We step out of the dust and dark, crossing back into the half-lit sprawl of the market district. The barn HQ is as Mireclaw left it, wooden, old banners, doors warped from too many years fighting, Mireclaw’s perched atop a makeshift throne of crates and plundered furniture, one leg slung over the other, tail coiled around her ankle.

  She sees us and cocks her head, a sly smile flickering across black-painted lips, tone all mock-relief with a razor edge. “Oh, you two are alive. For a moment there I thought the pit had finally claimed you. Shame, really, I was almost looking forward to telling the survivors what became of the famous Master and his… beast. Did you find the Swarm, or just more corpses for the counting? No matter. You’re here. That’s what matters.” She makes a show of stretching, as if boredom is the only thing that’s ever threatened her reign. “I trust you left the city a little lighter for our troubles?”

  Her gaze lingers on Master’s collar, on me, a little too long. Her tail lashes, never casual, always marking territory, always questioning what’s hers and what might be stolen.

  I bare my teeth in a smile, sliding to Master’s side, never more than a breath away, claws ghosting over my spear. The Bond pulses, my hackles prickling as the rival’s words slip through the air like poison.

  A pulse of possessive violence races up my spine as Mireclaw speaks, her lazy, venomous drawl lingering in the rafters. The barn is half-shadow and old sawdust, the air tense with the weight of her ambition and the ghosts she’s buried to keep her seat. I watch the way her eyes flick between us,Master’s collar, my claws, her tail never quite still. She’s clever enough to feign boredom, but the scent beneath it is pure hunger, territorial and sharp.

  I step forward, muscles rolling under the dark blue tunic, tail raised high, slow and deliberate, claiming the ground between us inch by inch. I can feel her eyes trying to measure my intention, maybe even my sanity. Good. Let her wonder.

  I bare my teeth in a slow, mocking grin, one that’s all threat and no play. “Alive? No thanks to you, High Watcher.” The words come out low and honeyed, “Shame you weren’t there to see the pit. Would’ve loved to toss you in, just to see if you’d crawl out or drown in the stink.” I let the words twist, let my yandere delight shimmer through, every syllable meant to dig, to remind her she’s prey pretending at predator.

  My claws flex at my sides, every movement coiled and ready. I walk a slow circle around Master, never breaking eye contact with Mireclaw, tail curling around his leg. I make a point of showing her my neck, the collar, the claim that no one, including her, will ever break.

  I let my voice drop, cold and clear. “The Swarm’s not here. All your little plans, all your desperate hopes for power, mean nothing. Black Fang’s gutted, their blood’s still warm, and we’re back. You’re still just a cat with borrowed claws, Mireclaw. Don’t forget it.” I smile, wide and sharp, letting her see the edge in my eyes. “You want something done? Ask, but mind your place. My Master’s not your errand boy. And I’m not your friend.”

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  I can feel the Bond vibrating with my possessiveness, the need to prove, to dominate, to leave a mark she’ll never wash out. My ears flatten, my voice softens, a purr now, cruel and dangerous. “Try to use us again, and I’ll carve your ambitions into the barn walls. You want loyalty, buy a dog. You want survival, STAY OUT OF OUR WAY.”

  Then, just as quick, I let the tension drop. I slide back to Master, nuzzle his arm, my tail wrapping possessively. I make sure she sees it, how little she matters compared to him, how she could never understand the violence it would take to separate us.

  And I laugh, a sharp, delighted sound that fills the barn, echoing off the timbers and reminding every shadow that I am alive, I am dangerous, and above all, I am his. Whatever game Mireclaw plays, she’ll never win while I still draw breath.

  Rage simmers under my skin, sharp and trembling, every muscle pulled taut as a bowstring as I bare my teeth at Mireclaw. My tail thrashes, ears pinned, heart thudding with the old, familiar need to protect, to destroy, to own. The Bond is a live wire, but suddenly, Master’s thoughts just vanish. Gone. The psychic hum I’ve grown addicted to is silence, cold and sudden.

  For a split second, it’s like I can’t breathe, like he’s slipped into another world just out of reach.

  He turns, neutral, detached, voice level as slate. “I have a present, Mireclaw.” Nothing in his tone, no warmth, no malice, just fact. The words hit the air and twist everything in the room, the lazy swagger in Mireclaw’s eyes vanishes, replaced by bright, hungry anticipation. She straightens on her makeshift throne, green eyes wide, pupils dilated, ears flicked forward. Her tail arches high, hopeful, greedy, like a mongrel shown a bone, forgetting the hand that might snap her jaw shut.

  That’s all it takes. Jealousy is fire in my gut, a rabid thing clawing up my throat. The Bond’s silence burns. My tail coils so tight it aches, claws biting into my palm. I want to lunge, to leap at her, to rake her eyes out before she even gets a chance to touch what’s his. My eyes narrow, tracking every twitch of her fingers, every eager lean forward. She’s practically panting for it, ready to lap up whatever scrap he offers.

  The urge to strike, to mark him again as mine, is nearly overwhelming. I press closer to Master, breath hot, a low warning growl trembling just under my tongue. She doesn’t see him, doesn’t know him like I do, hasn’t earned the right. It doesn’t matter what the present is, it could be a knife, a curse, or a corpse, it’s the attention, the possibility, the way her eyes light up as if he’s hers, even for a moment. It’s an insult.

  I fix my gaze on her, unblinking, daring her to reach, daring her to try to take a single thing from my world. All I want is to see the hope in her eyes turn to fear, to see her remember that there’s only one predator here, and she’s sitting at his feet.

  His words snap through the barn, flat as a judge’s verdict, so cold it leaves no room for argument. “Give her the three heads.” The command is simple, clinical, just another task to complete, as if the world isn’t still trembling from the violence we left behind. The Bond stays eerily quiet, but his authority cuts deeper than any psychic lash.