I landed in a beastfolk novel as a serpent woman.
Unlike the delicate heroine, I was tough enough to nearly conquer the jungle.
The next time she curled up in some beastman’s arms, blushing and making coy little noises, I sneered.
Hah.
Naive.
The most basic, brutal truth of a beastfolk novel was that females were expected to bear the young.
Arms folded, I remarked from the sidelines, “Make one bad decision, and it’s babies, babies, babies.
One litter after another…”
The young man eavesdropping nearby lit up.
He looked at me with eager, bashful eyes and said excitedly, “I don’t like babies.
Take me instead!”
As he spoke, his shameless snake tail hooked around my calf and crept higher, testing the limits.
My eyes widened.
Take him?
What kind of outrageous invitation was that?
