Page 27 of Her Tortured Beasts

“She’s not allowed,” I snap as Emmerson hands her a blue pencil. “Pets don’t read or write.”

Emmerson huffs in annoyance. “Why? She has hands.”

“Because I said so.”

“Butwhy?”

I give him a look of warning, which he returns in defiance. So I try another tactic. “Come over here and play last card with me.”

“Only ifshecan play with us.”

“Pets don’t play games,” I say.

Sissy exhales irritably where she’s reading some type of smut on her e-reader on the couch opposite me.

“Can she sit by my side, then?” Emmerson narrows his eyes at me. When did I become the boring uncle?

I sigh. “Fine.”

He cackles like he’s won a battle and grabs Spawn by its arm and leads it from the corner towards my table. To my utter surprise and disappointment, instead of taking the armchair opposite me, Emmerson prods Spawn into the seat and perches himself on the arm. “She’ll play my cards as I command.”

From beside me, my mother chuckles over a goblet of her nightly medicine. “Clever hatchling,” she says proudly. “He’ll be winning chess against you next, Xander.”

“I don’t doubt it,” I say wryly. “Let’s get on with it, then.”

“What do you do all day?” Delilah says, putting down her colouring and coming over to observe.

“Paperwork, planning,” I say, looking at my cards.

“Not you, Uncle Xander,” Delilah says pointedly. “Aurelia.”

My jaw goes slack as I stare at the hatchlings, but no one is giving me any heed. In fact, Delilah is stroking Spawn’s face as if she’s fascinated.

“Soft skin,” Delilah says. Then she frowns at Spawn’s chest “What happened there?” She brushes her fingers across the healed scratch under its clavicle.

“I managed to hurt myself,” Spawn says quietly. “It’s just a scratch.”

“Did you put antiseptic over it?” Delilah asks, peering at the cut. “Mum, where’s the antiseptic cream?”

“She doesn’t need it,” I frown because I don’t understand why she hasn’t completely healed it.

I am ignored.

The twins are now very concerned about Spawn, fussing and grumping over the cut. Delilah finds a first aid kit and brandishes the tube of cream at me. “You do it,” she says, with one hand on her hip. “She’syourpet.”

“Yeah,” Emmerson nods. “Do it, Uncle Xander. Be responsible.”

Spawn is fighting hard to maintain a blank expression, and I’m fighting a mad growl. Under the frowns of my niece and nephew, I reluctantly take the cream and stare at it.

“Unscrew the cap,” Delilah demands. “Quick, before she dies from it.”

“Here.” Emmerson snatches the tube from me, unscrews the cap, and squirts out a bit on my finger.

I’m left staring at the white cream in a sort of shock.

“It goes here.” Delilah points to the long slash and taps the skin above it.

Spawn goes still as Emmerson grabs my finger and leads me towards its skin. I brush the cream onto Spawn’s cut. It tenses under my touch. The skin is warm and I’m forced to scent it, being so close. It takes a deep breath, moving the mounds of its breasts, the cleavage so close to my face.

---