I never expected my little Omega to create such stunning artwork.
Deva, too, was surprised. Beta artists spend years cultivating their talent. I got the impression Deva was a little irked by how fast Emma seemed to develop the knack, but then Emma told me how she’s an artist back on Earth, and has also been training for a long time.
They just use different materials there. And apparently, their pictures don’t move.
Emma is now determined to paint people. Ulfarri paint anything—food, landscapes, abstract shapes—but they have always refrained from drawing people or animals. There is a superstition that animating life forms with the magic dust is a bad omen. That giving them life on canvas will somehow cause death in the real world.
My little Omega is determined to prove everyone wrong. Years of superstition will be turned upside down if she gets her way. Deva is horrified—as are any other Betas she tells of this plan. But Emma is headstrong, and will not be deterred.
I support her in this, as I enjoy indulging her where I can, but even I drew the line when she asked to paint me. After all, what if she’s wrong?
I bade her practice on other creatures first. Insects, perhaps. Or the Stone King, she offered, which made me smile. She took an instant dislike to him, which only confirmed for me how well suited we are. I’ve never liked him, either.
Her rendering of him was awesome; she captured his likeness so perfectly that the painting made my skin crawl the way it does when the real king is nearby. Once she’d strewn the canvas with the magic dust, we both held our breath and waited and, sure enough, his eyes began to gleam ever so slightly from within the dark shadow of his hood.
Emma let out a little gasp. “He’s so creepy,” she said, stepping closer to me. I don’t think she’s noticed how she seeks my proximity whenever she feels unease, but I have.
In any case, the Stone King is still alive—much to our disappointment—and Deva was forced to concede that perhaps the superstition preventing Ulfarri from painting living creatures was just that: baseless superstition.
This concession was swiftly followed by joy at the thought that she and other artists can now paint animals and Ulfarri to their hearts’ content.
Here for such a short time, and already my Emma is changing the planet.
I look across the table, admiring the little Omega who has so quickly become my whole world. She’s so beautiful, with her golden hair cascading over her shoulders, the light from the orbs making her skin glow pale pink. She’s wearing a traditional Ulfarri gown which outlines her round, delicious breasts.
Even though I am no longer in rut, my cock stiffens as I picture her naked. Is it my imagination, or are her breasts fuller than they were before? Is it too soon for her to be pregnant?
The thought of her belly growing swollen with my seed makes my chest tighten. I never knew what longing was before this Hoo-man entered my life.
“Can you pass me the pitcher?” I ask her, needing to wet my suddenly dry throat.
She looks up at me, her fork paused in mid-air on the way to her mouth. My Emma is a fussy eater. She has yet to truly enjoy any of our dishes, which is why I have the royal cook trying out all kinds of different recipes. I even had Emma describe an Earth recipe to her in an attempt to recreate a taste of her home, but since the ingredients were so different, the end result was disappointing.
“The pitcher?” Emma says, even though I know full well that she heard me.
I suppress a sigh. She’s in a mood. I can feel it vibrating through our bond—defiance, and something else. Anger? Or is it frustration? “Yes. I’m thirsty.”
Her huge, sky blue eyes lock onto mine as she lifts her free hand and slowly, deliberately, never breaking eye contact, pulls the pitcher even further away from me.
I give her a warning growl. “Emma.”
“Yes?” She feigns innocence.
“I will not ask you again. The pitcher. Now. No!” I bark at the servant who has already begun to glide forward. She shrinks back into the shadows.
“Are you thirsty?” Emma asks. She still hasn’t moved. The fork is still hovering in mid-air. “Do you want something to drink?”
What is she playing at? My fingers tighten on my thighs. Normally, I would not tolerate such insolence from a female but Emma is my mate. My queen. Her happiness is my happiness. I’m determined to find out the cause of this strange behavior before I nip it in the bud. “Yes. I do,” I say, forcing my voice to remain low and calm.
“Well,Iwant a latte. I want to call my family. I want to go home. I want so many things that I’ll never have again!” Her voice is shrill and rising, and her gaze is suddenly shimmering with tears. “You can just reach over and get that fucking pitcher yourself, but I don’t have that option. You won’t let mehavethat option! So get your own damn drink! At least you have that ability!”
Before I can reply, before I can react, there’s a hideous scraping noise as she pushes the chair back and, dropping the fork with a clatter, she spins on her heel and runs out of the room.
The defiance in our bond has vanished. It’s been replaced with a deep, heart-wrenching sorrow. I rub over the sudden ache in my chest, speechless.
This is the first time Emma has actually raised her voice to me in anything other than pleasure. And instead of making me angry, it makes my heart hurt.
I’m the cause of her misery, even though I have been doing everything in my power to make her happy.
