Apparently what everyone’s told me about a hob’s wing powder is true: it basically makes you go into heat. When the pair returned to the couch, she’d sighed happily and lazily as she’d sank back on the cushions, her hair messed up. Beside her, Dohrein sank down too, looking much, much more relaxed.
I should probably be thinking that Dohrein is a total meanie. But he’s normally super non-reactive—and to have a guy so crazy in love with you that he even sees Jonohkada as a threat…? I sigh wistfully, imagining it. Gracie is such a lucky witch.
Hearing me sigh—loudly—for, oh, maybe the four-hundredth time, makes everyone else in the room groan again.
“Shut her up!” Mandi complains.
“Rein’s timing her,” Gracie says. And I know this means they’re really doing it, really timing me. And that also means she really will kick my ass if I don’t suck it up and pull it together soon.
“How many more minutes do I have?” I ask.
“You’ll know when my boot is planted in your—”
“Yeah, yeah, okay. I got it,” I sigh.
“Is punting a pining female a medically approved method of treatment?” Dohrein asks, sounding stymied.
“Only if you’re a power-drunk pregnant psycho,” I mutter.
“It is for Isla,” Gracie states, and nobody pipes up to say otherwise. Cowards. (That, or they’re sick of hearing me whine and they agree with the pregnant British Napoleon.) Gracie’s got some sort of sewing project in her hands—probably a Voodoo doll—and she’s answering all of her husband’s nosy questions as he observes me ‘pining.’ On the second sofa adjacent to the couple is Mandi—her man-cat is not on the couch with her, he’s claimed the corner of the room closest to her, his shoulders propping up the wall, looking perfectly mysterious as he stays in the shadows both figuratively as well as literally—and Angie’s on the couch parked opposite from Mandi, and her mate, Arokh is standing, tall thigh propped against the couch arm, but not looking very at-ease. Early on, he refused to involve himself in our discussion of my Rakhii-love woes. Something about feeling disloyal to his brethren. He’s also struggling with others being so close to Angie. She’s pregnant, and to his mind, she’s therefore super damn delicate and can’t fend off female attackers, should she receive any. We’ve assured him that none of us ladies are going to claw up a pregnant woman, and he’s taking us at our word as best he can. It’s actually really sweet to see him stress about it. You know, if you can stand to see that level of cute alien coupledom.
Me? Hell no, I’m so relationship-miserable that watching them be all loving and protective and supportive of each other is groan-worthy.
I toe off my socks and fold my arm under my head, wriggling to get more comfortable.
Not far from me, Jonohkada frowns at my position change, because he’s been trying to draw me. This isn’t like a Jack’s French girls session; I have both of my legs for one thing, and Jonoh draws women’s body shapes so that he and Gracie and other design-minded hobs can create custom-fitted fashionwear.
Never having met a man who possessed an eye for fashion like Jonoh, when he asked if he could sketch my shape (on account of me being stretched out and moping and still as the dead, I guess) I innocently asked if he was gay, and Gracie accidentally kicked me in the head. For those of you who don’t need your brains clobbered today, I can tell you that the answer is Jonohkada is not gay. He’s apparently a perfectly straight lover of sewing women’s clothing, and he’s only single because no woman has seen the wonderfulness that is Jonoh. Jonoh turns his tablet around to show me and Gracie an outfit that he’s already started designing.
“Oooh, very Kyudo attire-y,” Gracie muses, eyes flicking over the lines he’s drawn.
“Translator’s not working,” I complain, sprawling myself out further.
From the other couch, Mandi explains, “Japanese archer. A type of martial arts.”
I raise my head enough to look at her, and then I notice her outfit has a similar look. “Huh. Neat.” I wave to Jonohkada. “I’m good with this. Nice job, sir.”
He smiles at me affably and turns his tablet back around to continue his sketching. “What colors are your favorites?”
“Right now, my favorite color is the gorgeous green of Bash’s eyes.” I whimper to myself, sounding like a lovesick puppy. Which prompts Jonoh to sigh.
He disapproves of Bash, but only because Bash had