The heavy wooden tray thuds onto the table, the serving girl’s hands already moving on to the next table before I even bother to glance at her face. Four steaming bowls, rich with the scent of boiled marrow and greasy meat, and a mug of boiled water, plain and hot, just the way he ordered. I barely wait for the clatter to die before my tail loops even tighter, hunger flickering back in my eyes.

  I eye the bowls, MINE, MINE, MINE and one for him, because I’ll allow it. My stomach growls even though I should still be full from last night, need rising like a tide. But I wait, paws folded, eyes glinting, lips parted in a sly, lazy smile. For just a second I don’t move, just stare up at him, letting the silence stretch, letting the anticipation coil between us.

  Then I pounce, figuratively, not literally, though the urge to crawl in his lap and eat straight from his hands is almost overwhelming. Instead, I lift the first bowl, cradling it in both hands, and offer it up to him, eyes wide, head tipped, voice soft and mischievous.

  “FEEEEEEEED ME.... MASTER...” I whisper, breath hot, purr vibrating under every word. “You know how your little beast likes it, spoil me. I want to taste it from your hand, not the table.” I press the rim to his lips, but don’t let him drink, holding it just out of reach, grinning up at him with a challenge burning bright in my eyes.

  “If you want any for yourself, you’ll have to earn it. Otherwise, I’ll eat them all before you even touch a spoon.” My tone is playful, teasing, but the possessiveness simmers just beneath the surface, impossible to miss. “Or...” I flash a flash of a manic grin, tail thumping hard against his leg, “maybe I’ll let you feed me and watch. That’s almost as good.”

  I slide the next bowl toward him, letting my claws graze the rim, and wait, eyes locked on his face, needing him to choose, needing to see what he’ll do. The moment is mine, thick with hunger and challenge, every nerve strung tight as a bowstring. Let the world outside starve; I’ll gorge myself on every scrap of him he offers, and never, ever be satisfied.

  His words cut sharper than a blade, "You know, it’s funny, I remember you complaining about Senar, as she’s more house cat than you typically are, yet here you are demanding your own master feed you whilst you lick it out of a bowl" and I freeze, tail stiffening, ears pinning back in raw, animal outrage. I flash him a look, all teeth and fury, bright and full of venom, a low, threatening growl rumbling up from deep in my chest.

  “Senar’s a house pet because she begs for scraps from anyone with a warm fire. I’m yours, Master. I only beg from you.” My claws flex on the edge of the table, eyes narrowing, all that spoiled pride sparking into possessive fire. “Let anyone else try it, I’ll rip out their throat. You want to see a housecat? Put a leash on Senar. She’ll roll over for you. Try that with me and I’ll take your hand off at the wrist.” The words slip out, a tangled snarl of spite and need, that, jealous yandere hunger scraping against every syllable.

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  But he only lifts the bowl, as if he hasn’t heard the threat at all, settling it right beneath my chin, his hand steady, face blank, cool Alderian amusement playing at the edge of his mouth. He offers, and in that one motion, undoes everything, makes me forget the insult, makes the pride melt into hunger, into the raw ache for him that has no words.

  I lean in, eyes locked on his, tongue flicking out, slow and defiant, lapping the stew straight from the bowl he holds. The world narrows to this moment, this taste, the warmth of his hand steadying the bowl, the way he watches me, untouchable, unflinching, letting me bare my fangs and bare my soul all at once.

  Every swallow is a promise, every lick a threat and a plea: I’ll always be more than any housecat. I’ll always be yours, even if it means tearing the world apart, even if it means begging, growling, licking up every scrap he gives me, so long as it’s only him.

  I finish the first bowl, then tip my face up, chin stained with broth, and let a slow, sly smile twist my lips. “Keep going. Let the whole world see how much better I am than any housecat.” My tail lashes, and I bare my throat, daring him to keep testing the limits of what he owns, and how far I’ll go to prove it.

  By the time the last bowl is empty, my stomach is tight and heavy, my body draped half across the table, half across his lap, every muscle humming with lazy, gluttonous satisfaction. I swipe the back of my hand over my mouth, licking the last smear of broth from my fingers, ears flicking contentedly as I eye the mug of boiled water with undisguised disgust. The idea of letting something so thin, so tasteless touch my tongue feels like a personal insult, a betrayal of everything wild and sharp in me.

  He starts on the last bowl, eating with that cold, mechanical precision, never looking rushed, never wasting a movement, and for a moment I just watch, his hands, the way he breaks bread, the way the lamplight turns his eyes hard and clear. I could spend a lifetime studying the curve of his jaw, the way his shoulders never quite relax, the faint shadow of old scars on his hands. My tail curls possessively round his leg, claws kneading the bench beneath me.

  When he’s finished, he doesn’t linger, doesn’t give me another look or word of comfort. He sets the spoon down, wipes his mouth, and that old, familiar, bone-deep cynicism slips into his voice. “We’ve got a long day ahead of us, again.”

  I shiver, every part of me aching for more, for another order, for a reason to keep clinging, but I bite it back, letting my expression slide from spoiled satisfaction to something more sly, more cunning, a smirk ghosting over my lips. The whole room could be burning and I’d still only care about him, but I play it cool, rolling my shoulders and letting my tail thump once, twice, on the rug.

  “Of course, Master,” I purr, not a hint of reluctance, just a glitter of something dangerous in my eyes, “but next time, you’re the one eating from my hand.” I stretch, sinuous, sliding off the bench in a single, liquid motion, standing just close enough for my tail to brush his side. “Lead the way. I’ll keep up, as always. Anyone tries to slow you down...” My smile is a flash of fang, the threat unspoken but real as blood, “they’ll wish they never learned my name.”

  He stands, as indifferent as ever, and I follow, hunger sated but never gone, every step a silent promise that wherever he goes, whatever the day brings, I’ll be there, devoted, jealous, and utterly, violently his.