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When I tip my head in question, he says, “Some of them are still trying on names for size. They came to us as numbers.”
I shiver at the thought he was simply a number for most of his life. It makes me sad. I doubt he wants my pity, so I dart my gaze from him.
“Here we are. The bakery.”
The dirt street is wide, bounded on two sides by old-fashioned, raised wooden walkways. Olivia, who told us this used to be called Rattlesnake Flats in an old TV show, mentioned that a lot of Old West main streets were wide so a fully loaded horse-drawn beer truck could turn around.
Unpainted clapboard buildings, like out of an Old West movie, line both sides of the street. A posterboard sign simply labeled “bakery” is taped inside the large front window of the storefront I’ve been told is my new place of business.
“We thought you’d want to name it yourself. Then we’ll get a nice sign painted on the window.” Barton opens the door and motions us in. It wasn’t locked, I guess there’s no need, since there are no people for miles in any direction.
“Take a look around. We have the measurements for you. You’ll need them when you order your furnishings. You can use the kitchen next to the dining room to work on your recipes until this space is fully furnished. It will be just the way you want it when you finally open for business.”
My chest feels tight, and hot tears pool behind my eyes. Despite the surreal circumstances, the lion-man dressed in khakis and a Hawaiian shirt at my side, and the two military men dressed in camo and dripping with weapons flanking us, I can’t deny that in some ways I’m living my dream.
Since I was pretending to drive a Barbie car and creating edible concoctions in my Easy-Bake Oven, I’ve known what I wanted to be when I grew up—a baker. I dreamed of making delicious pies and cookies, but most of all, I wanted to make the most scrumptious cupcakes this side of the Mississippi.
All I had to do was sign away the next two years of my life for the government to gift me with a trial run. I get to order the best appliances, set up shop just the way I want, and even name my bakery.
The men are waiting for me to step over the threshold, but it feels too momentous to simply walk through the dusty doorway into the filthy space.
I look at the square room, filled with piles of crunchy leaves in the corners and dust motes in the sunbeams that fought their way through the grimy glass. In my mind’s eye, I see exactly the way I want it to be. From the fancy gilt lettering on the front window, to where the little bistro tables will sit in the sunshine, to where the chalkboard will hang announcing the daily specials.
Just as I dreamed when I was a little girl, my cupcakes will have names like Unicorn Sparkle Delight, Toasted Coconut Caramel Bliss, and Rainbow Sprinkle Swirl. It’s coming to life quicker than I ever dreamed. No amount of scary lion-men can stop the shiver of pure excitement darting up my spine.
Finally, I square my shoulders and walk inside, only to shriek when I see a mouse scuffling through the detritus in the far corner.
“Don’t worry,” Noble assures me as he leaps across the room in one bound and grips the rodent in one big hand, capturing it after only one lunge.
“No, no, no, no, no!” I say, eyes wide in horror as he grips the terrified thing by the tail and is about to—. Nope. I can’t even think of such a thing.
“All varmints are to be escorted outside,” I say with such force no one would know I’m ordering around two men with rifles as well as an apex predator.
Noble, who has looked nothing other than self-assured since the first moment I caught him eye-fucking me last night, appears surprised. I’m not sure whether it’s my firm tone of voice or my edict that no animals will be killed or eaten in my bakery.
Although he may not understand why, he certainly caught the vehemence in my tone. Contritely, he walks through the front door and, although he almost flings the little thing across the street, after one more glance over his shoulder, he sets it gently on the ground and watches it scurry away before he says, “As you wish.”
It’s going to be hard to stay mad at a guy who just quoted my favorite line from my favorite movie of all time. Is it possible they let him watchThe Princess Bride?
Chapter Eight
Noble
I must constantly remind myself these females are nothing like us males. Not only are they a different sex, which makes them weak and inherently driven to take orders, but they have soft hearts.
I just observed the clash between Jenna’s innate need to comply and be subservient to males, and her desire to keep all living things alive. Perhaps if women had run the splicer project, I might not have grown up in a cell.
All that is in the past, though. They’ve promised we won’t be confined to this facility forever. Eventually, I’ll be free to walk in the outside world like everyone else. I can travel, and perhaps get a job I’ll enjoy, just like these females who seem passionate about their work.
In the meantime, I’m going to get to know little Jenna. I’m going to court her and do everything she wishes so I can stay close enough to catch her delicious scent on the air as often as possible. If my cock, which has been hard since the moment I laid eyes on her last night, has anything to say about it, I’m going to bury myself inside her before her tour of duty is over.
“This floor isn’t going to sweep itself, mister.”
There were two brooms leaning in a corner. She’s got one in each hand and is motioning me to take one.
I stand taller, my head tipping back as my tail lashes low to the ground. I’ve taken orders all my life, but never from a female. My first impulse is to refuse. It goes against every ounce of my being to take orders from this small, defenseless person.
Perhaps my emotions are obvious. Barton and Watson not-so-casually place their hands on their sidearms as Jenna’s arm drifts closer to her body, distancing me from the broom.
