176 Caine: Where’s the Cat?
176 Caine: Where’s the Cat?
CAINE
Grace seems calmer, but she’s still a little too fidgety and pale for my liking.
I sigh. I had been planning on moving us out tonight, at least a little farther so we could get off the road. Now, I’m wondering if we should stay here overnight and leave in the morning.
We should leave soon, Fenris says. Before one of those human cops shows up.
I leave her in the bedroom to relax, feeling the weight of her silence like an uncomfortable boulder pushing down a part of my soul.
What the hell kind of trauma does she carry to trigger such a terrible response? She wasn’t even this afraid after I took over her pack, or when I’d come to her in the forest -though, thinking back on the memory only serves to make my heart twist into an awkward, guilt–ridden pretzel.
I was so angry at the idea of a human mate–irritated by the idea of another mate at all -and took it out on her, furious she dared to be so alluring with her blueberry muffin scent and pretty green eyes.
I’m not exactly known for my gentle touch, but I’m learning. At the very least, I’d never tie her up in a forest again. Or yank at her hair. Or choke her…
Damn it. Fenris is right. Considering our history, it’s a miracle she doesn’t run screaming every time she sees my face.
I told you.
Hindsight is a terrible thing.
I pinch the bridge of my nose, annoyed by the headache I’ve b
this morning.
fighting since earlier
It’s the cat. It has to be the cat making her feel so strange. Let’s get rid of it.
“I can’t do that.”
Why not?
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176 Caine: Where’s the Cat?
Because if I get rid of the cat now, she’ll think I lied about not being angry. She’ll think I’m punishing her.
I rub both hands over my face, roughly scrubbing away the faint exhaustion after a long day with these children and now my terrified, pale–faced mate.
But you are angry, Fenris points out, and I hate how he knows me too well.
I’m not angry about the cat. I’m angry she put herself in danger.
After all, what if it hadn’t been just some random cat? What if it had been something
worse?
But now it’s impossible to say anything, and I already told her a bunch of bullshit about how I’m not mad and I’m not going to lecture her.
I have to stand by my word.
Maybe you can take this time to reprogram your personality, Fenris suggests oh–so–helpfully.
“Fuck off, Fenris.”
“Fah!” Bun squeals, a half–second after me.
She’s on the floor with the damn dog, who seems content with her life as a toddler’s
toy.
I frown. It isn’t as if we have any strict rules on swearing around pups in the pack, but it still sounds off–putting to hear a toddler repeat words she shouldn’t even be hearing.
“No more swearing in front of Bun,” I announce to the room at large.
Three sets of eyes turn my way, and all three of those children look dumbfounded.
Jer’s the first to speak up. “You’re the only one who swears.”
then she looks at my
“Yeah,” Sara chimes in. “We’re good kids. We don’t swear.” face, blanches, and turns away with a mumble. “Most of the time.”
She seems to be afraid I can sense her lie. It’s a useful fear, but I’m not sure what to do about the girl. She gets closer, but then returns to inexplicable states of fear around me. Perhaps it just takes time. I’ve heard girls are more sensitive.
176 Caine: Where’s the Cat?
“Owen’s never allowed them to swear,” Ron explains from his position on the floor beside Bun as she plays a drumbeat on Sadie’s back.
There’s only one thing missing.
My eyes narrow as I look them over. “Where’s the cat?”
Jer and Sara exchange glances, and it isn’t subtle at all. “What cat?”
My left eyebrow twitches. Do these two really think they can pretend a cat doesn’t
exist?
But they don’t bend under the pressure, even though both Sara and Jer look away, unable to keep eye contact.
“Where is the cat, kids?”
“Meow,” Bun says proudly, cat ears sprouting from her head. She dashes to me, forgetting about the dog as she holds both hands up in a silent demand.
“Is she the cat you’re talking about?” Jer ask, with an exaggerated face of surprise. “It’s just our sweet Bun. She loves to be cat–Bun.”
“Meow!”
“Yeah, Bun loves to be a cat. She was a cat the entire time you were gone. Right, Ron?” Sara says, sounding higher pitched than normal.
The older kid pushes himself off the floor and takes his favored seat on the couch with a sigh. “Don’t drag me into this.”
I cross my arms and lean against the kitchen counter, watching in amusement as these children scramble to sell their story. They’re terrible liars. They’ll have to learn to do better.
Sara hisses, “Help us out for once!”
“No.”
Bun stares at me, her enormous eyes wide and unblinking. er little hand reaches up to pat at my hair, exploring the texture between her fingers. Then she touches her own head, her tiny fingers brushing over the cat ears that have sprouted there.
She frowns.
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176 Caine: Where’s the Cat?
Then she returns her attention to my head, patting around for matching ears. She looks confused.
“We told you! Bun is the cat. See? Look at her ears!” Jer says, after being elbowed by
Sara.
She nods vigorously beside him. “Yeah! She’s been doing cat all afternoon. She’s really good at it.”
“Meow,” Bun adds helpfully. She pats my head again, clearly troubled by my ear deficiency.
I sigh, the sound dragging from deep in my chest. Bun mimics it immediately, her tiny shoulders rising and falling in exaggerated imitation.
“Ron. Where’s the cat?”
He doesn’t even look at me, instead choosing to rest his head on the back of his seat, arms crossed as he relaxes. “It’s under the sink.”
“Traitor!” Jer shouts.
Sara’s face screws up. “We had a pact!”
Ron shrugs one shoulder, still without looking. “It was a stupid pact.”
I walk smoothly to the kitchen sink, Bun still balanced on my hip. The cabinet door comes open under my hand, and sure enough, a giant white cat is crouched behind the pipes and cleaning products, filling up the space.
It’s a surprisingly large cabinet, and yet this cat fills the space. I’m not entirely certain how the children got it in there.
But more importantly, it’s not a normal cat, the same way Sadie isn’t a normal dog. It blinks slowly, unfazed by my alpha presence.
“Come out,” I tell the animal, keeping my voice level. “Nov”
It slinks out with lithe grace and winds around my feet, purring. It’s far larger than most domesticated cats, and looks strangely familiar.
177 Grace: Fake it Til You Make It
