“I will make these Eggs Antonio for breakfast and lamb stew for lunch and perhaps dinner if there is any leftover,” he said, instead of answering my question.
And damn if his Eggs Antonio (also known as Eggs Benedict with scrambled eggs outside the Detroit kingdom house) weren’t delicious. Probably because unlike me, Damianos had enough attention span to actually follow a written-out recipe from start to finish.
I scarfed down every bite.
But then my eyes fell on the kitchen’s other knobbed door. More specifically the new bit of hardware now attached to it. A padlock.
He’d asked me to trust him…and then made sure I would, rather I wanted to or not. I shouldn’t be surprised. That’s Damianos. The real Damianos.
I had to remember that.
Other than the padlock, our lives went back to the same old routine, but this time with sex.
We still go on walks every morning after breakfast. Or as I began to call it after another four weeks passed my daily waddle.
Damianos shortens his stride and slows his pace to a crawl to accommodate me. He also began complimenting me excessively on still being able to walk after I reached my third month.
And when I told him I was able to carry what feels like a thirty-pound medicine ball because all of the strength training I used to do, he says, “It is as if both of our designers collaborated to give me you as a gift, one I will treasure always.”
As compliments go, that one didn’t suck. And it was a lot better than all the people who used to try to body shame me because I don’t look like other girls who work out regularly.
But his compliments don’t mean much, I often remind myself. I’m only pregnant with the heaviest baby ever because he manipulated me and so many other people to knock me up. I’ve got to remember that.
He reveres me all day and (in my best R&B bass baritone) all night. But he’ll never give me the chance to compare him to anyone else.
He cooks my favorite things…after he god spoke my chef and the Fenrir Wolf knows who else.
He grants my every wish, except letting me out of this collar.
I’ve got to remember that.
I’ve got to remember that.
I’ve got to, got to, got to remember that.
“Reverence, whatever are you doing?”
That morning while I’m making breakfast, the dragon king's voice suddenly appears in my head, frantic and harsh.
I look up from the stove, to find him at the door leading out to the living room, his eyes glowing even brighter than usual.
“Oh, I’m making us grits and, like, a ton of ham for breakfast,” I answer. “What’s up with you?”
His glowing eyes shift from me to the stove. “Why would you do that? I am your acolyte everlasting, especially in these late days of your pregnancy. You should have left the making of these grits and ham to me.”
“Wow, no thank you,” I answer. “These are my Great Granddad’s grits, boy. And while I’m all for super-evolving both our races like Xenon said, there are some things black people just aren’t capable of letting white people cook for them. Especially if that white person isn’t from the south like my Great Granddad. Or an actual white person at all. Because he’s a dragon from another planet.”
It’s a joke. I’m expecting him to rumble laugh like he does so often. But he just stands there, staring at me with a wounded look. Like I’ve stabbed him in the neck again.
“When I woke up and saw you were gone from our bed, I thought you had made another attempt to run. I feared you were hurt.”
“Oh…” I say, suddenly getting it.
I turn down the burner. “Listen, I get it. For the first few years after my dads got back from the Viking age, Fensa and me would freak out every time they left the house. But…”
I gaze up at him, making my eyes soft and sincere. “Do you see how fucking pregnant I am? I can barely waddle around the house. You do not have to worry about me running away. And even if I did, all you would have to do is walk out the door. You’d probably catch up with my slow ass in one or two minutes tops. You wouldn’t even have to pop your wings.”
He gives me a chiding look, but then gives in with the rumble laugh I was expecting before. “How you amuse me, Reverence. In truth, I am eager to try these grits.”
“In truth, they are going to blow your fucking mind. Nobody on earth made grits better than my great granddad. Like all black people say that about whoever made them grits growing up, but this is the only case where it’s true. Fight me.”
“Why would I…oh, this is another one of your euphemisms,” Damianos realizes before he finishes asking the question. “I will make the ham while you attend to the sacred dish only black people can make.”