The Clan room Key clicked in the lock with a soft metallic certainty, and the door swung open to reveal a pocket of warmth carved into the stone like a secret someone cared enough to protect from the rest of the Maw.

  The Room. Soft lanternlight pulsed from the iron sconce near the door, spilling amber heat across a thick woven rug dyed in swirling blues and reds. A sturdy bed with deep green blankets tucked neatly. A polished wooden cabinet. A longer low dresser pressed against the wall. A tiny circular table meant for two Two mismatched chairs with Embercrack-style carvings And the faint lingering scent of lavender oil from however many travellers had softened the air with it before us. Everything here was neat, warm, almost civilised.

  Master’s boots made a dull thud across the floor with each trip up the stairs, and the bowls on the tiny table multiplied like a feast meant for someone twice my size. Steam rolled off the rabbit stew in savoury curls, thick with spices and onion slices, and the mugs of boiled water gathered between them like little lanterns without flames.

  The room was too small for the intensity between us, but the world was too small for that anyway. Master finally set the last two bowls down, wiped his hand calmly on his coat, and took a seat on the wooden cabinet beside the lantern. He didn’t fuss with the table. He didn’t rearrange a thing. He just sat there with that noir stillness, watching the room, watching the spread of food, watching me. Always watching...

  As soon as he settled, instinct dragged me inward like gravity. My tail hit the floor once, then again, thumping in a rhythm that matched my heartbeat. I hovered beside him for a breath, waiting to see where the heat inside me wanted to anchor itself.

  The bed? Too soft. Too distant. The rug? Too low. Too exposed. His lap? Tempting... dangerously tempting, but I could feel the day’s exhaustion coiling through him, and the blood on his knuckles. There was a balance to keep.

  So I hopped lightly onto the other wooden cabinet, the one opposite him, small enough that my knees brushed against the edge of the little table between us. It placed me at eye-level with him, close enough to catch his scent, close enough to touch him if I wanted, close enough that my tail could curl toward his leg from across the gap like a curious serpent.

  I perched there with one thigh up, one foot dangling, claws tapping idly on the cabinet top. The bowls of stew steamed below us, scent rich enough to make my stomach twist with hunger. Four full bowls. Three mugs of boiled water. A feast for a catgirl who needed double nutrition and lived half her life burning energy on instinct.

  Master was calm, coat falling neatly around his frame, eyes half-shadowed by lanternlight. I tilted my head slowly, ears flicking in a gentle question that wasn’t really a question. Tail curling across the air toward him, brushing the edge of his boot like a shy touch disguised as an accident.

  The whole scene felt suspended, warm room, stew, boiled water, lanternlight painting gold across his jaw, and me watching him with that curious, reverent hunger that never slept. My voice finally cut the quiet, soft and warm and a little too breathy. “Everything’s ready, Master.” My claws tapped once more on the cabinet. “And I’m hungry.”

  He lifts a bowl... thick steam rising, the rich smell of slow-cooked game and marrow filling the room. He doesn’t just hand it to me. No, he holds it to my lips, watching me with that flat, unblinking stare that makes everyone else shrink but only makes me shiver. I bare my teeth in a slow, hungry smile and lean forward, tongue flicking against the rim before I continue. The stew is rich, greasy, full of stringy meat that falls apart on my tongue, the taste of real food and survival.

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  I devour it, mouth pressed to the bowl, letting the warmth flood through me, filling every hollow place left by the day’s violence and the long, gnawing ache of always being so close to him and never close enough. The heat slips down my throat, thick and comforting, and I lock eyes with him over the rim, daring anyone, alive or dead, to try to take this from me. My ears flatten, tail thumping faster, the hunger turning to pleasure, to need, to something that would set the room on fire if anyone else so much as looked through the door.

  The light catches the collar at my throat, glinting with the words burned into the leather, Master’s Property. I swallow another mouthful, and when I pull back I let a low purr roll out, rumbling and territorial, claws scraping lightly at the cabinet’s wood as I dare the world to try and separate us.

  He watches, his expression always unreadable, but I can feel the pride and possessiveness radiating through the bond, feel it in the way he holds the bowl steady, just for me, just the way I need. In this moment, in this room, nothing outside matters, not Crimson Swarm, not Kaelenna, not gods, not fate. Only his hand, his will, my hunger, my satisfaction. My domain.

  I flick my tail around his leg, squeezing him close, claiming him all over again, never letting go. Let the world burn. I will feast so long as he is here, and I will bite anyone who tries to take him from me, one by one, until the room runs red and there’s nothing left but us, and the endless, greedy hunger that no stew will ever truly sate.

  I let him shove every bowl down my throat, swallowing, never satisfied, licking the rim clean each time he brings it up, tongue flicking shameless, ears twitching with every mouthful, breath coming faster, little growls humming up from my chest. My tail thumps against the cabinet, hunger turning giddy, heat curling up inside me until my claws scrape the wood in raw, greedy pleasure.

  He finally stops, picks up his own bowl to eat, and something in me snaps, the manic, giddy part twisting under my skin, that spoiled, snide smile slicing across my face. I leap from the cabinet, blocking his arm with a flick of my tail, sliding right into his lap with a slinky, predatory twist, pressing up into his space, eyes wide and unblinking, voice honey-thick and poison-sweet.

  “No, no, no, Master,” I purr, snatching the bowl from his hand with claws that don’t bother to ask permission. “It’s your turn. My turn. You think you get to eat after just tossing scraps at me? You think you get to feed your little beast and then ignore her, is that it?” I drag the bowl up to my lips, eyes never leaving his, and take a slow, long mouthful, making a show of swallowing, licking a bit of broth from the edge.

  “Feed me, feed me, feed me, then you’ll eat.” My smile is vicious, lips curling, tail tightening around his waist as I lean in, pressing the bowl to his mouth this time, holding it there, fingers wound tight enough around the rim to make sure he can’t pull away. “Your kitten’s hungry, and she always gets what she wants. Isn’t that right, Master?” My voice drops, dark and intimate, soft for only him. “You wouldn’t want anyone to see you starve your precious pet, would you? Go on. Open up.”

  The room is full of me, my need, my scent, the purrs that vibrate straight into his bones. My claws bite into the bowl, possessive, daring, spoilt beyond words, MINE, MINE, MINE, and I’ll prove it with every stolen mouthful, every command, every hungry laugh that fills the space between us, until he remembers that nothing in this filthy little world owns him except me.

  His eyes are ice, empty, no flicker of affection or mercy as he holds the bowl steady, mouth pressed to mine, drinking down the stew the same way I did, slow, relentless, not breaking eye contact for a single second. The rim is hot and greasy between our mouths, my breath fusing with his, and I taste the iron in him, the dark, deep pulse that always calls me home. Every swallow is a battle, a possession, his lips on mine not for sweetness, but for control.