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My mate exchanges a patient look with me and then connects the call. “Hello, Bethiah,” he says in a tolerant voice. “Why do you call?”
“Do I need a reason?” The bounty hunter’s face fills the screen and she makes kissy faces. “I wanted to see my namesakes. How are you, my lovelies?”
“Auntie! Auntie!” the children cry out, waving little hands at her.
“None of them are named after you,” I call out.
“Of course they are,” Bethiah coos. “You just did your best with your strange little human mouth. It’s all right. We know the truth of it, don’t we, kids?” She puts her chin on her hands and leans into the vid-screen. “Want Auntie Bethiah to tell you a story?”
Oh boy. I exchange a look with my mate. Bethiah loves the children, but she also has no idea how to treat them. Like the time the girls admired her tinkling hair ornaments and Bethiah gave the girls matching ones—and then later pointed out that they were tiny explosives because “a girl never knew when she might need a bomb.” Or the time she visited and read them a bedtime story that was so horrifying they didn’t sleep for days without crying.
I’m pretty sure that story is why Laina still pees the bed.
“No stories,” I call out. “It’s almost bedtime.”
“Right.” She shrugs. “Maybe you guys can tell me a story instead?”
For the next hour, Bethiah listens intently as all three children babble at her. She’s a weird one, the bounty hunter, but I do appreciate that she likes the children. It makes me feel good to know that even though I can’t stand Bethiah for longer than a few minutes at a time, she’s fiercely devoted to my babies and will keep them safe.
Having a bounty hunter as a godmother-slash-auntie is not something I ever thought I’d have for my children, but then again, so little of my life has turned out the way I thought it would. Even so, I wouldn’t change a thing.
When Keth yawns, Nassakth scoops up my son and cradles him against his chest. “I think it’s bedtime. Everyone say good night to Auntie Bethiah.”
The children wave and blow kisses at the screen, and Bethiah promises to call again after her next job wraps up. I don’t ask about the “job”—learned that the hard way—and shepherd the girls toward the bedroom. The blankets are freshly washed and there’s a thin plas-film covering on the mattress to protect from little accidents. We brush teeth, wash hands and faces, and sing a bedtime song. Even though blankets aren’t a praxiian thing, my babies love having one tucked around them, and we give each child kisses and attention before turning off the lights and escaping the room.
Into quiet.
Sweet, sweet quiet.
Nassakth wraps his arms around me from behind and holds me close. “How long before someone wants a drink of water?”
“Five minutes,” I murmur, putting my hands on him. He’s warm and wonderful and strong and I still haven’t told him my secret. Now might be the perfect time, though. I take his hand and slide it down to my belly. “So—“
“Mommy? Daddy? I’m thirsty,” Keth calls out.
Nassakth presses a kiss to the top of my head. “I’ll handle that. You go collapse into bed and I’ll join you in a moment.”
I head into the bedroom as he goes to get the drink. I’m not thinking about collapsing into bed, actually. Instead, I’m thinking about the noli perfume that the girl renting my farm sent me. She’s made soaps and bath oils and all kinds of fragrances that have become very popular in praxiian circles. I’m happy for her—she can do whatever she wants with the plants. She always remembers to send us our cut and takes care of the place as if it were her own. I’ll probably sell it to her in a few years, just because I know how important it is to own your own land.
But for now, I head for that vial of perfume, sniff it, and then dab the tiniest amount behind my ears. I’m getting less tired by the minute. Instead, I’m thinking about sex. I’m thinking about grabbing my delicious husband by his tail—or his mane—and dragging him into the bed. Sex is harder to find time for with triplets, which means my libido is through the roof…especially with the new “surprise” in my belly. I just hope Nassakth doesn’t panic at the thought of being a father again.
I change into my sleep clothes as I ponder how a new, fourth baby is going to change things. Even though I have nightgowns, I prefer sleeping in one of Nassakth’s tunics. He prefers it, too, because it’s easy to reach into the collar and tease my breasts in the morning, since they tend to slip free of the fabric and “greet him.” Me in his tunic is code for “let’s have sex” and his eyes light up the moment he enters the bedroom and sees me on the bed.
