Divine In Writing

Most days Buckshot was a hell of a horse.

He could corner the meanest, most hot blooded bull and keep it exactly where you needed it. He was your wing-man during calving season, keeping the angry mama cows from pulverizing you as you tagged and vaccinated their new babies. But like all living things, he had his days…

You liked to think Bucky liked you, looked forward to your early morning work shifts. The truth you didn’t want to admit was—he really only tolerated you. But as long as you didn’t ask too much and had something sweet for him in your pocket, you both got along.

It was a win considering everyone else knew him as a demon dressed in horse clothes. He was moody, sometimes downright explosive, and had no qualms about pummeling you into the dirt if you tried to push him around. Most of the time you loved that about him…

Not today though.

Not as you laid sprawled out on the frigid ground, your lungs working overtime to pull some air into you after having it all knocked out. A cold open sky hung quietly above you as laid there, endless and pale—the clouds washed in brilliant hues of orange and pink.

It was getting close to six, you figured. Sunrise wasn’t far behind.

To Buck’s credit, he didn’t light off like bullet after launching you clean out of the saddle. He instead grazed about twelve feet away, looking up every now and then to check if you were still alive. You swore he looked pleased with himself, amused even, as you laid there cursing and spitting dirt out of your mouth.

You managed to roll onto your stomach with a groan. The world immediately swayed sideways. You stayed there a moment, blinking at the grass until the spinning eased, then pushed yourself upright.

The earth still rocked faintly beneath your boots as you bent to retrieve your old hat, stuffing it firmly back in place.

Pain pulled sharply across your brow.

“Guess we get to call in today…”

Buck snorted. You heard the slow, familiar thud of his hooves through the grass as he approached.

“You happy now, shithead?” You caught hold of his reins and gave him a quick once-over. Legs, feet, bit, cinch. Everything looked fine. Not a scratch on him.

Then your eyes drifted back toward the gate he’d refused to cross. Before you could even reach it a dry rattle crackled from the brush beside the fence line.

“That explains it.” You mumbled.

Glancing over your shoulder you saw Buck as stiff as a statue. His ears stood alert, his whole body locked and ready to bolt.

You almost chuckled.

This giant animal who could tackle bulls and chase off coyotes was reduced to a trembling mess over a little snake.

Another hissing rattle cracked out of the bush.

Beyond the gate, the pasture rolled away into open prairie with the blue rocky mountain range framing the horizon. You considered chasing the snake off. Considered leading Buck through the gate anyway. Considered shaking off the fall and finishing the day’s chores.

But your head pounded and the ground still swayed a bit beneath your boots.

Something warm crept down your cheek. You touched it and hissed at the sight of blood smeared across your fingertips.

You blew out a little breath.

Pretty as it was, the work would have to wait.

You stuck your foot in the stirrup and hauled yourself up—taking a moment to steady yourself and find your other stirrup—then pointed Buck towards home.

The whole ride back, you rehearsed excuses.

You’d clean yourself up and tell Alice, your housekeeper, that Buck spooked, but that he was fine and you were fine and nobody needed to fuss. Hopefully she wouldn’t call your daddy.

The plan was looking pretty good—until you spotted three riders cresting the hill, going in the opposite direction you were heading.

Your stomach dropped, knowing who they were without even having to look.

Your father had hired the same three ranch hands every summer for as long as you could remember. That is, until one of them sloughed off to the city for college.

Caleb, the bane of your existence since childhood, rode at the front of the pack, looking better than he had any right to in his fringed leather coat.

His family had moved into the little white farmhouse down the road the summer you turned ten. You were first introduced at the barbecue your daddy had put on to welcome them and one smile from Caleb had been enough to send you head over heels in love with him.

Daddy apparently loved him too, because he’s been a thorn in your side ever since. Always over for dinner, always down to watch football, always available when daddy needed something done. He even had his own room in the showbarn’s loft for when he wanted to stay over if things got rough at home.

It took you years to adjust to the emptiness he left behind. And right when you thought you’d kicked him like a bad habit, he returned home and begged Daddy to work for him again.

You’ve spent all your time avoiding him as much as possible since then.

Riding beside him were Gideon and Dallas, his two best friends and partners in crime.

The three of them were currently loping across the pasture, toward the main herd probably, carrying out whatever tasks your daddy had handed out to them that morning.

Problem was, if Caleb got a good look at you now, he’d ask questions and see the blood and blow the whole thing up into something it didn’t need to be.

The thought alone was enough to make you want to ride straight off a cliff.

You turned Bucky sharply to the right, squeezing him into a lope.

Maybe if you looked busy, Caleb would assume you were just checking fences. Maybe if you got to the barn fast enough, you could disappear before he—

“Hey!”

You winced.

In the corner of your eye, you caught sight of him lifting a hand in greeting.

For some strange inexplicable reason—panic seized you.

Suddenly you were smooching Buck into a full gallop.

You realized running away probably looked suspicious. And you couldn’t deny the guilt when you imagined the confused look Caleb was probably wearing.

He should be used to it by now.

When did you ever come when he called you?

Relief filled you as the main barn finally came into view.

You were so close! You would just stick Buck in his stall and head straight to the sink in the wash rack to clean yourself up. Almost there…

The relief only lasted a few moments, collapsing in on itself the moment you heard another set of hooves thundering towards you.

Did he follow you? There’s no fucking way…

You dared a glance over your shoulder, and sure enough, there was Caleb hot on your heels—pushing his horse to its limits to catch up.

“Slow down, will ya?” He called out over the roar of the wind. “What’s the matter?” Guilt pricked you again at the worried tone of his voice.

“Nothing’s the matter, you dummy!” You called out over your shoulder, scrambling wildly for an excuse, any last ditch effort to get out of this conversation.

“Then slow down so I can talk to ya!” All your guilt twisted into frustration at his stubborn persistence.

It was no surprise to him when you veered sharply to the left and galloped full force towards a weak corner of fencing. The corner you were always getting in trouble for jumping over when you didn’t feel like opening the gate at the end of the pasture.

Buckshot soared over it with surprising elegance for his size.

A sharp pain jolted through your skull as you landed the jump with him.

It made your stomach turn, but at least when you looked behind you Caleb was no longer on your tail. He pulled his horse to a stop on the other side of the fence, shaking his head as you galloped off.

You blew a sigh of relief through your dry lips and slowed a bit, letting Buck cool off.

You tried your best to act casual as you dismounted and strolled into the barn, taking Buck straight to the wash rack. You didn’t even clip him in, just dropped his reins and beelined toward the sink.

“Aw shit…” You sighed when you caught a look at your reflection in the mirror. There was blood streaked all down the side of your face, seeping into the collar of your flannel coat.

It’s fine, you thought. You’ll wash up, head inside, and sleep this off. Dad wouldn’t be home until tomorrow evening and by then you’d be perfectly fine.

The only one you needed to worry about wa—

“Gotcha—” Caleb’s playful giggle died in his throat the second you whirled around.

You were just taking your coat off, just about to splash cold water on your face.

His eyes sharpened instantly. That airy, carefree smile he always wore disappeared as he took in the blood-soaked collar of your shirt.

Your lip wobbled. You were already frustrated and tired and now you were going to have to deal with Caleb and Caleb was definitely going to tell your dad… and all you could do was resist shriveling up under his gaze while your whole plan fell apart.

Only, Caleb didn’t jump straight into scolding you, didn’t say a single word in fact. He just spun on his heel and grabbed Buck’s reins—lead him quietly back to his stall without a single word. You heard him murmuring into his phone a minute later, probably talking to Gideon. Heard leather squeaking as his quick hands unsaddled your horse.

You stayed hidden in the wash rack—gently splashing cold water on your face until it came away clear. It was only a little cut right at your hairline, but it was deep and beginning to swell. You were just patting the gash dry, wincing when you heard the stall door rattle shut. He rounded the corner right after.

“Come on, pips.” He seemed eerily relaxed as he offered you his hand.

It wasn’t computing in your sluggish brain.

You couldn’t quite match this version of him up to the Caleb who took every chance to scold you, to hover over you, to boss you around. Caleb, who loved to tease you—said it was his right as your honorary big brother—only stood there, stretching his hand out to you in a gentle invitation. You squinted up at him, planting yourself in place.

“What do you mean come on?” You scoffed. “It’s just a little cut. I’m going to take shower and dress it and then I’m gonna go to bed.” His face pinched into a little scowl, trying hard to mask his amusement.

There’s the little pest you knew… although he certainly wasn’t little anymore. He stepped closer, using his height to his full advantage in an attempt to tower over you. You couldn’t tell if it was his sudden proximity or the potential head injury that made the floor sway under you.

“I know you like to think you’re in charge around here.” His voice went deep the way it did when he was done playing around.

“Hell, most of the time, I’m happy to let you.” He continued with a long suffering sigh.

He stopped right in front of you, close enough that you could feel his breath fan across your face. You refused to back away, tried your best to muster any dignity you had to spare—staring up at him with that stubborn tilt of your chin.

“But right now, I’m telling you exactly what’s going to happen.” He unzipped his coat as he spoke, shrugging his stupidly broad shoulders out of it.

“We’re going to the emergency room to make sure you still have some sense left in that big, stubborn head of yours. Then you can come home and take that nap.” He huffed a little laugh as he wrapped his coat around you, found it cute how you drowned in it.

Warmth immediately enveloped you along with his scent and you had to resist every urge to hum in delight. The last thing you needed was him acting smug on top of being completely insufferable.

“Well I’m telling you that I’m actually going inside the house to take that nap right now because I don’t need to go to no hospital.” You went to step around him.

Unsurprisingly, he moved to block your path.

“Why don’t we get daddy on the phone and see what he has to say, hmm?”

You stomped your foot, growling your frustration as he bent to your eye level—grinning like a menace because he knew he had you.

“I just know he’d leave the auction early to come get his perfect little princess.” He smirked. “Then you’d have to deal with him for the hour and forty-five minute drive to the hospital.” Your breath caught as he reached out and slowly dragged the zipper of his coat up to your chin.

“But if you can be a good girl, and go get checked out, I’ll cover for you when he asks questions. I’ll even be your personal servant for the rest of the day, I’ll do whatever you ask me to.” His eyes gentled as he leaned in to get a close look at the damage He didn’t bother to hide his concern anymore—used that cute puppy dog eyed stare to work you over.

You hated how good he was at playing you.

After over a decade of thorough practice, Caleb was the only person on the planet besides your own father who could tell you anything. He was the only one who wasn’t afraid of you.

That’s how you ended up in the worn out passenger seat of his dingy, old truck—sipping a coffee he bought you when you reached town. He was constantly tuning the thermostat, making sure you were comfortable while simultaneously pestering you to keep your eyes open every time you started to doze.

It’s how he got you to sit in the emergency room’s waiting area, despite your constant whining. He laid back in his seat, lazily stretched out with his hat pulled over his eyes while you bickered back and forth until your name was called.

But he was also the one who held your hands when they got clammy as the doctor put a few stitches through the gash. He waited at the pharmacy while they filled your prescriptions and bought you a sandwich for the ride back home.

The heater blew warm air around you, the bumpy drive back home turning hypnotic as your pain meds kicked in.

Caleb was chatting from the driver’s seat but you couldn’t hear what he was saying anymore. Your mind was fuzzy and heavy and your were so warm—still bundled up in his giant coat as you slumped against the door.

Just gonna shut your eyes for a bit, you thought. It would save you the trouble of listening to his rambling for the next hour…

You got home around one in the afternoon.

Caleb had to nearly drag you through the front door while consoling your poor house keeper, Alice, that you were alright. The pain meds had relieved your pain, sure. But they took all your sense along with it. You could only laugh as your feet flopped uselessly beneath you.

Eventually he gave up and swooped you into his arms and you giggled like you were a kid again. Back when you loved him—back when he could do no wrong in your eyes and you looked at him as if he hung the moon.

The illusion was quickly shattered, though, as he tossed you like a sack of potatoes onto the couch.

You landed with an undignified little ‘oof!’

He paid no attention to your pouting, walking over to the ottoman that held all your favorite fuzzy blankets and reaching in to grab the entire stack. Your eyes widened he approached, looking full of mischief as he dumped them on you in a pile. He stood back and admired his work for a moment, a tender smile tugging at his mouth at the ridiculous sight.

“Caleb…” You muttered, voice muffled.

He chuckled, digging through the pile until your face appeared.

“What?” He couldn’t help the way his eyes crinkled at your peeved expression, at the way static was making your hair crazy.

You decided a little payback was in order…

“I can’t feel my fingers.” You mentioned innocently, “I need your help…” You wiggled your feet, still clad in your boots, to emphasize your point.

He knelt with a long suffering sigh and pulled your boots off while you shoved the blankets away.

“There, happy now Princess?” You shook your head with a wicked gleam in your eye.

“And my chaps, please.”

Caleb’s breath suddenly lodged in his throat—his adam’s apple bobbing as he stared up at you from where he knelt on the floor.

“You’ve gotta be kidding me…” You shook your head again with an evil little smile.

You could blame the pain killers for making you loose.

It was easier than admitting the truth…

“You said you’d do whatever I asked. Time to cash that check, big boy.” Your tone turned mocking and a hot blush bloomed across his cheeks, touched the tips of his ears. It suited his dumb, handsome face remarkably well.

His hands didn’t shake like you hoped they would.

They hovered for a moment, his long, lovely fingers hesitating as they reached your belt buckle.

You met his gaze and lifted your hips insistently.

“Come on, cowpoke, I ain’t got all day.” He scowled at your teasing tone, clearly frustrated, but deciding to keep quiet about it for now.

You half expected him to be rough and frustrated with you.

He wasn’t.

His touch was exceptionally gentle as he loosened your belt, his fingers barely grazing you as they worked. You found yourself blushing from just that little bit of contact, from the way his eyes seemed to darken as they focused. He took his time sliding your chaps over the curve of your backside, kept his eyes down and focused on his work.

But his face was burning red, and the hard set of his mouth gave him away.

You were no better off—entranced while watching his hands bunch the fringed suede and pull gently until they fell off your legs, relishing the moment.

“Thank you…” That came out much softer than you’d intended, far too tender instead of teasing.

He chucked a blanket at your face in response, disappearing with your boots and chaps before you got your face uncovered.

You grumbled, sinking into the couch—more than a little mortified by your actions.

The sink came on in the little bathroom by the stairs.

It ran while you dozed, followed by the thud of his boots trudging towards the kitchen a few minutes later.

He returned eventually, snacks piled high in his arms and your purple water bottle hooked on his pinky finger.

“Hungry?” He asked without sparing you a glance, plopping down on the couch next to you and snatching the remote off the coffee table.

“No.” You grumbled, sinking deeper into your blanket pile.

That earned a dirty look from him.

“Well you should eat a little something anyways… Over there wasting away.”

You had the audacity to side-eye him.

“Silence, servant boy.”

You sighed, feeling warm and sleepy and wishing he would touch you again in some small way.

“You can speak when spoken to.”

Caleb scoffed.

You’ve hardly given him the time of day since he returned and now, suddenly, you were here sassing him like you were seventeen again. On the same couch you both grew up on. He’d be lying if he said he didn’t love this, didn’t miss it terribly while he was away. At this point he would take anything—any scrap you gave him was better than the cold shoulder he’d been enduring for seven long months.

“You’re lucky you’re injured, lucky I don’t come over there and beat your little ass.” He grumbled, cheeks still flushed from your little stunt earlier.

You scoffed, glaring a hole in the side of his head.“What’s a soft little city boy like you gonna do, huh?” Caleb winced at your tone.

“You think I can’t do nothin’ about that bratty attitude of yours?” He flicked a candy at you, bounced it right off the side of your head. “I could change your attitude real quick, pips.” You flushed, refusing to meet his gaze, refusing to bite at the bait he dangled above your lips.

“You’re all talk. Always have been.”

“And you’re a brat. Always will be.”

And just like that, all the walls you put up around him started to crumble. All the hard work spent scrubbing him out of your mind turned to ash.

You couldn’t help the tiny smile that tugged at the edge of your mouth. Couldn’t help but melt like butter when his warmth crept into your chest.

Maybe it was relief.

Having him close and circling you again in that old familiar orbit was thawing you out and suddenly you could breath.

You plopped your head down in his lap with a dramatic sigh, knowing he wouldn’t stop you because Caleb had always let you do whatever you wanted to him.

He only tensed under you for a moment, a surprised little sound getting stuck in his throat.

Then, muscle memory took over.

His hand found its rightful place on the crown of your head, then started smoothing your hair down. Then, slowly, his fingers spread and buried themselves in your hair, gently tugging out knots.

Caleb’s heart was cracking open while you were none the wiser, dozing off in the warm cradle of his lap. He fought the urge to lean down and bury himself in you. He wanted to feel you all over his skin, wanted to breath you and drown in you.

Instead he sat still so as not to disturb your sleep, ran his ringers over your scalp, down through your hair, arranging the ends into little hearts to pass the time.

You passed the entire rest of the day like that; sleeping, snacking, watching movies.

For the first time in years you felt weightless—the constant gnawing ache in your chest dissolving under his gentle fingertips.

Hours slipped by without you noticing, until your phone buzzed.

The clock read 9:42pm when you clicked your screen awake. There were endless notifications from all your neighbors about preparing for tomorrow.

You sighed and clicked your phone shut, nuzzling back into Caleb’s lap instead of replying.

Another hour or so passed in relative peace before you couldn’t take it anymore. All of your unanswered questions finally bubbled over.

“Caleb?”

“Hmm?” He lifted his head off the back of the couch so he could look down at you.

“Why didn’t you call me after you left?” His breath caught.

It was the question he had been dreading since he came back home. He’d spent seven months imagining this conversation. Somehow he still had no idea what to say.

Your eyes searched his as he came up with the right words.

“I wanted to call you, pips.” His gaze shifted away from yours, looking more than a little guilty. “I guess I… I was afraid.” You scoffed, rolling your eyes.

“Afraid of what?” You asked incredulously.

“I was feeling guilty. Your mom had just passed when I left and… well…” He sighed, running his fingers through his hair.

“I thought you hated me for leaving, so I gave you a little space. But I thought about you every day.” You rolled your eyes again but didn’t say anything.

Caleb felt the panic rising, pulling something tight in his chest. His arm instinctively wrapped around your middle before he could stop to think about what he was doing.

“I was so excited to see you during holiday break. I still remember knocking on your door to surprise you…” He chuckled, but it sounded a little strangled. “I remember you stuck your nose straight in the air and walked away.” His shoulders sank a little at the memory, trying to smile it off.

But his eyes betrayed him.

Your face burned with shame at the memory. Back then you felt like the only way you would survive was if you killed him off in your heart. Buried him in the graveyard next to your mama…

“I’d have tossed my scholarship in the bin and come running back home if you asked me to.” He said quietly after a moment passed in silence, blushing at how corny it sounded, but it was true…

You took a moment to gather yourself, all of the hurt and broken pieces that had you held onto so tightly were starting to slip from your grasp.

“I guess I did hate you back then…” You admitted with a tired sigh.

You expected to see him scowl, to flick your forehead. But he only smiled with that specific brand of tenderness he reserved only for you and tucked your hair behind you ear.

It gave you the courage to keep going.

“I felt like you abandoned me when I needed you the most…”

Your words came out quieter than you meant, small and vulnerable.

“I thought you met a pretty girl in college and forgot all about me. Didn’t think you were ever coming back”“What on earth made you think that?”

“I saw a picture on your page with a bunch of people at some party… there was a girl hanging on your shoulder.” You grumbled with a blush.

Why the hell were you admitting this to him?“I…” He squinted up at the ceiling, trying to find the right way to word it so you wouldn’t take off running again.

He’d waited so long for this opportunity, dreamed of the moment he could draw you in…

“I had a lot of interest.” He chuckled. “But I turned each and everyone of them down.” You turned your back to him so he couldn’t see your blushing cheeks—pretending to be suddenly interested in the reality show on tv while you squashed the little flair of hope lighting up your chest.

Unfortunately Caleb misread the moment.

Panic seized him.

This was it, he thought.

You were shutting him out again and he’d never have another chance to tell you everything that he has been dying to say for nearly five years.

His arms wrapped around you, gathered you up.

“Please don’t be angry with me. I’ve missed you so much.” He bent to nuzzle your hair and you squeaked at the unfamiliar sensation.

Caleb never touched you like this…

It certainly wasn’t because you didn’t want him to. Hell, you’ve been bending over backwards since you were sixteen to get him to notice you in that way.

But no matter how skimpy your bikini was in the summertime, no matter how tight your blue jeans hugged you, how carefully you tailored your chaps to squeeze around your ass just right… Caleb refused to look at you with anything other than tenderness.

It drove you crazy.

And now, suddenly, his breath was tickling your ear and his arms were wrapped tightly around your waist and you were losing your ever loving mind.

“Pips?” He murmured into your hair, shooting heat through your entire body. You felt like you were gonna vibrate right out of your skin and float away.

Caleb was no better off—spiraling in the awkward silence. It was killing him. He needed you to say something, anything.

He hauled you up off is lap and into his chest, his arms locking around you like a cage.

“Ugh, Caleb—” You wheezed, squirming a little in his grasp until you felt him shudder.

“Caleb?” You froze in his hold.

His only response was squeezing you impossibly tighter until his breath warmed the top of your head.

“I’m sorry.” He mumbled weakly, his voice straining against the lump in his throat.

“I’m sorry for leaving you behind.” His chest shuddered again. “Sorry for making you deal with it all alone.”

Was he crying?

You were horrified by the realization, turning in his grasp to look at him. He ducked his face in your neck, squeezing you tight—the last thing he wanted was for you to see him like this.

You tried wiggling out of his grasp again and were met with a grunt.

“Stop trying to get away from me.” He whined, ghosting his lips along the shell of your ear. It was a weak spot of yours and he knew it—a dirty trick. But he was willing to play dirty at this point. Willing to pay the price for it later if it meant you stayed in his arms like this for a little longer.

You gasped as the heat of his breath lit your body like a cigarette, his face dipped lower—lips ghosting over your pulse point while he pulled you into his lungs like smoke. You needed to grab the reins fast before your own body ran off with you.

“Will you let go?” You gasped, “I’m not trying to get away from you, you dummy!”

He calmed down a little at that, just enough for you to work your arms free.

You coaxed his face out of your neck, tilting his head up.

The sight broke your heart a little.

His eyes were still watery, face contorted in agony as he looked up at you.

He burned with shame, his tears now on full display, but he was too desperate to care anymore.

You gathered yourself with a shaky breath, staring into his eyes with wary anticipation.

“What are you trying to tell me, cowpoke?” You swept his hair out of his eyes, moved your hands to gently cradle his face. His glassy eyes widened a little as they stared into yours, lip trembling just slightly.

You’d never seen this expression on Caleb before.

All the air drained out of your lungs as the moment you’ve been waiting for your entire life hung in the open air between you.

“Ain’t it obvious?” He whispered, vulnerable and bashful.

The cold spike of fear was fading fast, slowly replaced by a fiery heat with the way you were looking at him right now.

“Maybe… but I wanna hear you say it…” God, that bratty little tone…

Caleb didn’t think it was possible—the way it suddenly made you ten times hotter. His face practically glowed in the dark living room.

You almost smirked at the way his gaze darted to your lips, then right back up to meet your eyes.

He gulped, took a breath.

“I love y—oomf!” Stars burst behind his eyes as your mouth came crashing into his.

Softer and warmer and sweeter than he could have ever imagined.

His arms released their crushing grip around your waist—hands winding around your face, cupping it so gently as he leaned into the kiss. His body was hyper-aware of yours as it pressed tightly against him, soft and warm and alive with a wild, hammering heartbeat…

You whimpered, barely a breath against his lips but it was enough to melt him into a groaning puddle. A burning frenzy scorched low in his stomach—had him pressing into you, stealing the air right out of you. Blood was draining from his brain quickly, taking all rational thought with it as it pooled somewhere lower…

You were no better off, struggling just to pull some air back into your burning lungs while your mind skidded and spun out. You pulled away to look at him—at his long legs sprawled out under you, at his heaving chest, at the deep blush painting his face in a cute pink tint.

His hooded eyes glowed with affection as they stared back at you.

You were just about to go in for another kiss, already leaning into him when your phone rang.

“Shit!” You hissed.

Who the hell was calling you this late? You reached behind you, scrabbling in the dark until Caleb bent you both forward and grabbed it for you.

“Thank you” You breathed.

Your dad’s contact flashed across the screen and the color drained out of your face.

You took a deep breath, composed your buzzing body before answering.

“Hey, daddy.” Caleb held his chuckle in, watching you struggle to get your feet under you.

“Hey, baby girl. Ain’t heard from you all day, you alright?” You realized with a little pang of guilt that if he was calling you this late it meant you kept him up with worry.

“I’m… okay.” He waited patiently for you to continue.

“I um… I had a little spill today is all. Been sleepin’ it off.” You could practically see him bristling up on the other end of the line.

“A little fall, hm? Buckshot throw you again?” Your panicked gaze flicked up to Caleb. He took the phone from you with the airy confidence you knew so well.

“Hey pops!” His voice was suddenly sweet and boyish and your dad hopped straight into conversation with him like you were never there.

“No, she took SideGig out this morning, Bucky was acting a little fresh.” He paused while your dad chatted. Caleb turned to you, his eyes twinkling with mischief.

“What’d you say happened pips?”

“Um, there was a rattle snake by the gate that I couldn’t I see and Gigi spooked.” You felt a little guilty for lying, but Bucky was already on thin ice with daddy and you didn’t want to give him another reason to hate him.

Caleb could sense your guilt, winked at you as he spoke.

“Yeah, I took her stubborn butt to ER. She’s alright, just needs to rest… Yep. I’m going up to check the pens first thing in the morning.” Another pause.

“No I can handle that, too. It’ll all be ready by the time you get home.”

“It’s no problem… thought I’d better keep an eye on her tonight, anyways.” You could hear your daddy gushing on his end of the phone. He always had endless praise for Caleb, you had to fight the urge to roll your eyes as he milked it.

“Yes sir. Alright, here’s your baby.” He handed your phone back to you and kicked his legs up like this was the most natural thing in the world.

“Hey… yes I’m resting, about to go to sleep now actually.”

“You make sure to tell Caleb thank you.”

“Yes daddy…” You blushed as Caleb smirked.

“Alright baby girl, get some good sleep. Text me in the morning when you wake up. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Can’t wait. Love you.” You have never been so relieved to hang up in your life.

For a moment, neither of you said anything as you stared at the phone. Then the tension finally cracked, the both of you dissolving into a fit of giggles.

“Thanks, Cay.”

A grin tugged at the corner of his mouth.

“You can call me baby, if you want.”

“Don’t start pushin’ your luck.”

Despite the warning, you leaned forward and pressed a kiss between his brows.

The sound that escaped him was embarrassing, a delighted little hum vibrating in his chest as his arms tightened around you,.

“You’ll stay with me tonight, won’t you?” You tipped your head back to look at him. “Just to keep an eye on me?”

You fluttered your eyelashes and that sweet, bubbly laugh slipped out of him again—the one that only seemed to exist when you two were together.

“I don’t think you’re gettin rid of me after that kiss.”

“Good.”

Early morning spilled through the front windows, painted the room in it’s cool blue light. Sometime during the night Caleb had wrapped himself around you, held you fast against him to keep you from rolling off the couch.

Alice found the two of you tangled together on the couch when she stepped inside to start on breakfast, a fond little smile spread across her face.

“It’s about time, you two.”

The words were spoken softly, so as not to disturb the peaceful scene before her. She fought the urge to take a picture and send it to your daddy, knowing you’d cuss her from a boot to a slipper if she did.

By the time you finally woke, the smell of fresh coffee had drifted through the house.

You started the morning slowly.

Drinking coffee together turned into teasing and giggling. Giggling turned into kissing.

Then more kissing.

At some point Caleb stopped pretending he had any interest in finishing his breakfast and backed you into against the countertops to kiss you properly.

Only breaking away when he heard Alice’s footsteps approaching.

By the time Alice reached the kitchen it was empty—mugs in the sink and barely eaten breakfast still laid out on the table—the back door creaked shut before she could holler at you.

The cut on your head was tender, the cold morning air biting at the raw edges of it as you and Caleb made your way to the barn, gravel crunching under your boots as you walked side by side.

Spring had arrived in the valley weeks ago, but the mountains were still blanketed in snow along their highest peaks. The scent of damp earth and fresh grass lingered on the breeze as the sleepy ranch slowly came to life around you both.

Horses blew impatiently in their stalls, a tractor fired up somewhere in the distance.

The familiar sounds felt different this morning.

The weight of the day didn’t press on you, crush you under its weight like it had for so long. Not when Caleb was walking next you, smiling down at you like a fool.

You talked about everything and nothing while brushing your horses under the warm barn lights, Caleb saddled Buck for you while you wrapped Gigi’s legs and oiled her hooves.

When it came time to mount up, he offered his hand.

Normally you would’ve argued, would’ve informed him exactly where he could stick his helping hand.

Not today though. Today, you took it with a smile, blushing as you got yourself seated. The warmth of his touch lingered on your skin as you picked up your reins.

It was a chilly morning for May.

A wispy veil of mist still clung to the lower fields, slowly burning away beneath the rising sun as your rode out. Beyond the ranch, the Rockies stretched across the horizon in shades of blue and gold, their peaks glowing beneath the first real light of day.

Buck and Gigi were fresh and eager to move.

Once you were through the first pasture gate you gave Bucky his head. He took off immediately, exploding into a rowdy canter under you—throwing a little buck. You laughed as he tossed his big, beautiful head up in delight.

Gigi and Caleb approached on your left.

“Wanna race?” He hollered over the roaring wind and hoofbeats.

“You’ll lose!”

Caleb took a moment to etch the sight of you like this into his memory. They way you floated effortlessly, the wind blowing your hair in wild tendrils as you galloped away from him. He let you get away, enjoyed the view of you in front of him too much to care about losing.

The rhythm of hoofbeats sank into your bones and something inside you sang out with them. Fence posts flew by in a blur. Cold air filled your head, stung your lungs in the most pleasant way.

You reached the far end of the quarantine pastures in no time and fell into work mode seamlessly. Conversation died out, which was fine.

Caleb knew you rarely talked while working.

Out here, words were usually reserved for callouts, instructions, or warnings. The rest of the time, you let the horses carry you where you needed to go and enjoyed the quiet.

For once, Caleb was behaving himself. He didn’t tease you when you dropped a nail, got off his horse to string and stretch wire with you without you having to ask.

And you only caught him looking at you with ridiculous, love struck eyes twice.

The first time you rolled your eyes at him, but the second time you called him out.

“What?” You asked sharply with a hand on your hip.

His grin only widened.

“Nothin’.”

Liar. The smile threatening your own mouth lasted the rest of the ride.

By noon the quarantine pasture was good to go and the sun had climbed high enough to chase away the morning frost. What little chill remained lingered only in the shadows beneath the pines and along the north side of the hills.

The pastures stretched green and gold beneath an endless blue sky. Somewhere in the distance a meadowlark called.

You tipped your face toward the warmth of the sun for a moment, savoring it.

Behind you, Caleb swung down from Gigi and opened up the final gate.

“After you, baby doll.” He said in that sweet lilted voice.

You faked a scowl.

“Better not get used to calling me that, cowpoke. I’d hate for the neighbors to hear.”

“I want em’ to hear..” He hauled himself up into his saddle and sat with a wink, loving the way your cheeks pinked up, the way your eyes darted away from him as you took off.

The ranch was fully awake and buzzing with activity by the time you reached home.

Pickup trucks, stock trailers, dusty SUVs, and the occasional ancient farm truck stretched all the way down the driveway and spilled into the yard beside the house.

Dust billowed around you as you approached the barn. Bucky was already growing agitated with all the commotion.

Voices carried on the breeze, dogs barked, and horses nickered from the corrals, the smell of warm horses and leather lingered with the afternoon heat, someone laughed loud enough to be heard from halfway across the property.

You couldn’t help smiling.

Auction days always felt a little like a holiday.

Neighbors had been showing up to help for as long as you could remember.

The men were already hard at work. Some were hauling portable panels into position while others saddled horses or leaned against fence rails with coffee cups in their hands, discussing the day’s plans.

The women, meanwhile, had completely taken over the house.

Through the open kitchen windows drifted the smell of fresh coffee, homemade bread, onions sizzling in butter, and something sweet baking in the oven. Every now and then a burst of laughter floated out across the yard.

By tonight there’d be enough food to feed an army.

The chatter around the corrals seemed to die out the moment you and Caleb rode in.

You kept your eyes forward and your head held high as you trotted on.

Maybe if you acted natural your neighbors would mind their own business and let you be. Caleb ruined that plan almost immediately as soon as you reached the barn.

He caught you as you dismounted, setting you gently on your feet and spinning you into his waiting embrace.

You barely had time to register it before he was burying his face in your hair.

“Dammit, Caleb!” You swatted him away as chorus of laughter erupted. You heard them murmuring to each other as heat flooded your cheeks.

“About damn time.” You heard your old neighbor’s timbery voice pipe up. “You owe me twenty bucks, Darren.”

“You better mind your business, Frank!” you hollered without looking back.

That only made them laugh harder.

Caleb looked entirely too pleased with himself, looking pitifully love struck without an apology in sight.

You snatched Buck’s reins from his hand before he could try anything else and marched toward the barn with what dignity you had left.

Temporary pens had been set up for the visiting horses.

You stuck Buck in an empty one and hung a water bucket for him, took your time checking him over, running your hand over his smoky hide until your burning cheeks cooled and your pride recovered its footing.

Buck ignored your suffering completely, too busy eating the hay left behind by the previous tenant.

It was quiet for a moment.

But unfortunately there was no escaping the neighbors. Not for long anyway.

The first one found you before you’d even latched the gate behind you as you left Bucky to eat.

Then another… and another.

Some wanted to ask about the incoming cattle, some were looking for an update from your dad. Every single one of them stopped mid-conversation the second they noticed the bruise across your forehead.

“Ouch.”

“What happened to you?”

“Lord above, that looks painful.”

“You finally lose an argument with Buckshot?”

You were opening your mouth to defend yourself when a shout went up from somewhere near the driveway.

Relief flooded through you as the neighbors turned and started walking towards the driveway.

A line of livestock trailers was rolling through the front gate, kicking up massive clouds of dust that billowed across the open lawn, the low rumble of diesel engines carrying across the ranch.

Instantly, everything changed. Conversations were abandoned, coffee cups got set down, cowboys swung up into their saddles.

Buckshot snorted in annoyance when you snatched him away from his hay.

There was no time for apologies. You swung into the saddle and loped toward the driveway just as your dad climbed down from his truck.

Within seconds a crowd had gathered around him.

Neighbors and friends pressing closer, listening to his wild stories and laughing. They all ran through the plan one final time. Someone cracked a joke that earned a round of laughter before the group finally broke apart and scattered to their assignments.

The organized chaos began.

Trailer doors rattled open, dogs barked, horses danced impatiently under their riders.

The first cattle bawled from inside the trailers, the sound echoing across the ranch, then they were suddenly stampeding into the chutes. The rumble of their hooves shook the ground. Daddy must have bought close to fifty in total.

You caught sight of Caleb near the front of the herd, heading them up the first hill.

He was talking to Dallas and Gideon, gesturing toward the first gate while the dogs circled nearby, keyed up and ready to work.

One heifer immediately tried to break left—Caleb was already moving.

Gigi launched beneath him, cutting across her path so smoothly it looked effortless. One hand settled on the horn of his saddle while the other worked his lariat. They turned the cow back toward the herd before it could even fully break away.

Your stomach did a little flip.

There wasn’t a person alive who could deny Caleb was beautiful, but he was something else entirely when he was working. And it wasn’t just the way his arms flexed beneath the rolled up sleeves of his work shirt.

It was the focus—the hard set of his jaw when he was concentrating. He was easy to get lost in. Thankfully, you had Bucky to drag you back into reality. He whipped his head into the herd, biting at a cow that strayed a little too far.

“You’re an asshole, Bucky.” You chided him knowing that he wasn’t listening to you.

There were far more hands than the job required, ensuring the cattle were settled into the quarantine pasture without a hitch.

The whole thing was over before you knew it.

By evening, you were back in the barn putting Buckshot to bed.

You’d finished brushing him ten minutes ago, but the quiet was nice and you weren’t particularly eager to show yourself to the crowd.

Outside, the ranch hummed with celebration. Every now and then a burst of laughter drifted through the open barn doors. Someone shouted for more firewood. A truck door slammed. The smell of woodsmoke had already begun to creep across the yard.

They were probably getting the bonfire lit and breaking out the beer by now. The picnic tables were probably all lined with enough food to feed half the county.

The thought made you smile, the sound of laughter was sweet after a long and lonely winter, and you’d join them soon…

Just not yet.

Buckshot seemed perfectly content with this arrangement. He stood quietly munching hay while you leaned against his broad rump, absently working through the last few tangles in his tail.

It didn’t take Caleb long to come looking for you.

It never did.

You could almost time it like clockwork. Sure enough, the sound of his boots echoed down the aisle and a shadow fell across the stall floor. Right on queue .

Your eyes immediately found him leaning against the stall door with his hat pushed back—still looking love struck, swooning as he took you in.

“What’re you doin’ hidin’ in here, baby?”

You sighed dramatically.

“I don’t think I can show my face again after your little stunt.”

His eyebrows shot up.

“My stunt?”

“Half the county watched you hug me in broad daylight. I’ll be out there discussing my due date with Suzanne and Alice before I can even plate my food.”

His grin only widened.

“I’m serious, Caleb. I ain’t never gonna hear the end of it.”

“Well you’re gonna have to face them eventually. Let’s go get it over with, hm?”

Caleb walked you out, tucked you tightly into his side and answered all the wondering glances with a kiss to your forehead.

The mob descended almost instantly.

Questions came from every direction.

“When’s the wedding?”

“Oh, your babies are gonna be adorable.”

Heat burned all the way to the tips of your ears as laughter erupted around the bonfire. Caleb, meanwhile seemed perfectly content to answer questions on your behalf. He was discussing venues and colors with Alice before dessert, looking like he was having the time of his life. The worst part was everyone encouraging him.

Daddy looked especially pleased. The firelight danced across his face as he watched the two of you with something like relief. Like he’d been holding his breath for years, waiting for this moment to unfold.

“‘Bout time, kiddo,” he chuckled before wrapping Caleb in a crushing one-armed hug. “Now I can officially call you my son.”

You groaned.

“Can you calm down? Let the man propose first.” You always hated how well they got along growing up. They both teamed up on you, determined to be a thorn in your side. But you also couldn’t resist how cute it was, watching the way he carried on bragging about the both of you to anyone who would listen, dragging you and Caleb around like a shiny trophy.

The night stretched on around you.

Someone broke out another case of beer, the bonfire crackled and popped beneath a cerulean sky jeweled with stars, laughter drifted across the yard, children chased each other through the grass.

Your body felt lighter than it had in years as you stood out on the lawn and looked over it all.

Out on the blue ridge you could almost see her silhouette against the setting sun, sat quietly on her favorite horse, watching over you.

You blinked a little moisture out of your eyes and she was gone. The scenery was just an endless stretch of sloping foothills once more.

Caleb's arm tightened around you. He looked at you with a shimmering gaze like he knew exactly what you were thinking and bent down to kiss the top of your head. He stayed there for a bit, lingering in your warmth and your familiar scent for awhile while the party moved around you in a blur...

As you absentmindedly braided her hair that night, you wondered if it was your bad luck or good grace that he'd been killed in a riot in jail. When the penitentiary had phoned for you to come and identify his body, you'd been scared.

Scared that it wouldn't be him and the bastard would've cheated death itself.

You decided there was no need for your daughter to ever know what kind of person her father was. But as she grew older and the neighbors' kids started talking, it was clearly affecting her more than you'd realized.

"Hey, Bun" You softly turned her to face you "Do you miss Daddy?"

Her eyes widened like she had been caught with her hand in the cookie jar before she hid her hands behind her back, shoulders drooping "No.."

"It's okay if you do" You reassured her. You couldn't blame her for feeling left out when she watched all the little kids get picked up by both their parents. It was obvious she'd wonder why she didn't have that.

You weighed your options. If you played it right, you could satisfy her and also keep her in the dark at the same time.

"Would you like to write him a letter?"

Tears sprang to your eyes when you saw how instantly she bloomed in joy, nodding vigorously and trying to escape your hold so she could do it immediately. You stopped her, promised you'd help her write it the next day if she went to bed at once.

Three days after she posted her letter, you brought one home with a flourish, telling her that her father had written back after all!

If the little lie you told was the reason your daughter had the dopiest smile on her face, you'd never feel guilty for it ever again. Especially not as you tucked her into bed that night, her little fist still clutching the letter like it was her lifeline.

It was only a few days later that you felt your heartbeat nearly triple when she rushed into the house, clutching a blood red envelope "Mommy! Mommy look!" You'd been folding laundry when she barreled into your legs "Daddy wrote letter again!"

You didn't mean to, but you snatched the letter from between her hands so fast, it startled her. Lower lip wobbling, you saw the tears well up in her eyes and immediately decided to do damage control.

"Daddy said I should only give you this letter if you freshen up for dinner quickly!"

When your daughter turned and sprinted for the bathroom, you couldn't believe it had worked. Abandoning the laundry, you tore the envelope open and started reading.

You stared in disbelief. Sure, you had really posted the letter to the penitentiary when your daughter had insisted to take it all the way to the post office herself. You'd come up with a random serial number on the spot and figured they'd just toss the letter when they realized there was no one with that number on the roster.

My dearest Princess,

Daddy very much misses you as well. I'm always thinking of my precious daughter.

P.S You are very good at drawing! I'm proud of you.

Love,

Daddy

Not only had someone received her letter...they'd also written back? In character?

The obvious conclusion is that it's an accident. An obvious mix-up. But your daughter is so ecstatic, you can't possibly break her heart like this.

So, you let her write a letter back. Again going to the post office and posting it.

When the third letter comes back from the prison, you decide to take matters in your own hands. Writing a little letter of your own and enclosing it with your daughter's drawings.

I really appreciate you humoring my daughter, but this was just a way to cope since her father is dead. There is no need to keep up with the farce.

I don't mind it. I quite enjoy her little sketches of the three of us. Tell her that Daddy's hair is lighter in color (:

I will not be telling her anything of the sort.

So cutthroat. You wound me, darling.

Despite yourself, you found your lips lifting at his words, but you caught yourself in record time, shoving the little note in your jeans as you quickly skimmed over his letter to your daughter before you deemed it okay to hand it to her.

She squealed with delight, clutching her new bunny by the ear as she thundered down to her room to read her letter in "secret". You watched her go till she was out of sight, still staring after her and wondering if it really was a bad idea to exchange harmless letters. If some bored criminal wanted to play house with your daughter over some letters, was there really any real danger to it?

You'd always check the letter she'd write, illegible as it was, to see if she didn't accidentally reveal any information about herself. And after she'd go to sleep, you'd only change one little thing.

Erasing her name at the bottom, you used your non-dominant hand to sign a pet name. Not once had you let your daughter's letters carry her real name over to a criminal. For the sake of her mental health, you'd allowed the letters, but this was non-negotiable to you.

Like clockwork, every Tuesday his letter arrives, you skim the contents before re-sealing it and handing it over to your daughter when she comes home from pre-school. Subsequently, you post her letter every Wednesday evening, using an address that was four blocks away from yours, belonging to the sweetest old lady who lived by herself and had dementia. You felt horrible taking advantage of the fact that she never checked her mail so you could always just conveniently swipe out the letters from her mailbox, but you brought her enough baked goods to make up for it. The letters you sent were just addressed to the penitentiary; with the serial number of an inmate you'd never know the owner of.

He signed his letters Skye but after having lived a life in hiding with a criminal, you'd learned not to trust the lot. If your daughter's deteriorating mental state hadn't been in question, the first letter would've never gone out.

One Tuesday evening, your daughter pulls at your pants to grab your attention and gives you a tiny note that she says is from Daddy. Your senses immediately go on high alert, wondering how you could've missed it, worrying he's said something inexcusable and you would have to stop this little pen pal relationship.

Am I not allowed to know what my daughter looks like?

You feel a vein throbbing in your forehead, smiling at your daughter as she stares at you with her big doe-like eyes before you distract her with a snack.

If he wants to know what your daughter looked like, he would do something crazy like wanting to meet her if he ever got out. And if that wasn't bad, he'd probably kidnap her or do something inane, maybe he was already plotting it. Feeling your heart drop to your chest, you decide it really was the end.

That week, you don't send your daughter's letter. It remains in an unmarked envelope, hidden on the top shelf of your closet in a big box at the very back. The Wednesday of the week after, you wake up in cold sweat wondering if he sent a letter anyway. The morning of, you drop by the old lady's mailbox and quickly look through her mail just in case and sigh in relief when there's nothing in it.

The next week, you can't help the dread as you're swiping through the mailbox again, realizing how stupid you'd been. Not only had you probably endangered your daughter, but also the sweet old lady who always babysat for you whenever you had to pull extra shifts at work.

You can't keep the guilt off your face when you run into her at the grocery store that weekend, paying for her share as well when you realize she didn't remember to bring her wallet with her, heart pinching in agony at having taken advantage of her situation. Your daughter is skipping in front as you carry all the grocery bags, dropping the old lady off at her place with her stuff. She insists you stay for tea and you're about to decline but she's already bribed your daughter with cake and it's too late to retreat.

The sun is setting in streaks of orange and blue when you finally wave goodbye to her, adjusting the beanie on your daughter's head before she runs off again. You cross the mailbox, your stomach dropping as you backtrack and decide to doubly check.

Your hands are sweaty, forehead perspiring as you pluck out the blood red envelope, gulping as the dread overwhelms you, like hands wrapping around your throat and squeezing squeezing squeezing to see how long you'd last.

You quickly shove the letter inside your purse before your daughter can catch sight of it. There was no way she was going to read it- if at all- without you proofreading it first.

The entire walk home, you cannot keep your eyes off her. Heart palpitating like any minute you expect someone to pick her off the street and run away where you could never find her again.

Your mind is on the contents of the letter throughout preparing dinner, watching your daughter's favorite show, her bath time, reading her a story to bed and finally, like all the other nights for the past week reassuring her that her Daddy does love her even if he's not written back in a while.

By the time you're finally alone, you're about ready to rip off your hair from its roots as you hastily open the envelope and pluck the letter out.

You skim the letter, it is inconspicuous, nothing suggesting that he never received another letter, keeping the conversation going like always. Asked her about school, her best friend Kara (who was a plushie, but he'd never know) and what kind of cake she liked. Totally innocent. Picking up where they'd previously left off.

You checked for another note, and sure enough there was one. Hands trembling, you opened the twofold and started reading.

Dearest Mommy of the Prettiest Princess in the World,

You'd have appreciated the sarcasm if your knees weren't fighting the urge to buckle and give in from the dread.

I suppose I have scared you with my little request. Thus, the lack of letters from your end for the past couple weeks. I apologize for the same, I only realized the implications of my request afterwards. I meant no harm and would understand if you would like to stop completely.

You trusted the man as far as you could throw him. Considering you knew nothing about him; you decided even that was unreliable.

But once in a while, with your permission of course, if the little bunny draws any more pictures, I'd be very much interested in seeing them.

You huffed out a laugh at his audacity, feeling your chest deflate. Years spent trusting your instinct to protect your daughter had wound you so tight that feeling even a single knot loosen was enough to knock the breath out of your lungs.

In sickness and in health,

Daddy

As you posted your daughter's letter that Wednesday, you couldn't help but laugh at your inside joke, wondering how he'd take it. If his previous demeanor was anything to go by, you were guessing it'd be in stride.

"Mail!"

Complete silence filled the yard, all the inmates stopping where they were, at odds with how they'd usually be clawing over each other to get their mail first.

Because no one touched their letters till he had taken his.

The crowd parted like the red sea, hordes of men in orange clearing a path till the mailman who, for all the brave face he put on, was trembling in his pants as well. He could feel the bead of sweat on his back, lining his forehead as he watched him approach, praying to all the Gods up in Heaven that someone- anyone had written this man a letter.

When he'd realized there was no letter for him, yet again, no one had been allowed to take theirs. Not because he forbade them, but because they were scared of what he'd do.

He'd not raised his voice, barely bothered looking intimidating and yet no one stood in his vicinity as he carded through the envelopes, not finding one for himself before asking in a saccharine tone "Are you sure you didn't misplace any?"

The first week, the mailman had been cocky, confident. He'd tched as he snatched the mail back, wondering why no one else was stepping forward "Don't blame me just 'cuz there ain't a letter for you in here ya bloke"

But when no one else stepped forward to take their mail, all that confidence had wavered as he looked around at downcast eyes, no one willing to risk upsetting him any more than he already was.

For the past two weeks, inmates had been avoiding him like the plague. He wasn't amiable on any day but if he didn't receive his letters on Friday, it was a long weekend for all of them.

Especially the ones who challenged him in the ring on Saturday nights.

The second week, it was a similar outcome. The mailman didn't understand what exactly was going on but the nervous, fidgety energy of the inmates was making him nervous as he watched him go through the envelopes and come up empty.

This time he'd just raised an eyebrow, making the mailman sweat "I didn't misplace any!" The desperation and fear ringing clear in his voice.

He'd smiled, crimson eyes glimmering in the sunlight "No one's blaming you" He'd turned around but the wind still carried over the last word "Yet"

The mailman had found himself rechecking for any lost envelopes thrice. He didn't know what would become of him if he returned another week without a letter.

Everyone waited with bated breath as he flipped through the stack of mail the mailman had just handed over and a collective sigh of relief escaped when he plucked out a measly white envelope, lips lifting in a sinister smirk as he handed the rest of the stack back, uncaring of the crowd descending on the poor mailman now that they had the green signal.

He returned to his cell, littered with drawings lining the walls surrounding a single bed, desk and chair. His fingers were twitching with excitement as he tore open the envelope and three things fell out.

He picked up the one on the top first. His daughter had written back to him finally, describing in great detail that she had won a finger-painting competition in school, that Kara came second, her favorite cake was "stroubery". A wry smile lifted his lips at the little sketch of the cake next to the text with cherries lining the top.

Like always, she'd signed it

He admired your resolute, truly. Your daughter's writing was so dark that it would leave indents behind the paper and yet, you'd erase her name so cleanly every time that despite multiple attempts at shading over the lines of the pencil indents, he was yet to figure out her name.

Luv u forehver

Princess Bunny

Picking up the second letter, he couldn't help the smirk spreading over his lips when he saw what you'd addressed it.

Dearest Daddy of the Prettiest Princess in the World,

God, he wanted to see you mouth off to him in person so bad.

I've attached a picture of her.

He was so surprised that he immediately dropped your letter to look at the polaroid you'd sent him. One he stared at for all of two seconds before throwing his head back and barking with laughter, unable to help himself as his shoulders shook with mirth.

Resting his forehead on the letter, he could faintly smell the perfume lingering on it and wondered what you looked like. He'd spent almost every day since your first letter wondering who you could possibly be. Sure, he had no reason to lie here and actually complete his sentence, he could get out whenever he wanted but he looked forward to his daughter's letters. There was no fun in finding out who you were through Luke and Keiran when he was sure he could get you to come to him. And you would. Slowly but surely.

Beautiful, isn't she?

She looks forward to your letters so I suppose you can keep sending them.

In happiness and in sorrow,

Mommy

As he pinned up the latest letter next to the others, he also pinned the polaroid next to it, unable to escape the huff of laughter escaping him when he gazed at the ultrasound.

Sylus would make you his. There was simply no other option.

Dearest Mommy of the Prettiest Princess in the World,

She is, indeed the most beautiful little princess I've ever seen. She takes after her mother, I'm sure. For research purposes, would you be willing to provide evidence I can submit?

To have and to hold,

Daddy

Dearest Daddy of the Prettiest Princess in the World,

Do you want my ultrasound too?

For better or for worse,

Mommy

Dearest Mommy of the Prettiest Princess in the World,

I don't mind. Although, I'll admit I usually save the ultrasounds for a third date.

For richer or for poorer,

Daddy

Dearest Daddy of the Prettiest Princess in the World,

Unfortunately for you, I don't have those ultrasounds or a third date for you.

To love and to cherish,

Mommy

Dearest Mommy of the Prettiest Princess in the World,

Why don't we start at a first one then? I would like to know the color of your eyes.

Till' death do us part,

Daddy

A/N: This has been marinating in my drafts for two months now. Time to unlock multiple chapter fics<3

The door remained open behind you. A small mercy perhaps, at least cruel one. His eyes flickered toward it once, then back to your mouth.

“Run, if you want to.”

You should have. You really should have. Perhaps some wiser version of you did, in another life. Perhaps she turned on her heel and left him with all his wealth, his danger, his impossible composure. Perhaps she lived gently after that.

This version of you however, stayed.

Amusement touched his mouth, a dangerous little curve, the one that made you feel as though he had already read the answer from your pulse and was only waiting for you to embarrass yourself by saying it aloud.

“That's what I thought.” He came nearer with the patience of a man who had hunted things far more vicious than desire. His coat hung open, black shirt, pale throat, the faint metallic glint at his collar. Nothing about him begged to be looked at, which made looking feel worse.

When he stopped before you, he still didn't touch. The restraint of the man unsettled you more than his hands should've.

“You've been avoiding me, sweetie.”

“I've been busy...”

“Lying already?” his voice lowered. “Careful. I might start enjoying this.”

Heat climbed your neck. You hated that he saw it, hated more that his attention warmed with it, sharpened around it, as though your embarrassment were a candle he meant to cup in both hands.

One finger lifted your chin. He didn't force your face up, merely waited there until pride, poor starving thing, gave out beneath want. When you looked at him, his gaze moved over you with maddening discipline.

“Tell me to stop,” he murmured, “and I will.”

Your breath caught.

“Tell me to continue,” he added, thumb grazing the hinge of your jaw, “and I won't be kind about making you ask twice.”

There it was, the little ruin, the place where your dignity gave a beautiful, useless shoulder.

“Sylus...”

“Mm,” his thumb stilled. “That sounded dagernously close to neither.”

The first button gave beneath his hand. There was no haste, no fumbling, he undid it as though he had all the hours in the world and had purchased each one with blood. The second followed, then the third. Fabric loosened over your chest, and the city's cold light slipped in to touch what his hand had yet to claim.

His eyes remained on yours.

“You're trembling,” he said.

“I'm cold.”

“Not for long.”

The next button opened.

Your pulse leapt hard enough to hurt. Sylus leaned close, mouth near your ear, his breath warm against skin made traitorous by waiting.

“I like you brave,” he whispered. “I like you difficult. I even like this little performance where you pretend...”

His fingers brushed your shoulder, the fabric slipped, catching at your arm before falling lower. Air touched bare skin. Then his mouth, barely. A kiss placed at the slope between neck and shoulder with such controlled delicacy that your knees nearly weakened from insult alone.

He felt it. A quiet laugh moved through him.

“That's it.”

“Don't sound so pleased with yourself.”

“I'm always pleased when proven right.”

Your answer fell apart as his teeth grazed your pulse, there was no bite yet, only the promise of one. Enough to make your fingers curl.

Slowly, he drew the garment down your other arm. It fell somewhere near your feet, forgotten before it settled. He looked at you then, and something altered in his expression. The playfulness remained, but beneath it came a darker reverence.

“Beautiful,” he whispered, as if the word displeased him by being insufficient.

You looked away, but his hand caught your chin at once.

“No,” gentle, absolute. “Don't rob me after coming all this way.”

The fastening at your waist surrendered beneath a practiced tug. He held the fabric there rather than let it fall, knuckles resting against your hip, gaze fixed on your face.

“Still with me?”

Your throat worked around the answer. “Yes.”

His mouth curved again, softer this time. “Good girl.”

The words struck low.

Sylus lowered the garment inch by infuriating inch, there was no cruelty in it, though the patience remained devastating. Cloth slid over your hips, cold air followed, his attention followed lower, then returned to your face with a discipline that bordered on obscene.

When only lace remained, his hands stilled. The room seemed to stop with him.

“Last chance,”

You could hear the city below, your own breathing, the faint shift of his shirt as his fingers flexed once at his side.

“If you leave,” he continued, “I'll let you.”

“And if I stay?”

His gaze darkened.

“Then you stop pretending you don't know why you came.”

For one unbearable second, your pride made a final attempt at resurrection.

Then you whispered, “I want you.”

Sylus closed his eyes, only for a moment. Only long enough to make the confession feel like a blade that had entered him too. When he opened them again, the amusement had burned down to something hotter.

“There,” he said, “was that so hard?”

“Yes...”

This time his laughter came low and real.

He moved behind you, heat gathering at your back. One hand settled at your waist, the other traced the line of your ribs, learning you through restraint. His mouth found the side of your neck. A kiss, another, then the slow drag of teeth, enough to make you gasp.

“Still so proud,” he murmured. “Even when you're shaking in my hands.”

Your head tipped back against his chest, the movement was small. Surrender often was. His palm slid lower, stopping just above the lace, and your whole body tightened around the absence of more.

“Sylus...”

“Mm.”

“Please.”

His breath warmed your ear.

“Better.”

The lace slipped beneath his fingers.

He turned you before it reached the floor, catching your waist as if he had felt the shape of your weakness before you did. The world shifted, the room behind him, glass behind you, Sylus everywhere else.

Then he kissed you.

His mouth took yours with a hunger made elegant by control, his hand cupping the back of your neck while the other pressed you close at the waist. He tasted faintly of wine and smoke, when your teeth caught his lower lip, he went still.

Slowly, he pulled back.

A bead of red shone where you had bitten him. His thumb touched it, his eyes lifted to yours.

“Oh, how bold of you.”

Your breathing turned uneven. “You like it.”

“I like correcting it.”

Before you could answer, he sank to his knees.

The sight ruined thought.

Sylus, lord of too many dangerous things, kneeling before you in the bloody spill of city light with one hand firm at your hip and his eyes raised like worship had always been a form of conquest. His mouth brushed the inside of your thigh, your fingers flew to his hair. He allowed it. Worse, he smiled against your skin.

“Look at me.”

You tried.

God help you, you tried.

His mouth moved higher, slow enough to be merciless. Every kiss landed with intent, every pause made you hear yourself breathe. When his lips finally touched the place that wanted him most, your body gave one helpless, shaking sound.

Sylus hummed.

“That,” he murmured, “I'll accept.”

Then he answered you. With his mouth, with both hands steadying you as your balance failed, with the kind of attention that made pleasure feel less like indulgence and more like interrogation. He learned what made you quiet first, then what made quiet impossible. The flat of his tongue, the careful pressure, the maddening retreat just as your breath began to break.

“Sylus,” you gasped.

He looked up without stopping, lashes lowered, eyes bright with the unbearable satisfaction of a man watching pride come apart exactly as promised.

Your fingers tightened in his hair. His grip flexed at your thigh in warning.

“Careful kitten,” he said against you. “Or I'll think you're trying to give me orders.”

“Please...”

“That one, you may keep using.”

The room tilted, your shoulders struck the glass, cold blooming along your spine. Sylus rose in a single smooth motion, catching you before you could feel the loss of him properly. His mouth covered yours again, and this kiss was crueler because you could taste yourself on him.

He lifted you with ridiculous ease. Your legs locked around his waist, his hands gripped beneath your thighs. The glass chilled your back while he burned through every point of contact, expensive shirt still between you, his composure fraying only at the edges. Enough to thrill. Enough to frighten.

“You came here to tempt me,” he said.

“Maybe.”

His mouth brushed yours.

“Or maybe I came here because I missed you.”

There.

A different silence entered him.

It didn't soften his face, Sylus had never been a man who wore tenderness plainly. It moved through him like a shadow passing behind red glass, brief and devastating.

His forehead touched yours.

“Then say that first next time.”

Your chest tightened.

“Would you have let me in?”

“Sweetie,” his smiled returned. “I knew you were outside before you knocked.”

Of course he did.

“Bed,” you whispered.

Sylus tilted his head.

“Asking now?”

“Demanding.”

That pleased him. Too much.

In one breath, the city vanished from behind you. He carried you through the room while kissing you like patience had finally become inconvenient. The bed caught your back, black sheets, low light, his body above yours, one knee between your thighs, his shirt ruined by your grip.

You reached for the buttons. He caught both your wrists and pinned them above your head.

“A greedy little kitten,”

“You're overdressed.”

“And you're impatient.” He leaned down, lips brushing the corner of your mouth. “We'll work on that.”

“Sylus.” His name came out ruined.

That did it.

Something in his restraint gave a quiet, beautiful crack.

He released your wrists only to strip off his shirt, skin revealed in lamplight, the hard lines of him, the scars, the body of a man who had survived violence and made an empire out of the aftermath. You reached up before you could stop yourself, palm settling over his heart.

Beneath your hand, it beat steadily.

Too steadily.

“Does anything ever undo you?” you asked.

Sylus covered your hand with his, for once, he did not smile.

“You have a talent for asking dangerous questions at dangerous times.”

“Answer me.”

His gaze dropped to your mouth.

“You do.”

Then he kissed you again, and this time there was no distance left for either of you to pretend into.

As you nestle next to Mr. Qin's formidable ass, the adrenaline that cursed bird sent spiking through your body with his malicious racket begins to fade.

This has always been your problem. The second you're told that you can't do something without a decent explanation as to why, your hackles rise along with the fur along your spine, and every muscle in your body tenses in defiance. Your heart, clenching in fury, renders you incapable of simply accepting the boundaries, the obstacle, the audacity of whoever told you no.

Even if you weren't that interested in whatever it was to begin with, simply being told you couldn't do it made you determined to prove them wrong.

When you were a kitten, this character defect was obnoxious, but the damage was limited to arguments with Caleb over why you shouldn't cross the super busy road to explore that shadier part of town. Over why gorging yourself on too much fish scored through successful dumpster diving was inadvisable. Over why you couldn't just pick a fight with any old bully when they told you that you couldn't hunt on their turf—instead, you had to be strategic about it, topple the bully from his spot at the pinnacle of his little gang, take over, and then run the gang yourself.

But this character flaw is the same thing that got your brother killed.

If you had just listened. If you had just recognized that your captor's threat was no threat, but a promise.

If you could just control yourself—the defiance at your core—and recognize defeat before it crushed you completely, before it cost you everything.

If you could just accept that sometimes, there's no reason at all. That some things, you just can't have, because the universe is cruel, because you were born with an extraordinary gift into a world filled with men who are eager to twist gifts into curses for their own gain. Sometimes, if you're an unlucky black cat, your demand for freedom is met with a simple, implacable No.

No. I will not let you go. No, it's not your body, or your mind, to set free in museums of lofty artistic ambition, to soar from tree to tree in gently swaying branches, to set adrift across the pages of human ingenuity in all the books you long to read—not anymore.

And the only reason for it?

Because I can.

Because I'm holding the key to your collar, to your brother's collar, and to both your lives.

If you could just accept that a cage could still be a home as long as Caleb was locked in there with you.

You thought you had finally learned your lesson, the night that bastard took Caleb from you.

And yet.

You hadn't even planned on getting any closer to Mr. Qin tonight. You hadn't wanted him to know about your presence in his home at all, until you were thoroughly convinced that your initial instincts about him were true—that his base could be a safe harbor while you figure out what you want to do, now that no collar chokes you. Now that your body, your mind, your life are all your own again. Such as they are, without your only family at your side.

You hadn't intended to reveal your presence tonight.

And yet. You are you, and you have failed miserably in trying to change yourself your whole life. The bizarre mechanical monstrosity passing itself off as a real bird doesn't want you anywhere near its owner?

Ha.

You charge forward, first rubbing your butt all of the bird's master's leg. You hope the the robotic raptor has olfactory sensors in that big stupid beak of his so the next time he gets close to Mr. Qin, he smells your butt all over him. The more agitated the winged demon becomes, the brighter your spiteful glee glows. You balance on Mr. Qin's formidable leg, stretched in front of him under the silky sheets, and prance along that meaty calf, over his slightly bent knee, the nice muscular cushion of his big thigh, before slithering down and taking your time, sweet and slow, in finding the perfect position to curl up next to him.

He's warm, the sheets are soft, and this close to him, your vision blurs, the room spins a little. His scent is so concentrated here in his nest where he's been sleeping, his skin bare, his silver fur flowing across his big pectorals and down, down, to the pungent place where his legs meet his torso.

You're drunk on him. It's headier than catnip. Than boxed wine pilfered from art exhibitions open to the public, poured into plastic champagne flutes and carried in your hand as if it's the most expensive vintage in the world as you gaze thoughtfully, critically, at vibrant paintings on the gallery's walls.

But even through the drug-induced haze of his pheromones blanketing you, you're not so far gone that you don't realize what a huge gamble you just took. You are the intruder here. He said so. The bird has every right to defend his owner from an unknown entity who took advantage of his owner's security oversights to waltz right into his territory and make yourself at home.

You curl tighter into yourself, face tucked into the crook of your hind leg, pretending to be calm as your heart races faster as your adrenaline spikes again.

You can't help the flicking of your ears, listening for any change in Mr. Qin's breathing. For any retaliation, punishment, danger in response to your stubborn, invasive provocation of his bird.

The bird that came first, he said.

You hate that bird.

Mr. Qin's scent doesn't change. No anger, or indignation. The tired amusement remains steady, the fatigue slowly overtaking the amusement. But there's also something else. Something deep, deceptively calm. Calm in the way riptides smooth the ocean's surface, luring inexperienced swimmers into the dark gaps between the foaming waves. Once you're caught in the rip, there is no escape no matter how hard you swim. Only surrender, and the hope that you'll be released when the tide is good and ready to let you go.

It reminds you a little of Caleb, but it makes your heart race for reasons unknown yet entirely unrelated to adrenaline.

You don't know the word for it. You've never smelled it on anyone before.

Inexplicable. Maybe simply instinct. You don't overthink it.

The important thing is that you weren't wrong: your heart rate slows, tense muscles turning liquid.

He's safe.

The room is quiet—even the bird seems to have settled—and soft rain patters against the windowpanes on the other side of the blackout curtains. A chill draft brings the smell of fresh rain, stirring the curtains draped, half-open, around the bed.

After a few minutes, a featherlight touch along the edge of your ear startles you into flicking it. The touch retreats. You miss the touch already. So you flick your ear again.

Nothing.

You flick both ears.

Nothing.

Okay, maybe Mr. Qin isn't as smart as he initially seemed. You're clearly going to have to train him.

Lifting your head, you're startled again as you meet his eyes, banked crimson embers glowing in the dark of the bedroom. He's looking down at you, the hand that must have just touched your ear resting on the soft-looking fur of his bare abdomen.

You crane your neck and run your cheek along the satin skin of his stomach, next to his hand, next to his belly button. He exhales, a little puff of mint-scented breath. Surprised, pleased. You rub your cheek on his stomach again.

Finally, he gets the memo.

Lifting his hand, bigger than your head, half the size of your body, he gently runs his fingers along the top of your head, along the back of your neck, now light and free of any collar, down along your spine to where your tail begins. The callouses on his fingertips catch pleasantly on your fur, subtly tugging. A soft vibration fills the quiet bedroom.

"You like that," he murmurs, and only then you realized that you're purring.

You haven't purred in years. You didn't even realize you were doing it.

You force yourself to stop. To not give too much away. What if he stops because you like it so much?

He withdraws his hand.

You growl.

"Purr for me again, and I'll keep petting you." His voice, sleepy, filled with that warm riptide again.

It's dangerous.

But he's safe.

The deal he offers sounds reasonable. You let yourself purr. His hand moves again. It's not like your captor's hand at all. With every calloused caress, a sense of cleansing follows. As if he's a mother cat, licking you clean. The way Caleb used to do.

Safe, at last. Heart calm, full of sorrow, of relief, you don't remember falling asleep.

You drift awake slowly, as slowly as you had settled into sleep. Cracking open one eyelid, the memories of the day… the night before pad softly back into your waking mind.

Your captor. Following Mr. Qin to his insecure base. The fight with the mechanical crow that ended in your unequivocal victory.

Both eyes open now, you enjoy the view of the bedroom, curtains to the outside world thrown open, the nocturnal cityscape glittering beyond the gently swaying curtains of the bed. Yawning, tongue sticking out before running its long length along your fangs, you revel in the serenity of this quiet place that smells like Mr. Qin. No cage, no dreaded footsteps, no electric shocks coursing through your sore muscles, rattling your bones, leaving you in a puddle of your own piss, tongue almost bitten through.

A pitiful little mewling sound breaks the silence, irritating you.

As soon as you notice it, it stops.

Shaking your head so hard your ears flap, you hop lightly off the bed and go in search of Mr. Qin. His cold absence in the bed must have been what woke you. You have never liked sleeping alone. Curled up with Caleb and taking a nap was one of your favorite places to be in the world, even inside the cage.

You're going to have to train Mr. Qin better. He needs to learn not to leave you in bed alone.

At least there's no sign of that wretched avian, now.

Padding through the bedroom, you follow his scent. Luckily, he's not far. Paw beans further cushioned by the gaudy rugs thrown over the cold marble, your nose leads you to a half open door. You bat it open the rest of the way with a forepaw, finding Sylus standing, legs wide, back to you, burgundy silk pajama pants slung so low on his ass that the top swell of it is exposed under the dimples of his lower back, along with the cleft between his cheeks.

Oh, he's peeing.

You sit back on your haunches, enjoying the view of his broad shoulders sagging in a relieved sigh, drowned by the deafening steady stream against the toilet bowl. You've never understood how men could piss so loudly. Your ears flick along with your tail as you grow impatient. Did he drink an entire lake last night? It's taking him forever to finish.

He shakes his dick (which unfortunately you can't see), pauses, and then leisurely hikes his pajama pants back up over his magnificent ass before turning and jerking to a halt when he sees you sitting serenely in the doorway.

Finally! You refuse to stand and hop about eagerly like an undignified dog, but your fluffy tail gives away your excitement, flicking, flicking, flicking.

"What a bold little intruder," Mr. Qin lifts an eyebrow, momentary surprise melting into dry amusement. "Is no territory off limits for you?" He flushes the toilet before striding to the expansive bathroom counter, marble like the rest of this palatial penthouse, and washes his hands. His eyes meet yours in the huge mirror. "I suppose not, considering how insouciantly you invaded my home yesterday. Now that you've made use of my bed, did you sleep well?"

He asks as if you can understand him. As if you can answer him.

Unease slithers from your tip of your tail to the tip of your nose.

But no. There's no way he could know. Maybe he's just an extrovert and talks to everyone, including creatures like you. He does keep a mechanical crow that sleeps in his bedroom. He's just weirdo.

You pad over to him and wind yourself around his calves, rubbing your scent all over him. Someone needs to protect him from people or animals that would take advantage of his eccentric benevolence. After several passes across his legs, now people will know that he's yours. You're courteous, marking him with a warning. If they ignore it, the consequences are on them.

"I'll take that as a yes." He's a little pleased, a little smug.

You follow him as he saunters out of the bathroom. You jump from chest of drawers, to bookcase, to his desk, as he heads into a huge walk-in closet, always keeping him in view. He swaps out his pajama pants, the silky material sliding down his massive ass, his long legs, revealing a pair of black boxers with gold thread—he's garish down to his skivvies, how extraordinary—with casual jeans, ripped from the knees and up the thighs with little threads hanging at the tears—and then pulls a soft black sweater embellished with a gold embroidered feather motif over his head.

You stare at him, marveling at how he actually matches his underwear to his sweaters. What a peacock.

Hopping down from the tall chest of drawers you were just nosily sniffing, you land light as the feather stitched into his clothing and swish your way over to him, sniffing his jeans (fresh, citrus-cotton scent) and batting at the threads dangling from the ripped fabric.

"Not that I'd begrudge your amusement at my expense, kitten, but be informed that these are limited edition jeans."

You let him know what you think of these jeans riddled with holes by chewing on one particularly long thread until it slips too far down your throat, causing you to hack a little.

"Now, now, no need to hurt yourself in the process of betraying your woeful taste in fashion." The room tilts as he sweeps you up with one arm, draping you over his forearm and wearing you like a furry vambrace, palm flat so you can rest your chin on it and observe your surrounding as he carries you out of his bedroom and ferries you effortlessly to the kitchen.

The room responds to his presence, low lighting increasing in brightness but still not harsh to your sensitive eyes. Mr. Qin carries you to the gramophone, still wielding you on his forearm he crouches, the fingers of his free hand drifting across carefully displayed record sleeves on the shelves underneath. Humming tunelessly, he plucks one from from the collection and agilely plops it one-handed onto the player.

What's new pussycat? WHOAAAA, WHOAAA, WHOAAAAAAA, Tom Jones wails from the gramophone's sound horn.

Pussycat, pussycat

I've got flowers and lots of hours to spend with you

So go and powder your cute little pussycat nose

Flattening your ears on your head, you turn your head, slow-panning to meet the smirking gaze of Mr. Qin.

Pussycat, Pussycat, I love you, yes I do

You and your pussycat nose

You dig your claws through his pretty sweater's sleeve and launch yourself off of his arm, landing lightly on the back of one of his couches, tail up haughtily.

Not only does he have atrocious taste in fashion, his musical tastes also leave much to be desired.

You're so thrilling and I'm so willing to care for you

So go ahead and make up your big little pussycat eyes

Under Tom Jones' bellowing, Sylus snickers behind you. Ignoring him, you spring from surface to surface until you land with only a slight skid on the smooth marble surface of his kitchen island.

You're hungry.

"Not a Tom Jones fan, huh, Kitten?" Mr. Qin inquires. Again, you refuse to look at him.

You're delicious and if my wishes can all come true

I'll soon be kissing your pussycat lips— WHOAAAA WHOAAAAA

It's only at the crescendo of Jones' wailing like a tomcat that the carefully cut steak immaculately plated on a silver platter ornately etched with dragon motifs enters your field of vision.

Ears flicking forward, tail whipping, you can't conceal your curiosity. Or your hunger.

The steak he was cooking last night…

You turn to look at him again just as he lifts the gramophone arm and replaces Tom Jones with a new record, this time something dramatic with cellos. He doesn't return your gaze, just fiddles with the volume, mouth quirked. His profile, with its long, sloping nose, is magnificent.

"Finally ready to eat, Kitten?"

His delicious smell overpowers you so thoroughly that you hadn't noticed the steak at all when you walked by the kitchen island where he had apparently been preparing it just for you last night, nor when he swept into the kitchen with you this morning.

Your tail swishes, swishes. Circling the platter, you bat at it, and it too slips across the slick counter.

"Don't be coy. Go ahead and eat your fill."

Now that you can smell it, the delicious meat fills your nose, overwhelming everything else.

You can forgive him telling you what to do. His ridiculous taste in music, his preening fashion.

To be fair, you would have forgiven him anything, after he removed your collar. After he exterminated your captor.

But now, after he meticulously sliced this perfectly grilled, tender steak, just for you, you would kill for him.

He's never getting rid of you, now, whether he likes it or not.

You lean down, pierce one expertly, thinly sliced piece with your fangs and do exactly as he tells you.

He doesn't let you rest, that first night with him. Belly full of delicious meat, blinking and sleepy, Mr. Qin shrugs into a leather jacket and cruelly carries you in your now-established spot on his forearm out of his penthouse. The mirrors in the elevator infinitely reflect the soft sheen of his silver hair, his broad shoulders, your little black form tucked against his pillowy chest, repeated over and over and over again, as if revealing parallel universes where in every one you are like this, tucked safe in his arms, sheltered by the easy strength of him. His heartbeat is fast and steady under your cheek.

The car ride wakes you up after he tosses you playfully into the passenger seat of one of the many vintage muscle cars with a deafeningly loud engine and roars out of the underground parking garage. The city flows in neon streaks past the car windows. He huffs in surprise as you hop over his hand casually resting on the gear shift and onto his lap, peeking up over the steering wheel.

"Just this once, kitten. We'll get you a seatbelt while we're out tonight."

You stretch your claws our and dig, just a little, into his stupid ripped jeans—not hard enough to draw blood, but enough to let him know that you want to be in his lap, forever.

"Non-negotiable," he responds, as if he heard your protest loud and clear and still insists upon his absurd safety measures.

Hmph. You don't need them. You always land on your feet.

The entrance to the luxury mall sweeps up into the night, brightly lit and inviting against the dark. Mr. Qin strides through its automatically opening doors like a king sweeping into his palace, not deigning to look left or right at store after store of expensive, luxury goods, the delicately tinkling fountains, the art nouveau curl of the iron banisters and stained glass windows mimicking French palatial residences. Even when you were free, you never would have dared enter such an exclusive cathedral dedicated to the worship of wealth, of ruthless consumerism, of the 'haves', since you and Caleb were always the 'have-nots.' Both of you had been working hard to improve your circumstances, studying like hell at the library where the books were free and the heating was always on in winter. You had been so close to the university entrance exams when your captor's thugs ambushed you one night returning to your small, cheap but clean apartment tucked in Linkon City's underbelly. Though it was in a run-down part of town, it was still far enough away from the N109 Zone to feel safe.

Mistake.

Maybe it was complacency. Maybe it was the hope for a better life, so close, dangling before you like a mouse by its tail, mesmerizing by virtue of your future, inexorable domination over it—maybe it was that hope which eclipsed your caution. In your arrogance, your gleeful aspirations in being able to own your own library, possess a lifelong entrance ticket to any museum in the city as a benefactor of the arts after making it big yourself, of sculpting with your own hands and claws pieces that would move others the way you stood before the classical masterpieces from long-dead artisans and marveled at the drape of fabric carved in cold stone, of strong forearms clutching glorious swords raised in revolt against corrupt systems of power—

But no. It was your loud yowling about how you didn't want ramen for dinner again, you wanted to shift and hunt for birds and mice, despite Caleb saying it was too dangerous to do it too often, that you had to protect your cover as emo students cosplaying as cats, furry-adjacent but not so obsessed as to attend cons or actually join the furry community.

Your fault.

Always your fault.

That strange mewling has started again.

Mr. Qin pauses. You look up at him curiously, wondering why he stopped walking, only to meet his intense gaze, the furrow between his brows more pronounced than usual, as if he's worried about something.

Swiftly approaching footsteps resound on the glossy floor and drown out the mewling, drawing your attention from Mr. Qin's beautifully sculpted face.

"Sir, Place Vendôme has a strict no pet policy." The security guard's tone is sharp and firm, but respectful, as if he's not sure who, exactly, he's dealing with yet.

"Not to worry." Mr. Qin's scent doesn't change. As always, he's relaxed, slightly amused even when confronted with petty rules. A certain spicy thread joins his normally delicious aroma—fun. He's having fun. "This is my emotional support kitten. I have a license to carry her wherever I go."

The security guard's eyebrows draw together, bright eyes sweeping Mr. Qin from the tips of his shoes to the top of his shining head, and he softens his voice. He must recognize the stupid, limited edition jeans. "Even so, these are our house rules. We would welcome your patronage if you would be so good as to return without your… cat at a later time."

Mr. Qin laughs, dark and low, the spice in his scent layering, deepening, warming like the rising magma of a re-awakening volcano. "While normally I would tell you to fetch the general manager to resolve this little issue, I'm afraid I have more pressing concerns that require my attention tonight."

The security guard's brows knit tighter before relaxing completely, his soft lips parting, square jaw growing lax. Puzzled, you glance back up at Mr. Qin whose right eye is now glowing as bright as molten steel, so bright as to almost blind you. Slowly, it fades back to its normal, ruby glitter, as his standard delicious scent also returns to normal.

"Yes sir, good, sir. Your emotional support kitten license is current, my apologies for disturbing you. Please enjoy a complimentary Kir Royale at La Folie d'Oiseau bar in the penthouse for your trouble after you've shopped to your satisfaction. I will inform all necessary staff to expect you and your elegant companion and to satisfy any desires you may have during your visit today," the security guard gushes euphorically, slow and sleepy, as if he's having the most wonderful dream and can't think of anything he'd like to do more than tell the entire mall that the cat weirdo in the stupid jeans is to be treated like royalty.

"Of course," Mr. Qin answers, gracious, patient. "But only because I'm in a very good mood tonight."

Without waiting for a response, your human sweeps past the security guard and does end up indulging in the Kir Royale himself, while also offering you the bubbly, sweet drink in a little saucer of your own after he acquires what he came here to acquire. As if it's completely normal to offer your pet cat alcohol at an exclusive bar at the most expensive mall in the world. You lap it eagerly, enjoying the fizzing in your belly, the lulling effect of the alcohol. You don't remember the trip back home.

You blink awake as the elevator doors open silently into the foyer of Mr. Qin's penthouse. His footsteps resound down the long hallway on the slick marble floor, the footsteps of a god entering a temple dedicated to his glory. On his arm, you lazily observe the shopping bags drifting beside you, encased in that swirling red and black, sparking mist. They keep pace as he makes his way to what appears to be the heart of his house: the kitchen, the living area, the view of his domain glittering menacingly far below.

As you're approaching the doorway, your ears flick as they're accosted with the unmistakable cacophony of bird screeches.

The shopping bags precede you, momentarily blocking the view as Sylus sweeps into the living area. Following the ear-splitting noise, your gaze is drawn to the huge chandelier sparkles as it looms from the high ceiling above. Two magpies, black and blue feathers brightly sheened under the refracted light, appear to be teasing Mephisto with a ruby the size of a quail's egg. They flit among the tinkling crystals, sending the entire chandelier swaying with their rapid landings and launches, as Mephisto flaps behind them in focused pursuit.

CAW! CAW! CAW!

CHITTER! CHITTER chitter chitter CHITTER!!

As soon as Mephisto seems to close in on one magpie, it tosses its head, sending the ruby sailing through the air. The other magpie catches it, chittering gleefully, dropping elegantly as a ballistic missile as Mephisto agilely swerves from the previous magpie and gives chase.

Mephisto seems to be having the time of his life as he flaps after the magpie now circling the kitchen island.

Mr. Qin heaves a sigh, as if he's used to such a loud spectacle, even as the chandelier sways dramatically above as the second magpie rejoins the other among its priceless layers of crystal and silver.

The bags settle themselves on the kitchen island's counter and Mr. Qin's evol dissipates. He nudges you gently off his arm next to them. As he begins to rummage through the bags and lift the items he purchased out, one by one, you rub yourself along his arm, letting your tail wind around his wrist.

A wand tipped with elaborate, beautiful peacock feathers. Little crystal balls with jingling bells in them. Several hand-stitched plushie mice filled with catnip. Robotic frogs made of a silicone material that hop across the counter when powered on. Carefully gift-wrapped bags of treats, their openings cinched with with an overabundance of scarlet, curled ribbons.

You sniff disinterestedly at each item, puzzled as to why Mr. Qin went to all the effort to acquire these things when you're perfectly satisfied with napping, being held by him, and clawing at his stupid jeans.

"The tower tree designed to resemble the base will take two days to make and arrive," he raises his voice, ever so slightly, to be heard over the birds above.

You turn your back on all the toys, flicking your tail disdainfully.

"Oh, I see how it is," he snickers. "My little kitten couldn't contain her glee as she rampaged through the pet store, but now that I've fulfilled her desires by purchasing every item she deigned to claw at, she's bored already."

Tail flicking dangerously, you spin around and swipe at Mr. Qin's gold-threaded sweater with a curved claw. Still laughing, he grabs your paw, holding it gently and harmlessly against his abdomen. "Keep that up and I'll get you solid gold kitty claw clippers to render your talons a little less dangerous to my wardrobe."

Oh, hell no. You spin again, tail puffed and back arched, ready to show him just how difficult you'll make it for him to get anywhere near your weapons when the vibration of his rumbling laughter rolls through your body again, softening your indignation and causing you to pause just long enough for his big hands to gently cage you. They feel so good on your body, an intoxicating mix of assured strength and dexterous care for your fragile bones, the small size of you in his powerful grip. Yowling in feigned protest, you let him slide you across the counter without a struggle until you're snuggled up against the sweater you just tried to assault.

Your token protest must have finally gotten the attention of the circling birds, because both magpies abandon their play with Mephisto and divebomb toward you and Mr. Qin.

The threat evokes the reaction that such things always do: instead of cowering against the shelter of Mr. Qin's broad body, you jump, swiping at one of the magpies with a claw-tipped paw.

It playfully swoops out of your reach just before contact, while the other takes advantage of your fall back to the counter, flying behind Mr. Qin and… trying to pluck one of his soft silver locks waving gently over his shirt collar with his wicked beak?!

Although Mr. Qin takes the assault in stride and elegantly ducks, causing the magpie to chitter gleefully and flit away again, you will not stand for this!

As the heinous bird swoops back in again for another go at Mr. Qin's precious hair, you leap onto his shoulder and with a vicious swipe knock the magpie away, triumphantly confirming that not a single silver hair was snatched in its vicious beak.

Slinking around Mr. Qin's shoulders, you drape yourself over the back of his neck to shield him from further insults to his person, growling menacingly as the magpies swoop and dive around you, squawking all the while.

Mephisto adds to the ruckus, cawing loudly, zooming back and forth at the periphery of your battle with the magpies in between dropping the ruby, catching it, and flapping up again with the glittering stone in his beak.

The magpies seem completely unfazed, chittering in amusement as they circle and divebomb, always just out of the reach of your razor swipes. A rumble shakes your body pleasantly—Mr. Qin is laughing.

"That's enough roughhousing for today. You're going to give Kitten here a stroke and we just got her." He waves the birds away. "Go get changed. I want an update within ten minutes."

Shockingly, they swoop back into the air in utter obedience, careening across the room and perching on matching atrocities behind a big black leather couch. You had first thought they were some kind of modern sculpture, but apparently the thrusting sculptures resembling ineffective coatracks are actually perches, similar to the cursed crow's perch in Mr. Qin's bedroom.

"I'm used to it, Kitten," Mr. Qin reassures you, reaching back to stroke tenderly along your back, smoothing the fur raised there. "They know exactly how far they can go before incurring my wrath. No need to protect me from my own men."

You purr under his touch, rubbing your face against his throat.

Tail flicking, you wish you could tell him, Men? What men. This is exactly why you need me around, and why you are not allowed to trim my claws. It's the open emergency exit all over again. Having your fur pulled hurts. I know from experience. Even in jest, they should pay you the respect you deserve. Wild animals like those birds can turn on you in an instant. As such an animal myself, I know this all too well. My captor insulted you and incurred your wrath, but from now on I will be your wrath for anyone who dares insult you.

But you can't tell him. Not in this form. And you can't remember any other form. Not really. When you think too hard about it—

that wretched mewling that has been haunting you since you invaded Mr. Qin's territory rings in your ears.

"Kitten—" the amusement leeches from his voice, and your whole body tenses. Has he found the source of that awful, pitiful sound? Is it another intruder, just like you?

You don't care how pathetic such a stray is, Mr. Qin belongs to you now. It's bad enough that you have to share him with several feathered abominations. There's no room for anyone else!

"Boss, the shipment's waiting for your inspection in the armory," a familiar voice pulls your attention to the couch where the magpies were previously perched.

A tall handsome man, nude, whose wiry muscled body is conveniently blocked from the waist down by said couch, grins at you and Mr. Qin.

"And the vermin are exterminated!" Crows another man, a mirror of the first, except one half of his face, neck, and lithe torso are ravaged by wicked scarring. He too is naked, and the scars that twist his grin somehow make him more, instead of less handsome. Like shattered fine china repaired with molten gold.

The men who killed all the assholes who knew you and Caleb were kept in abysmal conditions as cats, let alone as human beings, are the chaotic magpies.

They're hybrid shifters, just like you. You stare at them with huge eyes.

They don't have collars on of any kind. Their scent is gleeful, relaxed, eager. One of them has a buzzing, electric scent where the other smells more calm, mellow, but their scents mingle, morph—as if the electric energy of the one bolsters the other, and the serenity of the other tempers and soothes the first.

Something inside of you aches, recognizing the synergy of siblings who really care for each other.

You force your thoughts away from the ache, focusing instead on the bolstered certainty that Mr. Qin, despite doing business with men like your captor, is absolutely nothing like him. The easy admiration that his men, bird-human hybrids just like you are a cat-human hybrid, is all the testament you need, if you still had any lingering doubts.

No wonder Mr. Qin didn't concern himself with them taking their little game of trying to ruffle his feathers too far. They aren't just semi-tamed birds. And they genuinely love him.

"What part of 'go change' did you two misunderstand?" Mr. Qin rubs his forehead, as if infinitely tired. But his scent remains… amused. Contented. He's not actually annoyed with them, but there is a thread of something… bitter. Just a little, as he glances between your intense stare and the naked men who are clearly twins.

"What was there to misunderstand?" the unscarred one grins. "We went…"

"To the other side of the living room," continues the other, mirrored grin widening.

"And we changed into our human form!" finished the first.

"You knew perfectly well I meant go to your rooms and change not only form, but into clothes." Mr. Qin says calmly. "Begone, and take Mephisto with you."

Mephisto ruffles his feathers from his perch in indignation, but before you can puff up and threaten him into obedience, your vision is blocked by one of Mr. Qin's gigantic hands just as the twins are about to walk past the censoring couch—and before you can see anything really interesting.

You twist a little, gently nipping at Mr. Qin's fingers, but by the time he removes his hand, it's just the two of you in the room.

Well, being alone with Mr. Qin is even better than mirrored muscular-man butt. And they did take the cursed robot bird with them.

As Mr. Qin scoops you back onto your customary perch on his forearm, the bitter, possessive scent fades.

The rest of the night is spent in his armory, a yawning, warehouse-like space spanning an entire floor below the penthouse. He sets you down amidst the large packing crates with some of the cat toys he had bought for you earlier.

Snubbing them, you amuse yourself while Mr. Qin inspects the crates' contents with a joyful, almost aroused scent, by jumping from crate to crate, jostling the heavy weaponry packed into incredibly fun packing foam that you shred to your heart's content. It's like being at an indoor playground with ball pits and foam pits to jump into, with tubes to wriggle through, jungle gyms to crawl all over—the kind you used to sneak into when you and Caleb were children, always through the back exit, propped open by haggard employees on their smoke break. The thought causes that horrible mewling again, but it quickly fades after Mr. Qin pauses in his examination of a shoulder-mounted rocket launcher with an embedded glowing protocore, dropping it carelessly back into the crate and rushing over to you.

He rocks your tiny body in his arms, your head tucked under his chin. His scent is thick and comforting around you, electric, sparking with rage underneath the soothing familiarity of his calm self-possession.

You have no idea where that awful, mournful, humiliating sound is coming from, but you don't snub the reaction it elicits from your savior. You would never admit it, but you don't dislike it at all. You don't understand why he's doing this for you. But you will forgive him anything, after he saved you. You will kill anyone to protect him, after his consistent care and attention to your needs, you who are just a wretched stray. And you'll let him do anything to you now, simply because you know he'll never want to do anything to you that hurts, after seeing how much his men adore him, and the way he uses those big, calloused hands capable of killing with a snap of his fingers to soothe you when that horrible mewling distresses you so. If it makes him feel better to snuggle you with such fierce tenderness, you'll allow it.

For now.

okay so i had a few people ask to be tagged: @mia-menaceinaction @valiantchaosvalkyrie @harmlesscouch @yokoyokai thank you for your interest!