Damon took a breath. Several days had passed since they'd received the snippets, and the initial shock having subsided, they'd reviewed the clips repeatedly—though not sharing them widely, as it wasn't deemed useful—attempting to decipher every scrap of information. Damon looked at the assembled Salvatores, Wulfe, Adam, Charles, and the others. In their so-called war room, they talked and planned, generating some ideas but no significant breakthroughs. Talking and planning helped, but they needed more.
First, however, it was time to summarize their findings. They had analyzed each woman's experiences, attempting to identify the type of trauma each had endured. It quickly became apparent that a nearly personalized approach to treatment would be necessary, given the individualized effects. They had observed the women carefully to gather further evidence for their theories.
Damon looked at the men around the table. "Fine," he began, "first, we have Katherine and Elena."
The room felt suffocating; even the pale green gauzy curtains swaying in the breeze couldn't provide freshness, and the white tufted rugs felt heavy and oppressive. Damon realized this was all in his mind, and perhaps once they resolved this, life would be good, the sun would shine, and this room would simply be a room, not a tomb of suffering.
He continued, "They have significant self-worth issues as women. Their body image is shattered; they feel used, imperfect, raped, not pure and innocent, but almost like…old whores. Like 'second-class pussies,'—those guards, and the drugs—those words really sank in. I've noticed that if you compliment them, they don't believe it at all. Yesterday, I told Elena I liked her hair, her style, her blouse. She nearly fell to her knees, expecting me to jerk off and squirt all over her as payment for the compliment."
He pressed his head in his hands. Damon was angry. These two women didn't deserve this, none of them did. They were protectors, and this trauma resonated deeply within their bond.
Number Two muttered something inaudible. Damon said, "We need to find a way to restore their body image, make them healthier, and stop this ridiculous pay-for-compliments nonsense. Ideally, we'd find some trauma or repressed memories to work with, but since there are none, this will take time. Perhaps hypnosis or something similar? Katherine is older than I and cunning, so I'm not sure it would work on her."
Wulfe nodded. "We'll keep thinking," he said. "Anything."
Damon continued, "Mimosa and Shadow are still very animalistic. Yesterday, Mimosa asked for dog treats, and Shadow tried to get me to lift the restriction on their wolf forms. We need to awaken their human sides, teach them touch. They're almost more human than animal—or maybe we're all animals. But they're not lapdogs; they're not meant to be trained like German Shepherds."
Number Four nodded. "Seduction will be difficult," she said. "They're skittish, and the sensation in their pussies is still altered. There's still some scarring, and the nerves haven't fully regrown, so orgasm isn't likely—at least, not easily."
Damon sighed. Time, that nasty thing, was all they needed, or at least for now. "We are seducers," he said. "We'll get it done. If it took me two years with Mimi, we can do this with these two. We have plenty of time. Now, everyone can be friendly—not too shy, but not too pushy."
Something began to form in Number Two's mind; he frowned slightly, but the idea didn't quite click yet.
Damon said, "Okay, let's get some coffee and take it to the females. They should rest and recover. No need for them to come to the kitchen—coffee in bed, especially for Mimi. That infection was nasty; she's still frail and far from fully recovered."
Number Two nodded. "I'll take care of that," he said. "You make sure Mariella and the others are okay."
They began piling trays with treats—only those that weren't too harmful for the females—along with plenty of coffee and other drinks.
In one of the craft rooms, I worked on a large piece of parchment, a new hobby. I was attempting to restore and add to a piece that followed the latest viral trend: artists created parchment in an old-fashioned way, often pro bono for causes like orphan animal support. This project featured Fred Q., a famous painter known for his realistic depictions of everyday life in Manhattan.
He might paint a scene where people were just walking in the streets, going on with their everyday life. His work, created with paints and brushes, was not digital, but was highly valued for his exceptional recall. He spearheaded this project, with thirty of us—his "helpers"—each receiving a parchment for three weeks.
He sent us paints and brushes, having originally painted a picture on each parchment, then almost completely wiping it out before photographing it. As the first participant, I had to discern the original painting and add to it before passing it on. After everyone contributed, a grand party would reveal the completed work.
He had done this a few times before, and it was fun to see. There might be some from the original, but in two cases, it had been a whole new painting, nothing like the original had been. The goal was to replicate the original while adding our own elements—nothing could be removed, only added.
If one of us made a wrong guess, the others had to adapt it, transforming it into something new. For example, one painting, originally a scene from Central Park—a couple eating ice cream, parents with screaming children—was transformed into a circus, complete with clowns and two sea lions juggling a ball instead of the ice cream-eating couple.
I found the project incredibly fun, a chance to leave a physical mark on the world instead of remaining hidden in my lab coat. I peered at the parchment, searching for Fred Q.'s faint lines, dipping my brush into light blue paint—easier to cover than black if I made a mistake.
Suddenly, the door opened, and Number Two entered, pushing a cart. He smiled, as always, and I felt our bond—his worry, his need to be near me, his burning desire to touch me—but also his rage over what had been done to me, a rage intensified by his recent conversations with Bran and Samuel. Bran had apparently recalled something, setting Number Two off.
"Time for coffee and a meal," he announced, then, noticing my work, asked, "Now, what is this? Care to share?"
I showed him the online source, explaining, "He's done this five times before, and I had to get involved. I'm the first to try and interpret his paintings; it's almost like deciphering a palimpsest."
Number Two moved closer, picked up my brush, dipped it in dark green, and added a few lines. A house roof emerged.
He put the brush down, along with my work, saying, "Now, Mimi, my love, my dear wife, let's eat. This project is something else; we could do it together. What were you thinking of adding?"
I grabbed a pen and quickly sketched a cartoon dog with an exaggeratedly long muzzle, long pricked ears pressed flat to its head, oversized head, and bulging eyes.
"I used to draw this when I was human. It was inspired by my dog, a mutt, orange with pricked ears that she often kept flat against her head. She was my ultimate muzzle; I used to bite into her muzzle sometimes."
Damon grunted and began to arrange food in front of me; his help provided a springboard for my continued work. He ensured I ate plenty, in the correct order, sitting beside me and keeping his hand on my back.
I was slowly allowing myself to be touched again, knowing this was a mental hurdle that would take time to overcome. However, my motto, "fake it till you make it," proved surprisingly effective.
After finishing my meal, he stood and said, "Now it's time for rest. No resisting; we have a calm option."
He, too, had control over my sedative implant. I rolled my eyes but went to bed, picked up my book, and began to read. He activated the crystals, effectively confining me to bed for four hours. The dim room and lack of additional light made sleep likely. While they didn't allow any bright lights—napping was beneficial—they didn't force the issue; just enough to elicit an eye roll, but nothing more. There was no true irritation, no rage, no resistance. I was a meek lamb.
A nagging feeling stopped Number Two as he returned to the kitchen. It was a part of his plan, or perhaps just an idea taking shape—a cluster of questions he wanted to ask the others. He knew they would soon gather to discuss something, and this might offer a new path forward.
More ideas were coming, and he was starting to think about the specifics. Of course, it was crazy, and he wasn't sure how it would be received; would they shoot his idea down? He loaded the dishwasher, started it, and went to the living room, their usual spot for coffee and conversation. Pouring coffee into a mug (a large one he'd "borrowed" from Mimi), he grabbed a tray of treats and settled onto a plush couch in the mocha-colored room.
The room reminded him of Mariella's, but Mimi's décor was far more eclectic. His sharp eyes noted the patterned embossed wallpaper—he almost wanted to touch it—along with the golden accents around the ceiling and corners that glittered in the light. Light yellow rugs, shaped like teddy bears, added a touch of whimsy without being childish. Soft mauve throws draped over the sofas, and a fun, floating bookcase made from old books provided a modern touch. His inner feline was tempted to jump from one shelf to another; it was teasingly playful. This was a skillfully designed living room.
Number Two explained, "While I was taking Mimi her meal, she was painting for a charity event. A famous artist creates a unique piece, then almost completely wipes it off. Helpers, like Mimi, each have three weeks to try and decipher the painting before it's passed on, adding their own elements in the process."
Wulfe raised an eyebrow. "Oh, fuck," he exclaimed. "She didn't tell me! I've wanted to be a part of that for ages. I'll just butt in. Freddie Q is my ultimate idol."
Number One interjected, "As fascinating as that is, I get the feeling you have something more in mind."
Number Two continued, "My idea for dealing with female trauma is to write over it—something better. Like faded lines, faded memories. If we can…"
Number Ten snapped his fingers, his eyes intense. "We can overwrite the original trauma and turn it into something else entirely. We just need a small hint of what we're trying to overwrite, and then…"
Number One muttered, "It might work, but what's our narrative? How in hell do we get them to reveal the trauma without making it worse?"
Adam suggested, "We're a lust pack. How about a sex game? Initially involuntary, but as we get…"
Number Two smiled. "Oh yeah, and I have the perfect narrative. It'll take time, but it contains elements that will surface the trauma, allowing us to catch it and redirect it. Mimi will be the hardest, but I guess we'll get her too."
Number One raised an eyebrow. "And what is this narrative?"
As number two explained his idea, number one smiled for the first time in a long time. Now they had a plan that would require little preparation and time to get right. There was a lot to do, but besides that, it would also help them in various ways.
Firstly, it would be an excellent stress reliever. They would get to see what works and what doesn't, and the more it worked, the more fun they could have. Number one knew his little plan for Mimi, and it was time for Missy to get pissed off. He probably was the best man to get her as pissed off as possible so that she would eventually release her rage.
Then he could start working on her, as she would need quite a "therapy" session. It might be that a Romanian sex nest or some other place would be their home for months, where he would literally fuck her rage down and help her become less of a loaded gun and more of a sex beast. Mariella might be jealous, but by the time this plan unfolded, she would likely be fine. He could then direct her to handle men properly and efficiently.
Men continued to brainstorm, but concrete plans remained elusive.
Number One took the lead, saying, "This will take time. I need to get everything in place, and we can't improvise too much. We need a clear plan outlining each step, and we must stick to it. This will require significant self-control; we can't simply go with the flow. We must follow the plan precisely, even if it means sacrificing some leisure time. No month-long marathons in bed at the start; only once Mimi is in the right place can we relax. Until then, it's more work than play. But who knows, this might actually be fun, as opposed to reacting impulsively. We'll be using our brains, not just our cocks."
Number Six smirked. "So, our dicks are tools, not masters? News to me, coming from one of the biggest fucking machines in this pack."
Number Three added, "And seduction is paramount. We need to treat everyone as we did Mimi—slowly, methodically. This isn't a race; it's a slow burn with a reward at the end."
Number Four suggested, "How about we make them into virgins—not now, but once we see progress? We'll continue to seduce and tease before finally deflowering them. That way, the experience becomes their ultimate goal as well."
Number One smiled; this was going to be epic, and he refused to doubt its success. He believed that sometimes the only way to heal trauma was with trauma. While he had used similar methods in the past—traumatizing Mimi to recover her memories—this time, the approach would differ. Instead of a memory wipe, they would create new memories, allowing the unpleasant ones to fade. However, they would need to remain vigilant, ready to seize every snippet of trauma, transform it into something positive, and avoid panicking. This would be taxing, but the reward—oh, yes—made it worthwhile.