That single word, “focus”, snaps through my skull, sharp and final, no room for argument, no allowance for games or pride. He doesn’t even look at me. Doesn’t need to. The command rings out across the bond, cold as steel, absolute, the kind of voice that would snap a lesser thing’s will in half. My claws pause mid air, hovering just above the sodden mire, the smirk still frozen on my lips.

  My tail flicks, hard and sudden, splattering rain and muck across his boots, just a hint of rebellion, just enough to show I’m not some broken thing waiting for orders. But I obey, I always do when he says it like that, when the leash goes taut. Ears flatten, muscles coil, eyes narrow. I snap out of the haze, out of the bitter pleasure and humiliation, and fix my gaze on the marsh, the remaining mire beasts, the world around us. Every sense sharpens, claws flex, hunger twisting in my gut, every nerve set to serve, protect, deliver.

  The mire beasts are sluggish, plodding closer, their hulking shapes nothing more than shadows at the edge of the marsh, heads low, eyes empty.

  The five foot leash of the bond is suffocating, less a limit, more a compulsion. I can’t stray further. Wouldn’t even if I could. Instead, I close the gap, until it’s barely a foot between us, body pressed so close I can feel the heat of his arm, my sodden fur brushing his cloak, tail wrapped tight around his thigh like a chain. Each step he takes, I match, a living shield. Every flicker of his thoughts, I taste, cold, ruthless, but also the suppressed thrill he’ll never let anyone see.

  He lifts the crossbow, rain streaming down his brow, expression unreadable, except for me. I’m always reading, always feasting on the taste of his mind, the little cracks in his control. He fires. The bolt snaps loose, but this time the angle is off, the tension wrong, a tremor in his grip, maybe my tail grazed his leg at just the wrong moment, maybe my breath on his cheek sent something spiralling off axis.

  I hear it in his head, the flicker of annoyance, the calculation, the way he’d like to blame anything but himself, but there’s only me here, the only variable that ever really matters. I lean in, close enough for him to feel my hot breath against his ear, a purr twisted with mocking laughter and glee. “Whoops. Did I distract you, Master? Maybe I should stand even closer, keep you honest.”

  My claws graze the small of his back, not enough to hurt, just enough to claim, to remind, to provoke. My tail tightens further, ears flicking with manic, spoilt delight. “It’s not my fault you can’t keep your hands steady when I’m this close. Maybe you should let me handle the killing, and you can just watch. Or would that bruise your pride?”

  He doesn’t answer, not out loud. But I’m not moving. Not a step further than this, the leash of the bond ironclad, my body pressed so close to his that I might as well be wearing his skin. Let the mire beasts watch, let the world watch. This is my place.

  I bare my teeth in the rain, wild and savage.

  They close in, the mire herd drawn by blood and noise, water streaming off their filthy hides, stupid and hungry and slow. One is already dead, sprawled in the muck with a bolt jutting from it, its blood melting into the mire. Another limps, medium wounded, the Master’s last bolt slicing a shallow gash down its haunch, blood bright against the pale, swollen skin. The rest surge forward with a clumsy, animal hunger, no real malice, just the idiot brutality of prey too stupid to realise it’s already lost.

  But my world narrows to the violence at hand. Master’s command still echoes in my head, focus, yet the way he stands, the heat radiating from him, the taste of his frustration and hidden excitement, all feed that old, spoiled cruelty deep inside me. I bare my teeth, eyes wild, tail locked around his thigh so tight that no force in the world could pry me loose. Defensive? Maybe. Claimed? Always.

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  I shift my stance, rain matting my fur, spear gripped tight, and I let the bond surge. The psychic charge makes my every sense burn sharper, Master in my head, his pulse, his tension, his calculation. I exist for him, and right now that means protect.

  d20 17 = 29

  I lunge at the closest mire, spear driving through its shoulder, the copper-iron tip punching through hide and muscle like rotten canvas. It gives a shriek, buckles, and collapses, spasming, blood blooming in thick oil around its legs. I twist the spear free, every movement an act of pure, ecstatic violence, claiming this kill for him, letting the bond between us hum like an exposed nerve.

  The wounded mire tries to stagger away, but I’m on it before it can limp two steps. My spear arcs in a perfect, savage slash, slamming through its side with enough force to pin it to the marsh. I feel the bones give, the life shudder out, and I bare my teeth, laughter bubbling up, half cruel delight, half sly, victorious glee, half pure animal savagery.

  The last survivors hesitate, stunned, blinking at the carnage. Blood spatters across my arms, painting the blue of my cloak with muddy red, my tail bristling but never leaving Master’s side. I glance back, eyes bright, breath coming hard, every heartbeat thundering in time with his. My kills. His approval. My world.

  “Defensive kitten, Master? Tell that to them.” My voice is low, mocking, just for him, just for us because in the end, nobody gets closer than me. Nobody gets to see me like this feral, victorious, covered in stink and gore, all of it for him.

  Three dead mire beasts now, the rest pausing at the edge, wary, uncertain. And I stand between them and Master, spear dripping, tail curled, ears flat, daring anything, anyone, to come closer.

  Mud still thick on my legs, fur clinging in heavy, rain-soaked clumps, I stand triumphant amid the carnage, tail curled possessively around Master’s thigh. The mire beasts, those grotesque rabbit crocodiles, have learned fear, three corpses sprawled in the marsh are lesson enough. The survivors hesitate, eyes rolling, nostrils flaring. Then, with a chorus of low, guttural squeals, they waddle away, truly waddle, hindquarters bobbing comically, slow and defeated, the stench of blood and steel in the air enough to break even the dull-witted hunger of their tiny, rotted brains.

  I let my spear hang loosely, shoulders high and heaving, lips curled in a satisfied, blood flecked smirk. Every nerve is still tuned to Master’s pulse, every sense wrapping around him, feeding off the afterglow of violence and his silent approval. I turn my head, ready to gloat, maybe to taunt him with another line, make him admit I’m more than just his defensive kitten, that I’m still the most dangerous thing within five miles.

  But I never see it coming. There’s a blur, a shift in his shadow, the kind of movement only he can make, silent and precise, stripping away any tell in his thoughts so cleanly that I can’t even catch the warning flash. Then his hands are on me, sudden, overwhelming, impossible to anticipate. He’s hiding from me, really hiding, masking his detection, his intent, pushing everything behind an iron wall of discipline so absolute I can’t even feel the ghost of it on the bond.

  My claws flex, tail rigid, every instinct shrieking to fight, to twist, to punish him for trying to outpace me. For a heartbeat, I’m airborne, weightless, the world spinning, rain trailing from my fur like a thousand icy knives. His grip is iron, the kind that says he could drop me or break me or hold me forever, and that every option belongs to him alone.

  I snarl, half laughter, half indignant outrage. My ears flatten, every muscle straining for purchase, and I claw instinctively at his cloak, but it’s no real attempt to break free. I can taste the challenge in him, the deliberate concealment.

  Inside, I’m howling, part humiliation, part awe, part gleeful, manic hunger. He can hide from me. He wants me to know he can. My pulse is a wildfire, racing, claws curling uselessly in the air, tail snapping as I land, either on my feet, or sprawled, it hardly matters. I twist to glare at him, blue eyes wide and burning, lips peeled back in a furious, spoiled grin.