It isn’t enough. Not for me, not for a catgirl, not after mead that sweet and strong, not with the Bond thrumming in my skull and your scent tangled up in every thread of my consciousness. My body loses the fight long before dawn.

  Somewhere in the deep dark, I come to briefly, nausea twisting through my gut, ears burning, skin clammy with the aftertaste of honey, alcohol, and obsession. My arms are still locked tight around Master, hummm, Master... nails digging lightly into his shirt, breath sour and ragged, heart fluttering in my chest like a caged animal. The world tilts with every little sound, and my mind, still fuzzy with the echo of devotion, can only cling to the anchor of his body beside mine.

  But there’s no escaping what comes next. My stomach rolls, a sharp, miserable cramp running up my spine, and with a desperate little whimper I scramble from the bed, barely making it to the washbasin in the corner before I vomit. It’s messy, noisy, absolutely undignified. The sound echoes in the quiet room, a wet chorus of regret. My ears flatten with humiliation, tail dragging low as I lean over the basin, trembling, retching until there’s nothing left but bile and shame.

  For a moment I just stay there, hunched and shivering, the aftershocks still rolling through me, fur damp with sweat. My throat burns, eyes stinging, but through it all, I’m aware, painfully, beautifully aware, that he is there. The Bond is sluggish now, weighed down by misery and fatigue, but the pulse of his presence is a comfort. I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand, sniffle once, then drag myself back to bed, tail curled around my waist, all defiance gone.

  I collapse beside him again, weak and spent, my face hidden in your shoulder. Even humiliated, even sick, I cling,because that’s all I know how to do, because there’s nothing in the world that can separate me from him, not even my own weakness.

  Hangover crashes in, head pounding, mouth dry, world a muddy swirl of regret and longing. I close my eyes, breathing in his scent, tail curling around his thigh as I whisper, voice hoarse and desperate, “Don’t leave. Please don’t leave me. Even now…”

  He's there, steady, warm, immovable. I find a strange comfort in the misery, knowing he saw all of it, knowing he never left, knowing that he never will. That’s enough to let me drift, aching and fragile, into uneasy sleep, the world outside the bed nothing but distant noise.

  I barely register the world around me, the hangover is brutal, pain pounding behind my eyes, mouth dry and bitter with regret. I’m curled into a shivering knot, face hidden in the hollow of his shoulder, tail limp across the bed. The Bond is faint, buzzing with exhaustion and shame, but even in this state I can sense him, steady, unyielding, the only constant in a world that keeps spinning and spinning.

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  He shifts, the mattress dipping as he sits up, arms strong and careful as he lifts me from the crumpled blankets. There’s no hesitation, no hint of disgust, just that iron gentleness that always cuts through the madness. He cradles me in his lap like a child, my body loose and helpless, head lolling against his chest as he wipes the corner of my mouth with a damp cloth. His hand is cool and certain, the simple act of care making my chest ache in a way that’s worse than any sickness.

  “Poor silly thing,” he murmurs, voice low and perfectly neutral, not a trace of mockery, just the statement of fact, the kind of weary patience only Master ever manages. “Come here…” His arms tighten, pulling me closer, holding me steady against the aftershocks of humiliation and misery. I burrow into him, closing my eyes, breathing in the clean, familiar scent of skin and leather and rain-damp wool, tail winding around his wrist in silent apology.

  He moves with that practiced efficiency I know so well, always knowing what needs to be done, even in the smallest things. I hear the quiet rattle of pouches, the snap of a clasp, the faint clink of glass. He draws out a bundle of herbs, wrapped tight in linen and sealed with wax, the kind he always keeps for emergencies, something for poison, something for fever, something for every disaster a city can offer. I watch through heavy eyelids as he crushes a leaf between his fingers, the scent sharp and clean, then slips it into a small cup, pouring in a splash of water from the jug beside the bed.

  He holds it to my lips, not waiting for me to resist. “Drink.” His voice leaves no room for argument. I obey, the taste bitter, medicinal, but chased with honey, always the smallest kindness tucked behind the necessity. I swallow, feeling the cool liquid settle in my belly, chasing away the nausea, the ache, the swirling vertigo. Slowly, the pounding in my head eases, the raw edge of the hangover dulling to a distant ache.

  He knows exactly what I need, and the herbs work quickly, my stomach settles, the pain in my skull ebbs, and the world loses that hateful spin. The Bond warms, strength trickling back into my limbs. I blink up at him, shame still clinging to my cheeks, but the gratitude is fierce, sharp as claws. I cling tighter, pressing my forehead to his jaw, purring weakly, the humiliation drowned out by the overwhelming sense of safety.

  Master doesn’t say anything more, he never needs to. His hand strokes through my hair, down my spine, slow and measured. The world narrows to that gentle rhythm, the soft brush of his thumb behind my ear, the sound of his heartbeat under my cheek. I would kill for him. I would die for him. But in this quiet, vulnerable moment, I am content to simply exist, wrapped in his arms, the rest of the world kept at bay by his will alone.

  For a few precious minutes, there is no violence, no hunger, no hunt. Just warmth, just the soft ache of recovery, just the unbreakable bond that ties us together, closer than blood. I curl in, the ruined kitten cradled by her Master, and breathe.