Page 18 of The Alien Minotaur's Bride

I'd figure out how to feel about it later.

CHAPTER 6

I FEEL LIKE A DAIRY COW

I woke to pain.

Not sharp pain; nothing was bleeding, nothing was broken. This was deeper, duller, a heavy ache that centred in my chest and radiated outward. My breasts felt as if they'd doubled in size overnight, swollen and tight, the skin stretched so taut it seemed to hum with pressure.

I lay still for a moment and let myself surface properly. The dwelling was quiet around me, the warm air carrying that faint organic scent I was starting to associate with Khorreth construction. The pallet beneath me was soft, piled with furs that held heat, and I was naked under them, because at some point during the night my station coveralls had become unbearable against my skin.

The heat had broken. I remembered that much: the fever-pitch need fading into something manageable, Keth's knot finally softening inside me, the two of us separating with a wet sound that should have been mortifying and somehow wasn't. I'd slept after that. Deep, dreamless, the kind of sleep you fall into when your body has been wrung out completely.

And now I was awake, and my breasts hurt, and I was alone.

I sat up slowly. The motion made my chest ache worse, the weight of my breasts shifting, and I looked down at myself with a kind of detached fascination.

They were definitely bigger. Fuller. The skin was flushed pink, the veins visible beneath the surface, my nipples swollen and dark. When I cupped one, carefully, so carefully, I could feel the pressure inside, the sense of something waiting to be released.

Milk, I thought. I was full of milk.

The door opened.

Keth ducked through, his horns clearing the frame by bare inches. He was carrying something, a tray, I realised, with food on it, scaled for me rather than him. His eyes found me at once, swept down to my hands still cupping my breast, and he breathed in sharp.

"You're uncomfortable," he said.

"That's one word for it."

He set the tray on the low table near the pallet and crouched beside me, bringing his eyes level with mine. I could smell him now, really smell him, not just the general musk I'd noticed before but the layers underneath. Concern. Warmth. Anticipation.

I could read his mood through his scent. When had that started?

"The production has established," he said. "Your body will fill every few hours. It requires relief."

"I figured that part out, thanks."

"I can help." His voice was careful, neutral. "Or I can show you how to relieve it yourself. The choice is yours."

There it was again. The choice. He kept giving me choices, even when my options were narrow, even when my body was screaming at me to take the path of least resistance. It was starting to irritate me, mostly because I couldn't work out the angle.

"If I do it myself," I said slowly, "what happens?"

"The pressure releases. The discomfort fades." He paused. "But your body will not settle the same way. When I tend to you, your scent changes. Your heartbeat slows. The production comes easier." A beat. "Your body prefers me."

"My body doesn't get a vote."

"It always gets a vote." He reached out, his hand hovering near my shoulder. Not touching. Waiting. "Let me help you. Please."

Please. The word sounded strange in his low rumbling voice, stranger still rendered flat by the translator. He was asking. Actually asking, as if my answer mattered, as if he would genuinely walk away if I told him to.

The pressure in my breasts was getting worse. The ache had sharpened into something that was starting to affect my breathing, each inhale pressing against the swollen tissue.

"Fine," I said. "Help."

He laid me back against the furs.

His hands were gentle, guiding me down, arranging me so I was propped slightly upright against the pile of bedding. The position put my breasts on display, full and heavy, the nipples tight and flushed, and I felt a flush of embarrassment that I pushed down ruthlessly.