"Okay, honey, don't rush; just walk at this pace. No need to overdo it, not yet," Adam's patient voice reassured me as I was strapped into a walking treadmill, moving at a slow, steady speed.
Straps secured my pelvis to keep it aligned and maintained my posture evenly. I kept my hands on the handles, though I felt I could walk faster. Charles, my physiotherapist, stood on the other side of me. This process was, let's just say, a bit grueling. Both he and Adam were as sharp as Magnum, and since I had been on bed rest for so long with numerous surgeries and whatnot, my muscles were still clueless about what to do.
According to my husband, they needed to be properly supported as I regained my fitness. This meant all the straps—ensuring my pelvis didn't tilt incorrectly, my steps were the right length, my posture remained straight, and my spinal alignment was correct with no excessive curvature anywhere.
I had to do this five times a day, plus three sessions in the pool. Then came my favorite part: the nightly, pleasurable session in which the Salvatores eagerly participated—meaning, quite frankly, they fucked me to bits. Mariella had a similar setup with Lepard and Demon as her physiotherapists. She, too, had to perform under pressure, and the nights were rough for her since it was part of her fitness regimen, not her pleasure. So she, like me, was exhausted.
After this therapy session, it was time for me to head to the shower. Although it seemed easy, I was sweating because not all of my muscles were strong enough yet to handle this much walking or the 90-minute session. After the shower—assisted, of course, to prevent any slips—my hair was fixed, and then I was free to walk, usually with numbers one, two, and five.
I had to show them rooms since our wing had many rooms they were unfamiliar with. This was walking without straps, but still involved a lot of explaining. They weren't angry, not exactly—more baffled about why we would need something from those rooms, and I had to provide explanations.
As I finally stopped, Adam and Charles unhooked all the straps around me. I was wet with sweat, which irritated me because I wanted to be in better shape. I knew this would take time, but I often lacked the patience for it.
Then, number eight walked into the room; he was my showerer for the day, responsible for washing me and ensuring I sat most of the time to avoid slipping and hurting myself. It was all good, but by God, I longed for the day when I could manage these things on my own, without needing a personal washer or someone constantly hovering around me.
Number eight smiled at me and took my arm, leading me out of the room into one of the bedrooms he was now using. Many of us shared these spaces, as the nightly sessions were more or less group events.
During these sessions, several men made me moan, beg, and plead while instinctively using my muscles in the throes of ecstasy. It wasn't bad per se, but it was exhausting. I usually fell asleep in the early morning, only to wake around nine for breakfast and start my day again.
I had seen my four little ones in their incubators, wearing the smallest diapers—they seemed to drown in them. Yet, as I talked to them, they opened their eyes and looked at me. Damon and I had come up with names for them: the girls were Violet and Fiona, and the boys were Alex and Jace.
Each one had many powers, keeping Wulfe very busy. Still, he found every single ounce of time to spend with me, much to Damon's irritation, as he was quite possessive and jealous. Damon's solution was to butt in whenever he could.
It was unusual to have a quiet late afternoon, when I had time just to be with Wulfe, watching movies or shows like Top Chef or some dog show programs—Wulfe's favorites. Damon might walk in with my five oldest toddlers, put on Pokémon or some cartoon, and come to spend time with us as family. It wasn't bad, but his antics often made Wulfe roll his eyes—and not just once.
I was not entirely sure whether Mariella had sent him to do it or if he was simply so damn possessive and eager to have something real with me. Frankly, it scared me a bit, since he was who he was, and I hadn't gotten as deep into him as I had with other Salvatores. I knew very well the power he held over my heart, so I made a plan. I didn't say anything to anyone, but if he ever crushed my heart again, it would be his turn to face my torturing skills. I would put him through a world of pain and be as creepy as it gets. He had already pointed out my weak spots, so I knew what I needed to improve.
A small part of my mind had its own plan, and even my nastier side was tightly locked away. I was growing—not physically, as I hoped there would be no more pregnancies for years, if ever—but mentally. I was becoming more aggressive and more reactive. I was no longer the one who would be crushed and dumped without response; this time, I would show my reaction. Having kept my emotions under control for so long meant that my reactions might be pretty extreme, and my nastier sides could surface, possibly requiring some effort from men to rein them in. But I was not going to stop reacting. This time, I was ready to let the one who hurt me feel my reaction.
This was new to me, but I would have no regrets—it was simply my response.
As Number Eight led me to the bathroom, he suggested, "Come on, baby, let's get those sweaty clothes off. You can wash yourself, and then we'll see what's next."
I rolled my eyes, admitting, "Yeah, I'm beat. My pace isn't fast, but it's exhausting."
He explained, "That's because you're using the correct muscles. You could engage your major muscle groups effortlessly, but this positioning prevents that, retraining your body to use these muscles. This strengthens your core, improves your posture, and ensures your joints function properly. These muscles have atrophied and are weak, but they're getting stronger. You must have noticed some improvement; it takes time, but the results are worth it."
His voice was calm and informative, much like the others', and he didn't condescend. He genuinely wanted me to understand, and I nodded.
As he helped me out of my clothes, I reflected on my physical state. At 44 kilos, I wasn't skeletal, but I lacked muscle. My body had consumed everything I ate, especially during pregnancy, and this accident had taken a further toll. I wasn't alone in this struggle; Mariella was also at her lowest weight, just 52 kilos. While Salvatore didn't pressure her directly, she, like me, needed to gain weight, muscle, and fitness. She wasn't particularly happy about it.
I walked to the shower and turned on the water, noting the digital thermometer that would indicate the temperature to Number Eight, who might then remind me to wash with sufficiently warm water or even join me to adjust it himself. Letting the water cascade over me, I mussed my long, curly hair, which reached my ass and was always a chore to wash. I had let it down earlier.
The water felt heavenly; its warmth relaxed my muscles. I stood under it, enjoying the sensation, but not for too long.
Number Eight had undressed and joined me, saying, "Sit down; I'll start with your hair."
I sat on the non-slippery bench, and he selected from a vast array of hair products—about ten shampoos, five conditioners, and eight deep conditioners—suggesting that each caregiver used their own preferences.
His grips were loving and firm as always, and he usually used a few shampoos at the time, one for my scalp, one for my tops, and one in the middle, whereas, like, number three did not really bother, but he used just one, as there was no such big difference, and he was a bit on the lazy side.
But for Number Eight, whose need to be with me I felt all of the time, he did everything as well as he could, including washing my hair. He had such a need to spend as much time with me, and someday we might talk a bit more about his past and whatnot.
My love felt like a balm, capable of healing those around me, though I wasn't sure of the specific wounds. Nevertheless, I allowed my love to flow into him, prompting him to reciprocate. I had learned that those I labeled "fucking machines"—numbers six, seven, and eight—faced the most significant struggles. They seemed most eager to escape their trauma through physical intimacy, yet it proved ineffective.
As for number one, the ultimate "fucking machine," I hadn't initially considered his internal struggles. He, too, was attempting to bury or outrun something with physical actions, but with little success. It became clear to me why he so often praised Mariella's body and spoke to her with such tenderness; he was striving for something more. A deep-seated issue likely resided within him, but perhaps time and love could offer solace. Now that Mariella was capable of making pure love herself, there was a possibility she could help him unravel his complexities.
I was already quite occupied with my current "salvatores." However, if number one were to also seek healing through my love, it would inevitably complicate matters once more, at the very least.
I thought it was unlikely, as Mariella had once again tried to get Salvatore and even Charles to open up to her. She too wanted them to talk to her so she could help them, but for now, her recovery was pretty as grueling as mine. And she was usually pretty knackered at dinnertime, ready to go to bed, but she had still performed there as well.
Number eight's behavior could be a bit creepy to Mariella at times. However, it was simply his way of telling her to back off, as he wasn't interested. This meant that if the Salvatores weren't so infatuated with Mariella, they would be much more direct in telling her to back off.
But since so many of them considered me their true mate, spouse, and also accepted my children, I had many defenders and caretakers. Our wing, which was truly ours, was more or less our lair. Adding to this, number one was also beginning to understand himself, me, and our bond, along with his possessiveness.
Therefore, I doubted my future would be anything but interesting. Yet, I couldn't help but wonder what would happen if these Salvatores controlled and loved Mariella as much as they did me or number one, given how stubborn he could be when he wanted. So, this was a new time for Mariella as well.
As he had washed my hair several times and used conditioner, he let me get up but said, "Grab the handles and stay on your mat; this can be slippery."
I had a special anti-slip mat partially in my shower, where I usually stood, and sturdy handles to grip as I was being washed; as said, I was cared for and then some.
As he washed me, he hummed the Beatles' "All My Loving" because he knew it was one of my favorites, and he too was a Beatles fan. I had told several Salvatores snippets about my mom, who had also been a Beatles fan in her time. But it was the past, and now it was time for the future.
Number eight washed me carefully, not scrubbing too hard, even though I was itchy. My tendency to react to nutritional deficiencies, particularly a lack of fatty acids or oils, causes itching. This itching, in turn, serves as a diagnostic tool for my dear husband, allowing him to adjust my nutrition.
Furthermore, my digestive system absorbs only about 65 percent of the nutrients from food, necessitating that I eat more frequently. Despite various attempts over the years to improve this, my digestive efficiency remains largely unchanged. Adding to this, I was currently recovering, meaning it would take time for all aspects of my nutrition to reach that 65 percent absorption rate. Consequently, I might be absorbing way less than 65 percent of protein but only 44 percent of certain fatty acids, which explains my itching.
Meanwhile, number eight was also carefully smelling my pheromones. He constantly monitored for signs of fatigue, dizziness, nausea, or itching. He understood that the more one smells, the more one learns.
This process forms connections, enabling the brain to decipher pheromones and sensory feedback, thereby improving its function. Essentially, it's like teaching the brain to interpret sensory input, akin to vision. If number eight saw me wobbling, he might infer dizziness. Simultaneously, by smelling my pheromones and associating them with instances of dizziness, he could discern the specific pheromonal signature of that state.
Through repeated observation and correlation, he was teaching himself the subtle nuances of my pheromones. This learning process, though lengthy due to the vast array and classification of pheromones, marked the beginning of his deeper understanding. In time, he would be able to learn the official names and full meanings of specific pheromones.
For me, this ability to interpret pheromones was instinctual, something I had done for years, perhaps even decades or a century, making me quite adept. However, pheromonal perception is a personal experience; each individual senses scents differently.
Just as the scent of lilac can vary from person to person based on memories and emotions tied to it, my perception of pheromones can also be subjective. This made it challenging for me to provide definitive answers, as subtle differences in some scents might be imperceptible to me, or I might interpret a scent entirely differently than others due to my unique memories.
After I had been washed, Number Eight selected a certain towel for my hair and a certain bathrobe for me, as it was still early days and I might get cold. He had reserved new clothes for me, and after drying my hair, it was time to dress up.
He had found a bit of my stash; there were five big bags full of rather fancy clothes in my bed, and numbers one and two were also in my bedroom as I stepped out of the bathroom.
Number one dug into one bag and lifted the satin dress, thick, luxurious satin, embroidery going on the waist and bust, straps being delicate lace ones, and the hem studded with diamonds.
"Care to explain, baby?" he asked, his brow lifted.
I smiled and said, "Yeah, those are old ones. I found them before this accident, and it was my idea to see if I could tune them to something useful."
Number two, holding a gorgeous black velvet dress with gold decoration and shimmering diamonds, remarked on its rather provocative cut.
"Why in hell would you tune these? They are fabulous. Let me guess, designer pieces?"
I nodded. "In my time, as I gained a reputation as America's sweetheart, many designers wanted to make clothes for me. However, since Ruby was with me, they made a deal: they used old vintage dresses from the 2026-2032 era, which were surplus and kind of useless. They were gorgeous, though, with only a few issues here and there. I was planning to turn that satin one into a nightgown, and the velvet one has a little too much cut in the front. So, I intended to modify them to be a bit more practical, as we already have fancy dresses and these were made for me, with my coloring and all."
Number one looked at me, remarkably calmly.
With a single sweep of his hands, he sent my bags away. "Those will be checked out; they are not your everyday clothes, and we can modify them. Not you, but we. I am not sure if I will give them to others, but we will take care of them."
His voice carried a stern edge, his ice-blue eyes narrowed in a way that made me instantly realize any counterargument would be futile. He was ready to care for me, and that included my wardrobe. This meant he would choose what I wore, a situation that often led to him appropriating some of my oversized, comfy t-shirts for himself. It was a gentle lesson in sharing, a concept I'd embraced wholeheartedly after promising myself to him during our vampire wedding.
Now, I was living my life with my husbands, a reality that struck me as quite amusing. After all, I, the leader of a semi-military resistance organization for over 150 years, a killer, assassin, sniper, fighter, and monster, had never anticipated adding the label of "wife" to my repertoire, especially not for Damon.
Yet, history sometimes made me a bit wary, as I knew I was hardly Damon's ideal woman. However, the Salvatores, well, they were less shallow. They had learned just how enjoyable it could be to dominate me, this tiny, skinny thing, fuck me into bits, using their bigger, stronger bodies to keep me down with their entire beings, and this had clearly made them quite inventive.
Still, I had no idea what the future held. Would it be filled with happiness and rainbows, or endless arguments, shouting, and frustration followed by bedtime action? The future was ours to make or break, and I felt no apprehension or fear, only a profound curiosity, as this entire experience was entirely new to me.