The poor functionary is still in the room, pressed back against the edge of his perfect new desk, eyes wide as coin, clipboard clutched to his chest like it’s going to save him from the wild scene unfolding in front of him. He’s out of his depth, completely. You can see the moment his brain short circuits, realising this isn’t just another polished recruitment pitch, this is something sharp and real and unfiltered, something that doesn’t fit any of his training modules or orientation pamphlets. All those tick boxes broken..

  He gawks, mouth working, trying to piece together if he should step in, call for help, or just back out and pretend he saw nothing. The confusion, the twitchy fear, the dawning realisation that he’s not in control? It’s delicious.

  I absolutely lose it. The laughter rips out of me, unhinged, manic, a high, bright peal that fills the little office, bounces off. It’s the laughter of someone who’s seen too much, who knows the punchline to every sick joke the city plays, who’s drunk on the power of being exactly what she is, with no shame, no filter, no leash. My tail lashes the air, ears pinned back with wild glee, eyes burning with predatory amusement.

  I lean harder into Master, letting my claws drag along his coat, putting on a show for our captive audience. “Oh, gods, look at him! Look at that face!” I choke out between laughs, voice ragged, savage with delight. “Didn’t they tell you, darling? This isn’t the ‘team-building’ exercise you rehearsed in orientation. You wanted to show us your benefits package? Here’s mine.” I throw a leg over Master’s hip, baring my teeth in a smirk that’s all ego, all threat, all Aliza, unapologetic, untameable, out for blood and glory.

  He stands there, paralysed, just blinking as if hoping this is all some fever dream, one that will vanish if he can just keep quiet and hold onto his rules.

  I swing my gaze to him, eyes bright, tone syrup sweet and laced with venom. “Relax, hero. You wanted new recruits? This is what the future looks like, real, raw, territorial, and a hell of a lot hungrier than you.” I flick my tail, then deliberately press my cheek to Master’s chest, letting my laughter die into a smug, possessive purr. “Better run back to your managers. Tell them they don’t own a single thing in this city that I don’t let them keep. Not even the air.”

  He edges toward the door, pale and rattled, fumbling for the handle as if it might bite him too. My grin widens, hungry, confident, utterly unbothered.

  Master moves fast. Too fast for the poor corporate boy to even yelp. There’s a flicker and then the crossbow comes up, silent, methodical, not a whisper of wasted motion. The bolt sings through the stale office air, a perfect, brutal arc. It bites deep into the functionary’s shoulder, punching through that crisp new uniform and pinning him to the wall like a butterfly in a collector’s case. The man screams, a thin, reedy wail, shock and agony blooming across his face as he collapses, blood welling through his suit and soaking the paperwork still clutched in his white-knuckled grip.

  Master’s attack is flawless, clean and clinical. No mercy. No hesitation. Just violence delivered with the precision of a man who knows exactly what every number means and why the city keeps count.

  He doesn’t linger on the victim, just turns to me, his eyes cold, his voice utterly neutral. “Don’t forget why we’re here.” There’s no heat, no regret, just that grim, lawless clarity. In the same breath, he steps close, seizing me with a hand at the nape, dragging his nose down my neck, inhaling like he’s burning the scent into memory for some future storm.

  Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  Then he drops me, suddenly, decisively, cloak swirling as he stalks away toward the wounded man, boots heavy, each step punctuating his control. “I’ll be back for that scent of yours later, my pet. Alas, work calls for now.”

  My tail flicks, shuddering with pride and hungry anticipation, the raw, electric violence. I purr, wild, high, unhinged, watching him close in on his prey, the taste of blood and power thick on the air. The functionary whimpers, pinned and helpless, and the city outside doesn’t even know it’s just changed hands again.

  My mind is nothing but heat and laughter and the pounding drum of ownership. The moment Master’s fist cracks across the functionary’s jaw, one brutal, unhurried punch, so effortless it’s almost tender, I feel a wild shiver ripple through me, pleasure and hunger twisted together. The man’s scream dies with a whimper, body sagging against the wall, blood smearing down the polished surface, lips wet and quivering, eyes wild with pain and the shock of his own insignificance.

  The office is thick with the metallic scent of blood, sweat, and fear, my territory now, claimed not by banners or contracts, but by violence and dominance so raw. My focus narrows. Not on the functionary’s face, not on his pain or his terror, but on the fresh mark Master left on his world, this living evidence that we don’t play by their rules.

  I stalk up, slow and deliberate, hips swaying, tail lashing, every step a warning and a promise. I let my claws drag across the desk, scratching lines into the gleaming finish, making it clear nothing here is untouched, unthreatened. My eyes never leave the blood.

  I don’t care about the man’s name, or his whimpering. He’s nothing but an object now, a message pinned to the wall for the rest of the guild to find. I crowd close, inhaling the sharp stink of terror, eyes wide, smile unhinged. My attention flickers, first to the bolt, the beautiful wound, the ragged red ruining the uniform, then to the trembling, ruined face that tried to sell us promises just minutes ago.

  My claws extend, gliding gently down his cheek, not enough to break skin but enough to let him feel the promise of what’s next. I lean in, purring, breath hot in his ear. “This is what your new world smells like, blood and fear and the sound you make when you realise you don’t matter.” I mark him with my scent, cheek to cheek, a low, guttural growl vibrating from my throat. I go to lick the blood from my claws, eyes wild, letting my gaze flick to Master.

  The change in the air is instant. One heartbeat I’m drunk on blood and power, the next I feel it through the bond like a knife in my ribs, Master’s anger, real and raw, flooding out so sudden it leaves no room for breath. He’s not the calm shadow anymore.

  I freeze, claws halfway to my mouth. My tail drops, low and stiff, every hair standing on end. His stare lands on me, no mask, no pretense, nothing civilised left. Those eyes strip me bare. I feel it crawl over my nerves, down my spine, rooting me to the spot. There’s no warmth, no indulgence, just that silent, boiling fury that means I’ve crossed a line even the world itself can’t redraw.

  The office shrinks, the world contracts to him and the violence between us. He’s silent, but the bond screams.

  My ears go flat, my body low, my voice a whisper. “Sorry, Master.” No defiance, no ego. My hands drop, claws retract, my head bows, nose almost to the floor, offering him everything.

  He doesn’t speak. There’s no warning, no performance, no explanation. Master moves in a single, economical motion, sword drawn, blade pressed to skin, one hard, practiced pull. Blood spills hot and dark over the functionary’s ruined collar, spraying the desk, pooling across the paperwork and new polished floor.

  For a moment, the only sound is the wet, living hush of death, the faint echo of a last, choked breath. Master just stands there, hand loose at his side, blade slick and red. He doesn’t even bother to wipe it. He looks at me, no mask, no cold detective logic, nothing left but that bare, naked animal anger. His stare is flat, pitiless, empty as a winter sky.

  Through the bond, the storm hits me, shame, self loathing, rage, the sick, black twist of a plan destroyed by his own hand, my indulgence, my hunger, my mistake infecting him. I feel it. He didn’t want information. He didn’t want leverage. He just wanted the man gone, wanted to show me what happens when I step too close to the line.

  His eyes lock onto mine, wide and dead and furious. He doesn’t move. He doesn’t blink. For a second, I think he might strike me, punishment, retribution, an end to the game and the bond, both.

  I don’t move. I don’t dare. I let him decide what comes next.