely, as if I’m one of them.
But I have them on one thing. I defended them against Fassbender, and I made sure they didn’t die by the Captain’s mutilated hands.
I did the opposite of what I was supposed to do. I saved their lives, and I realized their worth.
It has been over eight months of flying in the darkness, and we can now see Earth now, faintly glowing blue. And, as I’ve been told over and over again for the last week and a half, today is something called Thanksgiving. For the first time since the day we escaped Avalon, we’re celebrating.
They’ve got everything set up. Dried pieces of meat, fruit, old space crackers, ice cream, and of course, a few bottles of champagne.
I can’t eat or drink these things, but I can absorb what they feel. The joy they collectively experience is an honor to feel.
“Hey, don’t eat all the ice cream. Save some for the pregnant lady,” Naomi says.
Roy pops the champagne, and suds spray high into the air. Everyone cheers and runs to grab a glass.
Well, everyone except Naomi and me. We hang back, calmly observing the party.
Naomi is drop dead gorgeous. The most beautiful woman that exists. She is due at any moment, which has been worrying her, but she will be fine.
The radiation, she claims, can hurt the baby. I tend to agree. Fortunately, Earth isn’t far off. If we keep traveling at this speed, we’ll get there on time.
That’s the plan.
Naomi grabs some dried ice cream, devouring it in one bite.
I chuckle to myself.
Cheeks full, she scowls. “Don’t you dare make fun of me.”
I kiss her plump cheeks, resting my hands around her belly. I roll the bottom of her shirt up and watch as our baby’s hands press against her flesh.
It strains my heart, in a good way.
“Still think it’s a girl?” I ask.
She bites her lower lip and shakes her head. “I think it’s a boy.”
“An alpha, huh,” I say, pondering. “What makes you so sure?”
“He’s fussy,” she says. “Boys are always fussy.”
I lower my head and listen to him. The subtle movements within her fluids create noises that are out of this world.
This baby is a part of us. It is connected to every experience we have ever owned. The importance of that didn’t hit me until now.
Hugh rolls forward with an extra glass of champagne. One eye hangs, half-shut, and as soon as he opens his mouth, he slurs his speech.
