Page 43 of The Hornet’s Hucow Pet

But there’s no rush. I dry her and carry her to bed, where I rub her muscles to ease the pain until she falls soundly asleep.

The slowness is part of the salve. I will not try to take the pain from her. She will release it in her own time.

And if she decides to keep hold of it for what it means… for the memory of that little blue planet she lost…

Then I will carry it with her for the rest of my days.

EPILOGUE

NOVA

Three months later

Zyren’s office is even more cheerful and cozy than I remembered. Maybe it’s because I now see all the hidden softness between his seemingly cold actions, and all the little details he adds to put people at ease—the fresh, fragrant flowers near the window, the plush rugs underfoot, the chairs at various heights to accommodate different types of sapients.

There’s also how he hums when he thinks nobody can hear him, and the way he remembers every patient’s favorite beverage, having it ready for them just as they arrive—even accounting for habitual tardiness and early-arrivers.

When others are in the office, Zyren and I appear remarkably polite for owner and hucow. I’ve taken on a role somewhere between shop cat and secretary, greeting people warmly when they arrive.

If I pout enough, Zyren will give me some finance reports to work on or a chemistry problem, and these keep me busy during his appointments.

Others compliment me or Zyren on how little he tenses when they pat my head, or feed me a bit of fruit, or otherwise speak affectionately to me—hucows are irresistibly cute to most Arthropoids, it seems.

But I know the truth.

I’ve been railed out of my mind on every flat surface in this office—and a few not-so-flat ones, as well. Zyren is exceptionally jealous, and I love the way he snaps when we’re alone again, wrapping me in that bruising grip and kissing me fiercely until I’m full of his cum or his eggs or both.

More than once, Zyren has lost track of the clock, and only his telepathic sense of his client approaching spared us from embarrassment.

Whenever I answer the door still breathless and red-cheeked with my dress askew, thrill rises in my chest. Zyren enjoys that, so he takes yet more risks.

I love the days I spend full of his eggs, pampered and useless save for how he fucks me as he pleases. Those days are my precious respite from pain. Zyren has strictly limited me to one brood per week so I don’t overly tax my body, but that doesn’t stop me from begging, nor does it stop my begging from making his abdomen spasm, dumping a whole clutch of eggs on the floor. That’s plenty satisfying in its own way.

Zyren does ultimately end up using my milk as he’d planned, formulating medicines. Sometimes he even collects it fresh, tugging at my nipples until I fill a glass for his patient to drink, washing down a bitter tonic.

However much of my milk he gives away, as soon as we’re alone, he drinks ten times that from me as if to prove I’m still his. I love his roughness when he’s like that, love how it means I’ve strained his usually meticulous control.

A couple weeks after he returned to seeing patients, somebody brought in a limp little ball of fluff. The poor thing had gotten into a fight over a fruit rind and lost terribly. Zyren identified it immediately as a Howling, and the patient asked if it could be helped. Zyren agreed, of course—I know all too well the weakness he has for cute, pathetic little creatures.

The first thing Zyren had to do was shave it, revealing a ridiculous little lemur-like creature with chubby limbs, an oversized mouth like a frog’s, and a tail three times as long as its body. Its wide, frightened eyes scanned the shop warily, and Zyren asked me to come soothe and distract it as he cleaned its wounds.

I shared my lunch, feeding it bits of fruit and speaking softly to it. The Howling calmed, and when Zyren finally released it, the little thing jumped into my arms, wrapping its long tail around my wrist.

“Can I keep it?” I asked.

“Only as long as it takes to get better,” Zyren sternly replied. “You’ll soon learn why they’re called Howlings.”

I nursed the little thing back to health and spoiled him rotten. His fur grew back, and he returned to a pinkish puffball with giant eyes and a long, tuft-tipped tail.

Every time Zyren went to release him back into the wild, he faked a limp and mewed pitifully in my arms.

All it took was one glance at my pleading eyes, and Zyren relented, letting the Howling stay.

It’s been clear for at least the last month that the little creature, which I named Fizzgig after my second-favorite movie, won’t be going anywhere. Though, that doesn’t stop Zyren from making his idle threats whenever Fizzgig lets out too loud of an awooo! begging for food.

No amount of pleading eyes, from either Fizz or myself, can convince Zyren to bring Fizz back to our house. So, the little Howling diligently guards the shop while we’re away, then calls loudly for us every morning as it hears us approaching.

Zyren pretends to merely tolerate the little creature, but I’ve caught him sneaking Fizzgig treats more than once.