He doesn’t say a word. Not a sigh, not a growl, not a single command. He just moves, detached, cold, untouchable, shoulders set in that posture. His eyes are knives but his body is ice, every line radiating a warning. He steps past me, careful not to meet my eyes, not even to glance down. He’s leaving me there on the floor, raw and shaking, as if my surrender is nothing, as if I’m not even worth the punishment.

  But as he moves toward the far wall, I feel the bond yanking tight, a hot wire under my skin, panic rising in my throat. He gets close to five feet away, five feet, that knife edge where the bond starts to tear and the pain claws up from my stomach to my chest, frantic and sharp and electric. I can feel his mind roaring just out of reach.

  I don’t think. I can’t. Instinct takes over, animal, desperate, a housecat stripped of dignity and pride, running on nothing but the need not to be left behind. I drop to all fours, crawling after him, claws clicking over the polished tile, tail low and trembling. I circle him, weaving between his legs, rubbing my cheek along his calf, tail twining around his ankle, scenting him, marking him over and over. My head presses against his hip, then his knee, then his hand, begging for any response, any touch, any sign that I still belong, that he hasn’t cut me loose.

  I wind myself around his legs, purring low and frantic, butting my head under his hand, pawing at his boot until I’m sure he can’t ignore the weight of me. My body is a question, a plea, a promise, I’m still here, still his, still willing to do anything if he’ll just let me stay close.

  The second his hand comes down, fingers rough and steady against my head, everything inside me snaps tight with relief and wild, dizzy joy. The pat is small, almost thoughtless, just a palm dragging down over my scalp, a stroke behind the ears, nothing more than a gesture. But it’s all I need. Permission. Forgiveness. Proof that the world isn’t ending, that I haven’t lost my place, that even if everything else burns, I am still his.

  You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.

  My whole body surges up, the movement explosive and animal. I leap, no hesitation, no dignity, all claws and desperate, overwhelming love. My arms wrap around his neck, legs around his waist, tail lashing wildly behind me as I cling, burrowing my face into his collar, rubbing my cheek under his jaw, purring so loud it vibrates through both our chests. My claws knead into his back, not hard enough to draw blood but enough to remind him I’m real, I’m here, I’m his.

  For a moment I just hang there, clinging, purring, breathing him in. The world is small, safe, just Master, the heat of his skin, the echo of his heartbeat thudding beneath my cheek. I don’t speak, don’t move except to hold tighter.

  Even after Master pries me off, stern, insistent, every inch a command, I drag my paws, tail wrapped tight around his wrist, nuzzling, making him work for it. When he finally peels me away, I stand close, hovering, never more than a foot from his side, eyes locked on his face. I want him to know I’m not leaving, not unless he makes me.

  He’s all business now, scanning the room with that cold, precise, methodical focus that always makes me ache with pride and hunger. His eyes flick over paperwork, battered drawers, the ruin we left behind, nothing missed, nothing wasted.

  I try to help, pacing the edges of the room, nose twitching, ears swiveling for any sound, every muscle tight with a need to be useful. But the blood, the scent of him, the aftermath of his anger, it clouds my head. My mind’s a mess, thoughts spinning, senses overloaded, paws fumbling at files and cupboards. I knock over a stack of folders, sneeze at the dust, get distracted by the way his scent clings to the door handle. Everything feels too bright, too sharp, too loud. I’m a disaster, chasing shadows, missing the obvious.

  Master, meanwhile, moves through the chaos like he owns it. He finds the hidden drawer beneath the desk, a trick latch, smeared with blood but still functional. Inside he gathers the evidence, barely glancing at me as I circle uselessly, trying to make myself helpful, trying to please. I can only watch, biting my lip, tail twitching, desperate for another chance to prove myself. For now, though, the lesson is clear, sometimes, no matter how wild or devoted or desperate, a cat is still just a cat, and the world keeps turning on the hands of those who know where to look.