Shrugging, I keep my back to her and actually do count them. Fifteen. I probably ought to make contact with Oz and have him create some more. I miss Ozias and Sayer and Jareth and the others. If Oz were here, he’d busy himself with a project and answer endless questions of mine with extreme patience. And Sayer? He’d just listen to me. Sayer is one of those morts who seems to know what you need and silently offers it. Something about him is calming, which is why I loved it anytime he co-piloted with me. And Jareth? He’d get angry with me and help me break stuff that Ozias would end up fixing later.
I miss home.
The only home I’ve known since that horrible disease stole Mama from me.
My body trembles, anger blazing through me hot and violent. Sure, I rekking made the big mistake. I took those pods from the ship because I wanted our people to have hope. I wanted to make a difference. I wanted to help. And even though Breccan was angry, it was the best thing that ever happened to them—to all the matched morts. They found love and happiness. I just had to fly up into the sky and catch it for us.
None of the females are grateful.
They don’t understand the pain we have inside.
Everyone is all looking for the same thing.
Happiness.
I allowed myself to hope for one moment that Willow wanted that too. But, just like the tanning beds and Kevins and every other thing the aliens speak of, I didn’t get it. I didn’t understand her intentions with me.
I was something to be consumed and expelled.
“I…I’m sorry. That was a low blow.”
Her words quell some of my fury. I can’t offer her a response, just a shrug of my shoulders.
“Turn around and look at me,” she says in exasperation. “Please.”
With a huff, I swivel around. I’m tall—like Mama—and tower over her shorter frame. She has to crane her neck up to look at me in these close quarters. I can feel the heat from her body as it singes my bare flesh.
“You can call me every horrible name you can think up, Willow,” I utter, frowning. “But don’t ever say anything unkind about my mother. She was the best mort I ever knew. Like your mother.”
3
Willow
It doesn’t take much guesswork to draw the parallel between how he feels about his mother—and mine—to how he was beginning to feel about me. Before—well, before, he’d looked at me like I hung the moon. Now, the censure in his gaze feels like I’m less than the slop he’d accused my food of being.
I shouldn’t care. I’m not the one who royally fucked up.
But maybe I shouldn’t have said those things.
I shake my head, trying to clear the self-doubt out of my thoughts. “You can’t seriously be calling me a bad person just because I won’t sleep with you again?”
The humor that is so often present in his eyes, the lightness of his smile, is gone. “Of course not. I don’t always understand your human customs, but I would never, ever force a woman to do something she didn’t want to do. Had I understood you weren’t receptive to my attention I wouldn’t have mated with you against your will. I would never do that.”
I rip my hands through my hair. “Let’s just forget about it, okay? I should have been clearer. We both should have. We’ll put it behind us, and we won’t ever talk about it again. Deal?”
He hesitates and I’m surprised to find his gaze doesn’t flicker to my breasts. “Ever?”
“Ever,” I repeat firmly. “I was looking for a release. You know? To ease tension. It was very stressful at the prison and I’ve been alone for a really long time. You were there and I thought we could both…scratch the itch or whatever. I didn’t mean to make it into this whole big thing. I certainly never intended to make a baby with you, that’s for sure.”
Based on his expression, the concept is…well completely alien to him. I guess considering the life he came from, it would be. According to everything I’ve learned about the morts, returning their species to their former glory is pretty high on their list. “You don’t want mortlings?”
The question catches me by surprise. “I guess I’ve never really given it much thought. I’ve been looking for my mother for so long having children has never been on my radar.”
“I want a big family. Dozens of little mortlings. I’ll teach them to captain the Mayvina and explore Mortuus at my side. With their mother of course.”
“Dozens?” I say with a laugh. “Your poor wife!”
“You say that now, but she’d be the most loved female on the planet. There’s nothing I wouldn’t do for my mate, whoever she’ll be.”
He’s not looking at me as he speaks, well, he is, but it’s as though he’s seeing something in his mind. Imagining his future family, perhaps. It sends a zing through my stomach, though I don’t know why. I hadn’t been lying when I said I haven’t given much thought to having a family. It’s simply not smart to reproduce on Earth II unless you’re incredibly wealthy as you’d be condemning your offspring to a hard life.