“You see, Clan Dalkurharn is just a touch annoyed,” he continues, tone conversational, almost tired. “And so am I.” He shifts the sword a fraction. The man whimpers. “And that right there?” He jerks his chin toward me.

  “That’s The Cat.”

  The title hits the room like poison. I feel it ripple, confusion first, then recognition, then pure, animal fear. One of the younger men pales. Another swallows hard.

  “Ever heard of her?” Master asks, not waiting. “If not, let me assure you, she’s a sadistic, twisted, psychotic creature.”

  That’s when I move. I step forward into the lamplight. Slowly. Deliberately. My ears lift high. My pupils are blown wide and black from the tea, from the hunt, from the joy coiling sharp and bright in my chest. My tail sways once… twice… not relaxed, not playful, measuring.

  I smile. Not wide. Not friendly. Just enough to show teeth. They smell me before they fully see me, blood washed but not gone, iron and fur and something wrong, something that doesn’t belong in velvet rooms and polished conversations. I tilt my head, studying them the way a cat studies birds through glass, curiosity threaded with inevitability.

  I crawl onto the table, claws leaving little white scratches in the polished wood, tail swishing in manic arcs. My ears are up, eyes wide, pupils blown, the Bond twisting every flicker of fear into something sweet and savage. I lean in close, close enough for the blood to fleck across my cheek, for them to smell the tea, the animal, the madness. My grin is all teeth.

  I giggle, a high, sweet, kittenish sound, the kind you hear from a child playing in the garden, but twisted, hungry, giddy with the scent of their terror. “You heard him. Give us what we want, or I get to play.” I let my claws tap against a crystal tumbler, one by one, the sound unreasonably loud. “I like it when people scream. I really do. Especially the well-dressed ones. You all look so clean, like you think pain won’t stick to you. It will, you know. It always does.”

  I crouch over the wounded man, blood scent sharp in my nose, my face inches from his, eyes locked on his as he trembles and gasps, fighting for breath, for control, for anything at all. I giggle again, letting my tongue flick over my teeth, tail curling so tightly it aches. “I could start with your fingers,” I purr, voice slipping up and down the scales. “Or maybe your ears. I like to watch people try to beg when they’re missing little pieces. Did you know a cat can pull out a tongue in one try? Want to see?”

  I shoot a glance at the others, manic, hungry, watching as every drop of courage drains out of their faces. One of the young men, so sharp and proper a minute ago, is nearly sick, knuckles white on the arm of his chair. Another starts to rise, then sits back down, shaking, not daring to challenge the horror in front of him.

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  “I promise I’ll be quick if you’re honest,” I coo, voice syrup-sweet. “But I never promise to be gentle. It’s not in my nature.” I giggle again, higher now, broken at the edges, letting the unhinged energy fill the room. I scratch my claws along the grain of the table, a slow, deliberate warning. “So, what’s it going to be? Names, places, everything you know. Or we see how much blood one of these pretty rugs can hold.”

  The Bond pulses, wrapping Master and me in a cocoon of violence and glee. My body is taut, ready to pounce, tail lashing. The room is thick with the stench of fear, real, animal terror, the kind that can’t be bought off or reasoned away.

  The man with the rings stammers, voice cracking. “Alright, alright, gods, just stop” His eyes flick to the bleeding cane-holder, then to Master, then to me, and finally he breaks, his pride gone. “There’s a woman in Maw Graven. Alderian, red hair, calls herself Mira. Runs everything for the Swarm out there, drugs, steel, blackmail. The Crimson Swarm moves through her, always has. That’s all I know. Please. I swear, that’s all I know!”

  I stare at him, grin never wavering, laughter still bubbling at the back of my throat. My claws twitch, eager, wanting to test the truth, wanting to make him scream anyway, but Master’s voice cuts through, calm and satisfied, and the Bond soothes, cools, my blood slowing as his purpose is satisfied.

  The rest of the men sit, broken and afraid, the world of their backroom deals shrunk down to this single moment of violence and threat. Their eyes dart to Master, to me, to the sword still buried in flesh, and know there will never be a contract, never a coin, never a clever word that will save them from the truth of what we are.

  Master gives me a nod, silent and decisive, as he wrenches his blade free, the wet sound of steel sliding from flesh filling the heavy hush. That’s all the invitation I need, no words, no Bond needed, just the surge of wild approval and hunger. I pounce, tearing into them, claws ripping velvet, flesh, bone. The room erupts in chaos and pleading, but I don’t hear it as anything but the music of my work, screams, gasps, wet gurgles, bodies toppling over polished chairs, blood blooming over mahogany and fine wool. I laugh, unhinged, wide-eyed, lost in the thrill of it, paint the walls with their cowardice, their secrets, their last desperate bargains.

  Time blurs. When it’s done, the room is silent, thick with the copper stench of blood and ruin. Pieces of men, gangsters, brokers, would be lords of the night, litter the once-pristine lounge, all their power now nothing more than stains and meat.

  I pad back to Master, paws and jaw sticky, fur bristling with the last shivers of violence, heart thudding with wild, euphoric pride. I nuzzle up to him, breath quick and ragged, tail lashing in pleasure. He kneels and strokes me behind the ears, slow and sure, grounding me in the aftermath. His touch tames the beast just enough.

  He grins, a hint of that rare warmth glinting in his eyes, and leans down. “I suppose we’re off to Maw Graven, then. But” he teases, fingers curling into my hair, voice deep and gentle, “whom is a good kitten? Huh? Whom is a good kitten?”

  I purr, eyes half-closed, body melting into his touch, the Bond singing with triumph and possessive delight. In the wreckage of all this ruin, I am still his, and he is still mine. That’s all I need.

  

  

  into my hair, voice deep and