The inn’s clan room is still thick with morning hush, the heat from last night’s fire lingering in the lush rugs and the scent of old smoke. As soon as Master leads us in, I’m a living wire, circling him, brushing against his leg, tail twitching in erratic arcs that betray every frantic thought. My ears flick and flatten, cheeks hot, heart pounding, breath coming quick in little purrs and half-whimpers, embarrassed but unable to stop.
He moves through the crowd like it’s empty, ignoring the common rabble in the alcoves and claiming a seat at one of the heavy clan tables, the dark Alderian wood polished by a hundred years of hands. The benches are cushioned and deep, the kind you could sink into for hours, but I barely notice. My world is narrowed down to him and the space he claims.
I half-climb, half-slink onto the seat beside him, kneeling close enough that my shoulder presses into his hip, head immediately tucking under his hand, desperate for another absent-minded pet, a scratch, any sign that I’m forgiven, wanted, still his. My tail loops round his thigh like a lifeline, claws kneading the rug beneath the table.
I nuzzle his side with a frantic energy, nose buried in his tunic, sniffing for reassurance, for a hint of anger or coldness, even though I know he wouldn’t show it in public. Anyone watching would just see a spoiled, skittish little beast clinging to her master, nothing of the chaos simmering beneath my skin, nothing of the panic still ringing in my bones.
But I stay there, pressed tight against him, ears pinned flat, pretending it’s only comfort, not desperation, that drives me. Let them all see. Let them whisper about the catgirl who clings too hard, who can’t bear to be left behind. I don’t care. The only thing that matters is the warmth of his side, the steady weight of his hand, the silent command in the way he sits, untouchable, unmovable, and mine, always mine.
He leans back, that usual unreadable calm in his eyes, not a flicker of last night’s chaos or this morning’s leash, just all Alderian detachment, sleeves rolled up, hands folded on the heavy table. His gaze cuts through the clan room, taking in the bustle, the heavy curtains, the half-dead hearth, then lands back on me, his tone flat as a blade.
“So what is it for breakfast?” he says, like nothing could ever shake him, like it’s only a choice between tea and meat, not the power to make or break my whole morning. “Fish, meat, or mushrooms for food. Water or mushroom for drink.”
The words settle over me, anchoring, and I blink up, trying to force my tail to stop its nervous twitching. He doesn’t smile, doesn’t offer comfort, just expects an answer, expects me to fall in line and choose, to act like a good pet even after I’ve nearly lost it. It thrills me and terrifies me all at once.
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I press in a little closer, ears flicking, voice breathless but eager to please. “Meat, please, Master. Always meat. Fish is for the weak, and mushrooms are for the ones who can’t hunt their own.” My tail gives a stubborn lash, staking my claim with a flash of pride. “And water. If you give me mushroom tea, you’ll regret it by noon.” The words come out half a pout, half a warning, still whiplashed between obedience and that spoiled, possessive ache to remind him I’m not just any beast.
He doesn’t even react, just lifts a hand for the serving girl, his eyes never leaving mine. “Four meat stews and water,” he says, voice low and final, as if he’s just settled the fate of kingdoms. Then his hand drops to the back of my head, fingers twisting in my hair, giving me that little scratch that says I did well, that I’m still wanted, still owned.
I melt into the touch, purr low and anxious, pressing my face against his palm, desperate for more, for any scrap of affection he’ll offer. The rest of the inn blurs into nothing, all my focus narrowing down to the food on its way and the man beside me, my Master, my anchor, the only law I obey when the rest of the world spins out of control.
Time drags and folds in on itself in the clan hall’s hush, the noise of the commoners fading behind the velvet ropes and green-dyed carpet. I burrow in close, greedy as ever, my head in his lap now, cheek pressed against his thigh, tail looping tighter around his leg every time his fingers stroke down my spine. I nuzzle and purr and cling, a living question mark of need, all the frantic energy melting slowly under the steady rhythm of his touch.
His hand moves with absent-minded certainty, never hurried, never rough, the way you might pet a hound you trust not to bite but always keep close just in case. He rubs behind my ears, sometimes scratching lightly at the base of my skull, sometimes just letting his palm rest heavy against the side of my head. It’s not affection, not really, not the way normal people show it, more a signal, a promise, a reminder that I belong exactly where I am, that I’m wanted, even when I’m a mess of nerves and claws.
I soak it in, hunger softening into something lazy and indulgent, every muscle unwinding as I knead at his knee with one hand, claiming him over and over with every little motion. My eyes half-close, breathing slow and shallow, my voice dropping to a quiet, greedy hum that says don’t stop, don’t move, don’t even think of leaving me. Each time he glances down, I catch his gaze, holding it with a look that’s half challenge, half plea, daring him to find a reason to push me away.
Other clan members watch from the edges, some with envy, some with suspicion, a few with disgust, but none of it matters. I have what I want. I have him, every inch, every moment, and I intend to keep it. I nuzzle deeper, tail thumping, purring louder for his ears alone, letting the world see exactly what I am, a greedy, spoiled, impossible creature, and proud of it.
By the time the food arrives, I’m calmer, tamed for now by his touch, but the fire never really goes out. I’ll always want more. Always.
