I watch in fascination as she gets to work, pumping each breast, filling a milk storage bag. Watching my female feed my sons last night and now expressing extra milk for them is maybe the second-best moment of my life.
Finally, she sighs with relief and fixes her shirt. “All done. There’s a lot of milk, it’s crazy. If they don’t nurse, I have to get rid of it or is starts to hurt.”
“Orc infants cannot take human infant formula. Also, you have twins, so your body is making extra.”
“I have even more milk than the normal woman giving birth to an orc?”
“Yes.”
“Well, that explains things.” She puts the milk in the fridge and then putters around the kitchen.
I have a hard time knowing who to gaze at, my sexy female or my gurgling sons. All three cause my heart to swell with pride. But I force myself to remember this is temporary. She’s here at my hearth now, but tomorrow Drew Reilly could be gone. Forever.
She pauses in front of a contraption on my kitchen counter I’ve never seen before. “I’m making some coffee for myself. Do you want some too?”
“What is that machine you’re using?”
“Oh, this is my new Keurig,” she smiles, exposing smooth white teeth and an exotic lack of tusks. “It’s wonderful.”
I let out a snort of disgust. “Why do humans invent these useless things? That coffee maker creates too much trash that cannot be recycled.”
“Please don’t burst my bubble of happiness. A Keurig in a commune might not work out in the end but let me use it for now, okay?” She lifts a special pod in her fingers and waves it at me. “Do you want to try my favorite dark roast?”
I grunt my acceptance.
“Sugar and creamer?” she questions.
“Yes.”
“Tell me exactly how you like your coffee.”
I sigh with resignation and let her know I like one scoop of sugar and a splash of creamer. Soon we each have a steaming mug of coffee. She sits at the table for a moment and takes Bran in her arms, smiles at me and sips her steaming drink.
I sip at this special coffee too, learning that it’s actually more delicious than anything else I’ve ever tasted. Not that I’d admit this to her. “You drink black coffee?” I question.
“Yeah, I’m weird that way. How about pancakes? I saw pancake mix and syrup earlier in your cupboard.”
“That’s my favorite breakfast,” I agree.
She smiles again, places Bran in a nearby bouncer and soon my Bride is up and fixing breakfast.
I should complain. Say no. Stop her from performing this loving task between mates. But I can’t. Even if this is pretend, I find I want it.
She chats with me while cooking, telling me stories about the babies’ delivery. About how my sons rejected the arms of their Nanny and her best friend she says is named Amelia. And I look down at my sons who have been content in my arms and smile.
“…I carried them like a normal pregnancy, and in fact it wasn’t such a bad time. At least I was able to have a fast delivery without even the need for painkillers or a C-section. Both babies were perfectly healthy. The worst part was going back home with them because caring for two orc twins is exhausting. My best friend, Amelia, was there with me the first week. That woman is a saint. And when she had to return home to her own family, I cried.”
All I can think is that she should never have left and how I missed out on the birth of my own sons. But I’ve said this obvious statement already, so I remain silent because I have nothing new to add.
She pours circles of batter onto a sizzling grill then turns to me. “This is nice,” she says. “We never talked before. Didn’t have a chance to get to know each other the last time…”
“Because you left,” I point out.
She exhales and turns back to the pancakes. “But I’m here now,” she says over her shoulder. “And there’s plenty of time for a do over.”
Soon Drew sits next to me. She places a plate of steaming pancakes, butter and syrup between us. She cuts a piece and pierces it with her fork and leans forward to offer the food to me.
I take the bite and chew and swallow. And suddenly that constant need to toss her onto the bed in the bedroom becomes overwhelming.
She gasps at the heat in my gaze. “Oh my.”
“Drew,” I rasp, taking the fork from her small hand. “Don’t start something you aren’t prepared to follow through with.”
“I’m staying,” she affirms. “I know you don’t believe my words, but I plan on showing you with my actions.”
Then she stands and fixes another plate for herself and places it on the table. She takes Owen from me and I reach down toward the bouncer and take Bran back into my owns arms. Soon we both have a happy baby on our lap and are quietly eating.
Chapter 7
Whelan
After I finish my meal, scraping every last bit of food off my plate, that somehow tastes more amazing because she made it, I place Owen in a bouncer and stand up to tidy the kitchen and separate the trash from recyclables.
“Oh, you don’t have to do that,” my female exclaims. “I was about to clean.”
I give her a sharp glance. “No, remain seated. I will clean. Females at our commune sit and relax with our offspring. I am grateful you offered to cook, therefore I will always clean afterwards. This is the way in our commune.”
“Oh. Okay…Are you saying that orc males always do the cleaning?”
“Yes.”
“The laundry, the sweeping, the bathroom cleaning…?”
“All of it,” I confirm.
She sits and watches me with mouth agape.
Afterwards we end up in the nursery together because the babies look sleepy.
My female shows me what she brought with her from her home in California or purchased just prior to arriving at the commune. Most of it appears superfluous, similar to the appearance of that over-the-top coffee maker. But I do appreciate that my sons have all the clothing they could possibly require, in fact she’s even purchased clothing for them for when they grow older, at six months and nine months. “You’re a good planner,” I tell her. “And you’ve taken good care of our sons, even while living amongst humans.”
Her cheeks flush with color. And I want to pull her into my arms, but I refrain. Because I still can’t trust her.
She stands next to the crib I crafted, running her delicate hand along the polished pine. “I heard that you made this crib yourself, by hand.”
“I did.”
“It’s nice…”
“Thank you.”
I notice then that Owen and Bran are turning restless. “They need to be fed again,” I announce.
“Already? How do you know?”
“Orc fathers and sons have a special bond. I can sense their needs easily. They are going to be very hungry at first because they are in fact small for their age and need refeeding.”
“I’m not sure if I’m ready to go again because I just expressed…”
“We’ll use bottles of breast milk.”
“I’m not sure they’ll take it.”
“They will.” I stomp into the front room with both of my sons in my arms and my female follows behind closely. She cuts in front of me and opens the fridge and takes out two bottles. Then we both sit side by side on the couch in the front room. I take Owen and she takes Bran. And they each easily take a bottle from our hands and noisily begin to feed.