Master rises from his chair with that effortless calm that makes my blood hum. “Come on then, kitten,” he says, voice low and even.

  He taps the back of his calf twice, sharp, deliberate, the signal that shoots straight through me like a command etched in fire. My ears flick forward hard, tail lashing once in a wild arc before I drop from his lap to the floor in a fluid crouch, the silver pouch clutched tight in one fist because no one else gets to touch what’s ours.

  I’m on him in an instant, pressing my full length against his leg as he turns to leave, cheek rubbing hard along the back of his calf in slow, possessive drags, once, twice, three times, scenting him thoroughly, marking every inch of fabric. My purr explodes out of me, ragged and euphoric, vibrating up his leg. The councilors are already forgotten shadows, the leader might as well be dust.

  Through the bond, I feel it, a long, quiet sigh echoing in that vast room of his mind, resigned, maybe a little weary another job, another night, another war we didn’t start but will damn well finish. It tugs at something deep in my chest, sharp and protective, making my claws flex against the floorboards. I butt my head against his knee, hard enough to nudge him.

  I rise up on my knees as he strides toward the doors, slipping under his arm to mold myself to his side, arm locking around his waist, tail snapping around his thigh twice. “I’ve got you,” I whisper. “Tonight we carve up their little cartel, spill their secrets, burn their routes to ash. And when it’s done, I’ll make that sigh turn into something better.”

  The sun’s already gone by the time we hit the east, the sky a bruised purple, lanterns flickering. My tail lashes the whole walk there, embercrack still fizzing in my veins, ears swiveling at every creak. I stay glued to Master’s side, arm locked through his, claws digging lightly into his sleeve, cheek rubbing his shoulder every few steps just to keep our scents tangled.

  We push through the tavern doors into a haze of pipe smoke and low murmurs. The back room’s already set, private, curtained off, a low round table ringed by a curved couch plush enough for deals and desperate enough for blood. Varkis Reed lounges dead center on the couch, legs sprawled, a smug little king in cheap velvet, rings glinting on every finger. Four security goons loom around the entrance archway, arms crossed, blades obvious under cloaks, eyes flat and professional.

  Master doesn’t slow. Doesn’t acknowledge the room, the stares, the sudden hush. He just walks straight for the couch like the whole tavern was built for him. The security moves fast, two of them step forward in perfect sync, blocking the archway with bodies and quiet menace, hands already on hilts. “Private meet,” one grunts. “Invitation only.”

  My reaction is instant, explosive. A snarl rips out of me low and feral, tail bushing huge, ears flattening to razor slits as I surge forward half a step ahead of Master. My spear’s already half raised, shield strapped tight to my forearm, claws flexing with the need to tear throats. I drop into a crouch, body coiled like a spring. “Touch him,” I hiss, voice velvet and venom, “and I’ll paint this room with every drop you’ve got.”

  A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

  The goons hesitate, just a flicker, but it’s enough. Master doesn’t even break stride. He sidesteps the whole thing smooth as smoke, hand dipping into his pocket and coming up with a fat handful of silver coins that catch the lamplight like stars. He flips one idly between his fingers.

  Reed’s eyes flick to the silver, then to Master’s face, then to me, still crouched and vibrating with murder, and he chuckles, low. “Let ’em through,” he says, waving a lazy hand. “Anyone flashes that much upfront earns a seat.”

  The security parts like curtains. I straighten slowly, spear lowering but not relaxing, tail lashing hard enough to whistle as I follow Master in. My purr starts the instant we’re past them, jagged and possessive.

  The couch is round, plush, built for circles of false intimacy. Reed stays dead center, reclining like he owns the night. Master drops into the curve right beside him, close enough for talking, far enough for blades. I don’t even pretend to choose a separate seat.

  I vault lightly onto the couch and curl straight into Master’s lap, knees folding, body molding to his chest like I was carved to fit there. My tail loops twice around his waist, tight and anchoring, fluff brushing his back. One arm locks around his neck, claws kneading lightly at his shoulder through the tunic, the other rests on his thigh, fingers splayed possessively.

  Master leans forward just enough to command the space. "Let's cut the dance. Cartel's routes, warehouses, drop points. Backers pulling their strings. Names, dates, the works. Start talking."

  Reed smirks, lounging deeper into the couch's center, eyes flicking over us with amusement. His gaze lingers on me, too long, too appraising, and my fur bristles under the cloak, tail tightening hard enough to dig fluff into Master's side. "Straight to business. I like that." He chuckles, low, swirling his drink. "Though I have to say, you've got interesting taste in... pets. Exotic little thing, isn't she? Claws and all. Bet she keeps you warm on cold jobs."

  The word pet lands like a slap. My lips peel back instantly, a hiss ripping out sharp and venomous, ears flattening to razor slits as I half rise in Master's lap, body coiling like a spring, claws unsheathing with an audible click. One hand slams down on the table edge, gouging wood, the other locking around Master's neck from behind, protective, possessive. My tail lashes wild, thumping his back hard enough to jolt him, purr twisting into a guttural growl that fills the room. "Call me a pet again," I snarl, voice velvet wrapped razor wire, eyes glowing slitted and manic in the dim light, "and you'll beg for the mercy you won't get."

  The security shifts at the entrance, hands twitching toward hilts, but Reed just laughs, nervous at the edges, and raises a placating hand. "Easy, kitten. No offense meant. Just saying... information like this? Real intel ? Doesn't come cheap."

  Through the bond, I feel it clear, Master's preference boiling under that calm surface, a dark, violent urge to skip the games, crack the fixer's skull against the table, and beat the answers out until the couch runs red. But he reins it in, slides on that pretty, detached mask like it's second skin.

  He doesn't even glance at me, just dips two fingers into his pouch and draws out a single gold coin, thick, heavy, stamped. He sets it on the table with deliberate care, then slides it across the wood slow, the scrape loud in the sudden hush, until it stops right under Reed's nose.

  The fixer leans forward, eyes widening like a starving man spotting meat. He pinches the coin between fingers, holding it up to the lamplight, turning it slow, examining the edges, the mint mark, the weight like it's some rare artifact.

  I settle back into Master's lap with a huff, body molding flush again, tail snapping around his torso twice, anchoring us tight. My cheek rubs hard along his jaw, marking him fresh, purring jagged and triumphant.