Page 57 of Smart@ss Cyborg

C’vest closes his eyes briefly. His brain ripples in the areas for intense pain. “Yes.”

“I’m sorry,” I say. I leave with the plates, and experience only a little trouble when I have no hands to turn the doorknob to reach Becky. To my surprise, C’vest guessed at my predicament and reached me before I could decide a course of action, opening the door for me.

“Thank you again,” I tell him. “And good job eliminating a threat to the womenfolk—and their men—of this region.”

“You’re welcome,” he mutters, and takes his leave.

Becky rouses as I slip inside.

“Hello, my dear wife,” I greet.

She thanks me for bringing a meal, and tells me that I did a good job making it.

“C’vest made the food items, but I carried the plates,” I’m forced to admit. Next time I will insist that I be the one to prepare Becky a sandwich. I desire to be the one who earns her approval and admiration.

“Well, I appreciate it,” she tells me.

“I feel a supreme amount of pleasure to receive your praise.” I sit on the chair near the bed and bite into my sandwich.

Becky no more than raises hers to her mouth when our tadpole—now looking more like a froglet, earning herself an upgrade—rouses and begins to fuss.

Becky sets down her meal immediately. She carefully takes up our froglet, and checks the cloth square affixed to her rump. “Wet already?” she murmurs. “The midwife said it could be twelve hours before you did this, hon.” She looks around the room searchingly.

I’ve set my sandwich on my plate and set my plate on the floor near my chair. When I rise to my feet, Becky’s gaze shoots to me.

I smile at her encouragingly. “What can I do to assist in seeing to our offspring’s elimination needs?”

Becky frowns. Almost immediately following this expression, she shakes her head. “Nothing. Eat.”

Now it’s my turn to frown. As I watch Becky tuck our froglet protectively to her chest—and dart a look at me as if I’m an interloper—I feel… pained.

I recall the strange reaction Becky had when I looked upon C’vest and Stella’s son. When she saw me looking at the way he is blended and not purely human.

Looking so Yonderin.

My eyes alight on our daughter. Who is purely human. And just as lovely an alien as her mother.

“I want to help you care for her,” I announce.

Becky opens her mouth, but says nothing. She shakes her head dismissively.

She won’t let me help with our baby? At all?

“Why not?” I ask, hurt.

Becky looks over at me, perhaps because she hears the stress fracture in my voice. “She’s not yours, William.”

Her words strike me like a blow to the chest.

She continues as if she doesn’t even realize she’s wounded me. “It’s impossible to get a man to take care of his own kids. No one would expect an adoptive father to do it.”

It takes me several attempts to speak. Finally I clear my throat roughly and manage, “That’s flawed thinking. You are my mate. I care for you to the point of love. I want to help you. And our froglet is half of you. I love it too.”

Becky gapes at me. Our froglet begins to fuss louder. Becky’s brain becomes a storm of activity. “She’s not a froglet! And she’s not anit—she’s a she! And… I saw how you looked at Stella’s baby,” she accuses, her voice low and shaky, catching me off guard. She sounds… heartsick. “You were,” Becky says, her eyeballs shiny with unshed emotion,“enraptured,William! You want your own child.”

“I have one!” I roar.

Our baby curls up with an indignant cry.

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