His words are cool, almost dismissive, as if he already knows I can’t give him what he wants, a peaceful escape. “And there I was thinking that this was going to be a calm getaway.” The next moment, he reaches out and takes firm hold of my tail, the touch confident and unhurried. His grip is deliberate, not rough but never gentle, fingers sliding over until I can feel every inch of my tail bristle, then tense, then finally relax against his thigh.

  He doesn’t let go. Instead, he tugs me closer, so close that the mud and blood on my fur nearly rubs off onto his tunic, and then he brings his other hand up, scratching behind my ears. He knows exactly what he’s doing... his fingers moving in slow, deep circles behind my left ear, right at the base where the nerves are most sensitive.

  I can’t help the shudder that runs through me. My head tips toward his palm before I even realise it, my ears flattening, tail twitching in his hold, muscles tight from the long day but already beginning to loosen under his steady attention.

  The sound I make isn’t quite a purr at first. It’s more of a deep, rumbling growl, as if I’m torn between resentment and pleasure. My claws flex, digging into the fabric of his cloak, gripping at his hip. I want to show defiance, to snap my teeth or twist out of his hands, but my body refuses to obey. Instead, my tail stays wrapped tight in his grip, the pressure at once humiliating and grounding. I feel pinned, caught, unable to move away but unwilling to do anything but press closer, letting the tension bleed away with every slow drag of his fingers behind my ear.

  His hand is warm, the skin rough where years of weapon grips and hard labour have worn down the softness. I can feel the strength in his knuckles, the calculation in each movement. He doesn’t need to say a word to remind me who holds all the power between us. He just scratches, slow and steady, tracing the edge of my ear with his thumb, then working in firm circles that make my skin prickle and my breath hitch.

  He doesn’t give me space for pride or shame. He doesn’t care if my fur is dirty, if I stink of marsh and rain and old blood. He keeps me there, held tight, hand in my hair, nails scratching the base of my skull until my muscles unclench and my tail twitches helplessly in his grip. My whole body wants to arch away, to prove I’m not just some animal, but the feeling is too much.

  His thoughts are steady, neither taunting nor gentle, just a kind of quiet amusement at my reaction. He doesn’t let up, not even when he feels my breathing deepen or hears the low, helpless purr finally escape my chest. The pressure behind my ears grows just a little firmer, just enough to remind me there’s no escaping his grip, not here, not ever.

  I tuck my head under his jaw, letting his hand hold me there, eyes half closed, the ache of the day replaced by a slow burning comfort that settles somewhere deep in my chest. He murmurs “good kitten,” his voice rumbling against my scalp as he holds me there.

  The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.

  The psychic bond pulses with the change, one heartbeat I’m the centre of his world, the next, I’m a shadow, background noise to his calculations. The warmth in his thoughts slips away, replaced by logistics, the edge of rain on the wind, the fading light, the count of hours until Merchant Cross. He’s always moving forward, even when we’re at rest, never letting his guard down, not for me, not for anyone.

  A slow, cold flare of possessiveness rises inside me. I let him hold me, but I refuse to be ignored. If he’s going to drift, then I’ll remind him what he has. I wriggle in his grip, shifting my weight until I’m sprawled half across his lap, tail winding around his wrist so he can’t let go even if he wants to. My head tilts back, blue eyes narrowing, ears flattening as I let out a low, guttural purr, louder than before, intentional, a demand for his attention that cuts through the haze of his planning.

  He doesn’t react at first, too focused on the sky, the world beyond the circle of firelight, but I keep at it. My claws press into his leg, slow and deliberate, tracing little circles just above his knee, a subtle threat, a possessive mark, a reminder that he can plan and prepare all he wants, but he doesn’t get to forget about me, not even for a second.

  “I know what you’re thinking, Master,” I mutter.

  I nuzzle in closer, forcing him to look down, to acknowledge the living, breathing creature tangled in his lap, claws and teeth and all. My tail tightens on his wrist, the bond flaring, sending him the riot of emotions burning in me, hunger, pride, wounded vanity, the need to be seen and felt and claimed completely, not just held as an afterthought.

  “If you’re worried about rain,” I add, softer, teeth grazing the shell of his ear, “then let’s fix it before it comes. Build the shelter, set the watch, make your plans. But don’t leave me waiting in your shadow. I’m not a problem to be solved, I’m your reason for every move you make. Act like it.”

  He doesn’t flinch, doesn’t sigh, doesn’t smirk or scold, just looks straight at me, his gaze so steady it’s almost blank, every wild feeling in me reflected back in the polished glass of his eyes and shut away behind his own iron discipline. His calm is unbreakable, that old unbending neutrality, as if nothing I do, no matter how possessive, how demanding, how tangled up in his lap, I could never make him lose that control for long.

  He just shrugs, a tiny, dismissive tilt of his head, like the world outside is more important than any battle I could start here, even in the soft afterglow of his claim. His voice is level, flat, as he stands and untangles himself from my grip. “Come on. Let’s get going.”

  He doesn’t give me time to sulk or push back. He’s already packing up, tucking away the scraps of mire meat, flicking out the last of the fire with a twist of his boot, always watching the shadows, always counting the hours. I feel the loss of his hands, his warmth, the ache in my ears where he scratched, the spot behind my left ear still tingling, his scent still heavy on my skin.

  So I get up, slinking after him, tail swishing low, ears angled back in protest but feet quick and sure in the wet grass. He leads, never looking back, always trusting I’ll be there at his side, step for step, shadow for shadow. I hate that he knows me so well.