For a moment, I stare at him, eyes wide, ears flattened, tail frozen in mid-swing. Rage flickers at the edge of my vision, he wants me to hand them over, me to do it, as if Mireclaw has earned even the stink of our kills. I want to hiss, to refuse, to spit in her greedy, expectant face. But Master’s order is a chain around my throat, and my obedience, my love, burns hotter than my jealousy.

  I move, every gesture precise, predatory, a performance for both of them. My claws sink into the rough sack at my hip, the one knotted and blood-heavy, barely cleaned from our last stop. I lift it with care, as if it’s precious. Mireclaw’s eyes widen with real excitement now, that hungry gleam back in full force, she leans forward, her lips curling in anticipation.

  I stalk forward, never blinking, never dropping my gaze from hers. I make her feel every step, make the weight of the heads seem heavier, the air itself thicker with threat. I kneel, mocking the gesture, parodying a servant’s bow, and untie the sack, dumping the grisly trophies at her feet with a dull, wet thud. Three heads, faces twisted in terror and surprise, blood caked in their hair, eyes glassy and accusing.

  Mireclaw recoils for a second, breath caught, then grins, wide and sharp, like she’s been handed a kingdom on a platter. “Oh, you really are efficient, aren’t you?” she purrs, glancing from the heads to Master, then back to me, her tail flicking with greedy pleasure. “This will send a message.”

  I stay on my haunches, body coiled tight, letting her feel my hatred, letting her see the truth in my eyes: she only owns what we allow. The Bond aches in its silence, and all I want is for this wretched rival to choke on her own ambition.

  Mireclaw leans back in her throne of crates, one hand curling possessively around the burlap sack, the other petting the severed heads as if they were gifts from an adoring suitor. Her green eyes glitter in the barn’s half-light, smug and triumphant, her tail waving in slow satisfaction. She drinks in the fear these grisly trophies will spread, already plotting how to bend everything to her will. Around us, the barn is tense, quiet, thick with the promise of violence, and I feel every shadow pressing close.

  Master stands a little apart, his presence as cold and certain as the sword at his hip. The Bond’s silence is maddening but rage pulses in my veins, hotter than any wound, sharper than any blade. I can feel Mireclaw’s eyes on me, lingering, mocking, her lips twisted in that little smirk, as if she’s already forgotten what I am, as if she thinks for one second that she’s the only predator in the room.

  My claws flex against the wood. I taste blood, my own, from biting back the urge to snarl, and hers, imagined, warm and sweet. All my muscles bunch, ready to spring. The Bond is an ache, an itch.

  That’s enough.

  I snap.

  I’m a blur, a streak of blue and white, crossing the ground in a heartbeat. I leap, not with a weapon, not with any plan but violence, just claws, fangs, and the shrieking rage of a cat who will not be mocked, not be challenged, not share her Master’s shadow with anyone. My mind goes blank, world narrowing to the scent of Mireclaw’s fear, the gleam of her teeth as she realises, too late, what’s coming for her.

  She shrieks, half rage, half glee, this is what she wanted, what she feared, what she tried to provoke. She’s a catgirl, too; her own claws flash out, fangs bared, tail thrashing wildly as she surges up to meet me. We crash together in a blur of fur and fury, claws raking, teeth snapping, bodies rolling across the straw and dirt.

  Aliza, 16 DEX +4, Catgirl Instinct, +2, Caffeine boost, +2, Protective Fury +2, Master’s proximity +1 = 27

  Mireclaw, 17, Dex, +4, Catgirl Instinct, +2, Ambition, +2 = 25

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

  We’re a cyclone, fur flying, claws slashing, fangs snapping inches from each other’s throats. She’s strong, fast, desperate, her own rage and pride giving her a fighting edge, but I am faster, more vicious, more lost to the thrill. My claws catch her across the cheek, blood beads in her black fur, she lands a blow to my ribs, tearing fabric, leaving burning lines, but I don’t care. I laugh, wild and manic, the sound bubbling up from somewhere bottomless. She hisses, writhes, tries to throw me off, but I ride her down, pressing her face into the dirt.

  She twists, nearly dislodges me, but I bite her ear with my fangs, hard, vicious, possessive. She howls, struggling, tail lashing so hard it cracks like a whip. We tumble, claws locked, bodies tangling in a heap of rage, violence, and mutual contempt. She tries to rake my belly, but I twist, pinning her arms with my knees, slamming her back into the crates.

  For a heartbeat, we freeze, both panting, wild-eyed, blood running in thin rivulets down our fur. I stare down at her, every muscle trembling, the Bond screaming for release. “You’ll never be me,” I snarl, words barely more than a growl. “You’ll never have him. You’ll never even come close.”

  She spits blood, eyes defiant, but the fear is there, she knows I could kill her, knows I want to, knows I would if Master allowed it. For one electric moment, the whole barn is nothing but the sound of our breathing and the wild, ragged beat of our hearts.

  And then, as if the world snaps back into focus, Master’s voice cuts through the haze. He’s still cold, still in control, not a hair out of place. “If you two are finished, I believe the heads of the Black Fang leader and the two lieutenants should be enough as payment of promise.” His tone is flat, matter of fact, as if feral catgirl combat is just another day at the office.

  He turns without waiting for a reply, already halfway to the door, cloak swirling behind him. Mireclaw shoves me off, hissing, scrambling to right herself, pride wounded, fur and face streaked with blood. I bare my fangs in a final, triumphant smile, letting her see the wild joy in my eyes, she lost, she knows it, and she’ll remember.

  The Bond pulls me like a leash. I bolt after Master on all fours, leaping from the barn before the pain of distance can become agony, my mind still ringing with the taste of victory and the wild, animal glee of battle. Five feet. No more, no less. That’s my world, and I wouldn’t trade it for all the thrones in Maw Mine.

  I stand, blood sticky on my fur, body humming with adrenaline and the wild, sour taste of victory. My breath is ragged, chest rising and falling.

  Then Master’s hand comes down, slow, firm, gentle but unyielding, between my ears, fingers sliding through the mess of my blonde hair, rubbing just right at the base of my skull. The tension bleeds out of me all at once. My tail arches, body shuddering with a soft, broken purr I don’t bother to hide. For a moment, all the rage, all the violence, all the twisted, jealous ache falls away, replaced by the simple, primal comfort of his touch. I lean into it shamelessly, all claws and bravado forgotten, eyes half-shut, heart racing for all the right reasons now.

  Master sighs, a tired sound, older than the city, heavier than all the blood we’ve spilled tonight. His voice is quiet, but every word is shaped by the weight of too many schemes, too many dead ends. “You know this leaves a single district left. We’ve gone through the expansion district owned by The Ren, the market and fishing districts under the Vigilance, checked with the Vel’Rasa order in the fishing district, checked the mining district and arena districts under Black Fang… that leaves only Embercrack’s own district.”

  He sighs again, and I can feel the resignation in his bones, the cynicism etched into every syllable. "Of course nothing is ever simple". My ears flick back, the Bond tightening with his fatigue, his frustration, a shared sense that the city is always one step ahead, that every answer leads to another locked door.

  He lets his hand linger a moment longer, the warmth soaking down to my marrow, before pulling away. “Come now. Let’s just get some tea and deal with this later.” The command is soft, but it’s absolute, and I obey before the Bond can even sting at the thought of being left behind.

  I slip to his side, brushing up against his hip, tail twining around his wrist, every movement a silent vow. The city can burn, the rivals can plot, the districts can tear themselves apart, none of it matters, not for these few precious minutes. We move together, slipping out into the cooling night, leaving the barn and its petty wars behind.

  The promise of tea is more than comfort, it’s a brief, stolen peace. As we walk, I keep myself pressed against him, breathing in his scent, ears tuned to his heart, every sense fixed on the five-foot radius that is my universe. I don’t care about Embercrack’s secrets, not yet. All that matters is the certainty of his hand in my fur, the taste of his approval, the knowledge that, for now, I am wanted.