“New player on the east” the leader growls, voice pitched low so the scribes in the corner can pretend they’re not listening. “Showed up three weeks ago, started undercutting our tariffs, poaching runners, burning two of our warehouses like it was a greeting card.” He shoves the pouch forward until it stops an inch from Master’s bowl. “We’ve had enough of this new one squatting on our turf. Guild territory lines have been drawn in blood for decades, this city’s carved up neat, and nobody gets to redraw the map without paying the toll.”
His fingers drum the table, impatient. “There’s a mid level fixer from their side coming in tonight. Neutral ground, Name’s Varkis Reed. We want you two to sit pretty, buy him a drink, and pull everything he knows about their supply routes, backers, and drop points. Quiet if you can. Loud if you have to.” His gaze flicks to me for the first time, just a flash, and I bare my fangs in a slow, lazy grin that promises loud would be so much more fun. “Silver on the table is half up front. Other half when Reed’s either singing or bleeding.”
The pouch sits there glinting, fat and arrogant, like it thinks it can buy us. My tail lashes once, hard, slapping Master’s ankle in a possessive snap. The embercrack is still sizzling through my veins, making every heartbeat feel like a war drum, and the thought of some upstart daring to anger the streets makes the fur along my spine bristle electric.
I lean forward over the table, slow and deliberate, letting my cloak slide off one shoulder so the dark blue collar at my throat catches the lamplight, Master’s Property etched in silver thread for anyone stupid enough to forget. My claws rake lightly across the wood as I drag the pouch toward us, not asking, just taking, because everything offered to Master automatically belongs to me too. The coins clink inside.
“Cartel,” I purr, voice syrupy and razor sharp, rolling the name around my tongue like I’m tasting how it’ll sound screamed. “Pretty name for people about to learn what happens when fresh meat wanders into a den that’s already marked.” I tip the pouch just enough for a cascade of silver to spill across the table. My ears flick forward, tail tightening around Master’s leg until my fluff brushes his skin under the fabric. “We’ll meet your little fixer. We’ll smile. We’ll buy him that drink.”
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I rise up on my knees, leaning over Master’s shoulder so my chest presses to his back, arms sliding around his neck from behind in a stranglehold. My cheek rubs slow and deliberate along his jaw, marking him again because the room is full of eyes and I want every single one to remember whose territory this really is. “And when we’re done,” I whisper loud enough for the whole table to hear, “Varkis Reed will tell us everything. Who signs their ledgers. Which throats we slit first.”
My claws trace idle circles on Master’s collarbone through his tunic, light enough not to break skin but firm enough. The embercrack high is cresting now, making my pupils huge, my grin manic wide. “This city’s been carved up neat, you said. Good. We like neat. We’ll just carve our initials a little deeper into the new kids until they remember whose streets these are.”
Master’s voice cuts through the chamber, “Fair enough. I suppose we could head that way.”
The words are casual, almost bored, but they land in my blood like molten silver. My ears snap forward so hard the tips tremble, tail lashing once in a wild arc before it coils even tighter around his waist.
Then his hand settles over mine, warm, heavy, deliberate. Fingers spread across my knuckles, pinning my claws gently to his chest. “Good cat,” he murmurs, low enough that it’s meant just for me, but loud enough that the nearest hear it and pretend they didn’t.
The praise detonates behind my ribs. A shudder rolls through my whole body, violent and electric. My purr erupts in a broken, jagged roar. I arch into his touch instantly, pressing my cheek hard against his palm, rubbing slow, desperate circles, smearing my scent into his skin like I’m trying to brand it permanently.
“Good cat,” he said. Good cat.
The words loop in my head, manic and intoxicating, drowning out everything else. My claws flex under his hand, not scratching, just kneading in tiny, worshipful pulses against his tunic. I twist in his lap until I’m facing him fully.
I don’t care that the leader is still standing there, that the councilors are shifting awkwardly in their seats. Let them see exactly what “good cat” does to me.
I drag my lips up to his ear, “All for you, Master. Every drop of blood we spill tonight, every secret we tear out of that fixer’s throat, every scream we wring from their little cartel, it’s all because you called me good. I’ll make them regret ever looking at the streets. I’ll make the east run red just to hear you say it again.”
