Limitless Evolution As a Snake

The million credits stayed in the casino’s refundable meeting account, which was a cruel thing for money to do when I had already imagined several excellent ways to spend it.

Lyra made that point twice over the call. The buyer had produced the appointment token we issued after the earlier offer, cleared the lobby checks and waited in the public reception area with four matching yellow ducks.

Nobody had sold the casino. Nobody had handed over private keys, ownership rights or permission to wander upstairs, and I liked Lyra more with every careful limit she listed.

”You were being wonderfully difficult, love, and I meant that with all the affection a man could feel while being denied imaginary spending money.”

”You could feel it while reading the terms you already agreed to,” she said. ”I had them open, and the refund condition hadn’t become optional because you wanted something shiny.”

[System: She’s got you there, mate. You’ve mentally spent a bloke’s refundable deposit on twelve terrible ideas, and at least nine of them need a building permit and a priest.]

Only the mechanical cow needed both, and I hadn’t even bought the engine yet.

Bridget guided me upstairs once security finished the first statements. The clinic had cleared me for home rest, which apparently meant I could travel between a padded seat and another padded seat while being insulted by everyone who cared.

Our apartment smelled of the soup the cow lady had sent up. I settled beside the bed while Bridget set the bowl within easy reach, then caught her looking at the new bandage around my jaw.

”The tree had very strong opinions, sweetheart, but I still thought the face retained enough charm to qualify for dinner company.”

”The face was welcome,” she said. ”The decision to stay on the ship needed a longer conversation, preferably after the face finished chewing without trying to look brave.”

I ate slowly and told her I had stayed because I wanted the collection boss to regret threatening us. When she asked about killing him, I gave her the same answer I had given on the phone, without adding a clean excuse around the ugly part.

She didn’t promise that love meant agreeing with me. She said she needed to know when I chose danger, rather than discovering it from a call that started with flooding and ended with a patient count.

I promised to tell her. It wasn’t a promise to become sensible, and neither of us pretended she would believe that one, but it was something I could actually do if I stopped treating honesty like a loss.

[System: Good start, champ. Next time you want revenge, put it on the calendar before the bloody ambulance booking instead of surprising everyone with the package deal.]

I would consider a shared calendar if you promised not to fill it with drinking reminders and crimes marked as team exercises.

Cherry joined the call from Twawi with a picture of two oversized pet bowls she had found. One said Good Boy and the other said Probably, which seemed like the closest anyone had come to a useful classification for Dazza.

I laughed hard enough to hurt my jaw, then told her I loved the second bowl. She looked pleased before immediately asking whether I had arranged tomorrow’s food and holding fee.

I called the survey depot with the girls still listening. The keeper confirmed Dazza remained in the rated pen, had eaten the approved scrap and hadn’t developed a sudden respect for loose hinges.

I paid the next hundred-credit holding day, leaving fifty thousand two hundred twenty in my own account. A short camera check showed Dazza pressing several eyes toward the food hatch, which made me promise another walk when the clinic cleared me for it.

Bridget reminded me that a promise to walk him didn’t move him into the club. I agreed, because the dancers already provided enough alarming security for one evening and Dazza still needed proper training before meeting customers.

Lyra said the buyer could wait under the agreed lobby rules while I rested. Cherry told Bridget where I usually hid discomfort behind jokes, and I complained that my girlfriends had formed a deeply unfair information-sharing arrangement.

”We had always been capable of talking to each other, Matt,” Cherry said. ”The skills just made carrying the furniture easier when you needed somewhere soft to land.”

That one caught me without a joke ready. I told them I missed them, let the words stay simple, and listened while they described the ordinary pieces of their night I had nearly been too busy surviving to hear.

After the call, Bridget put her phone aside and sat close enough for me to rest my head against her. I thanked her again, this time without attaching a compliment that tried to change the subject.

She kissed me gently, then asked whether I wanted company while I rested. I told her I wanted her there, and we drew the curtain, left the noise downstairs and kept the rest of that quiet time to ourselves.

There was no new reward window for choosing each other, and I left the quiet alone instead of searching for one. She had asked me to stay, I had stayed, and that small promise felt better than another impressive story about escaping.

”Rough,” Bridget says again, like I didn’t hear her the first time, like the word didn’t just short-circuit every working brain cell I have left. ”I want you to actually mean it this time, Matt.”

I’m coiled there at the foot of the bed, dark scales catching the low light, and I swear my whole body just stops working for a second.

She’s sitting on the edge of the bed in nothing but her underwear, wings fluttering slow and lazy behind her, looking up at me with those big blue eyes like she just asked me to pass the salt.

”You sure about that?” I ask, and my voice comes out way smoother than I feel on the inside, because on the inside I am absolutely losing it. She wants rough. I’ve been treating her like she’s made of glass this whole time because, newsflash, she kind of is. Fairy bones. Tiny frame. Wings that probably tear if you look at them wrong.

”I’m sure.” She tilts her head, hair sliding over one shoulder, and smiles the kind of smile that’s way too sweet for what just came out of her mouth. ”I know you’re hurt. I’m keeping that in mind. But I don’t want gentle tonight. I want to feel you.”

I step slither and let my tail reach out to brush her cheek. She leans into it immediately, eyes fluttering shut, and the small sound she makes goes straight through me like a live wire.

”Okay,” I say. ”Rough. Got it.”