Page 52 of Caged Kitten

Unbeknownst to my many tutors, possibly even my parents, I was a fast learner. Feigning dimwitted frustration in the face of new tasks had been a coping mechanism I leaned on for years, craving the opportunity to prove myself yet also terrified of failure. So, if I came off as just stupid enough, they’d still respect me without dumping anything too important on my shoulders. Hardly the most chivalrous way for a prince to sail through life, but I had an army of older brothers and sisters to fill the roles required of them. As the youngest, nobody had expectations. I had always done as I pleased…

And now I was here.

Locked up and wearing a collar, a shame to my court, to my father, to my title.

Pathetic.

Teeth gritted, I rolled my shoulders back and shoved my father’s insidious whisper deep down, focusing instead on the roses. Studying Katja’s gloved hands rather than her beautiful profile, I noted which roses she ignored and which she selected—those that just bloomed were her preference. I followed suit. Hardly a difficult thing, clipping roses, but a teeny, tiny smidgen of pride flourished inside when I held up my first snipped and de-thorned rose for her discerning eye. Katja plucked it from me, scrutinizing it, and then plopped it alongside all the rest in the bucket with a barely-there smile.

“Why don’t you like me, Katja Fox?”

Her eyebrows shot up, as did mine. I’d never outright asked anyone before, but none of my sycophants dared let on should they find my antics distasteful. Still, I knew the rumors racing through the court grapevine. I was nobody’s favorite prince—unless they needed a prince to host a party, to get pissed off their face with, or to fuck them within an inch of their life. That was all I was good for: my money and my cock.

“Insecure much?” the witch said with a chuckle, those sapphires shimmering with genuine mirth that dimmed when I didn’t smile back. Perhaps she thought I wasn’t serious; I seldom ever was, not even with myself. Clearing her throat, Katja paused her perusal through the bush to her left, then licked her lips, the flicker of her tongue a delectable distraction. “Fintan, I never said I don’t like you. I just don’t like being aggressively hit on all the time.”

“I’m afraid that’s my default setting.” I flashed a crooked grin, but Katja merely blinked back at me, unimpressed.

“Well… Stop.”

“But you enjoy it,” I insisted, refusing to believe that all her blushes stemmed from discomfort. Some, sure. But I affected her. My charm touched her at least a little, and at the moment, that was enough for me.

Not that she would ever admit it. Sucking in her cheeks, eyes narrowed, Katja fixed me with the business end of her clippers. “Look, I’m not here for you to toy with while you pass the time on your sentence. Unlike you, I don’t belong here. I didn’t commit any crimes.”

“Neither did I.” I scratched at the back of my neck with my shears, enjoying their sharp bite. “I mean, not by fae law, anyway.”

She rolled her eyes, back to her rosebush. “Whatever.”

“Perhaps it’s a defense mechanism,” I pondered aloud, all singsongy and obnoxious—because I had never been strong enough to just blurt out the truth. “Perhaps I fear my truest self will be rejected immediately and therefore put up a wall—”

“Gods, Fintan.” Katja shoved me hard with a giggle, and I staggered to the side, chuckling right along with her. Yet again, a moment of honesty spoiled by bravado, by putting on a show for the sake of the audience. Still, I rather liked that I’d made her laugh, that her smile lingered as she picked through roses. No telling what it was about this woman that so infatuated me. Sure, I’d never had a witch before; she was a conquest in that regard.

Some sick part of me liked when she was mean. Rollo’s wife—future queen of the Midnight Court with three impressive heirs birthed already—was mean. Only to him, of course, and he seemed rather taken with her attitude. Always teasing and pushing one another, the act private and personal, glaringly intimate. Noblewomen in the court were charming and worldly. Intelligent and skilled in many talents.

But they all would have fallen into my bed by now.

Most of them had fallen into my bed with minimal effort on my part. No wooing. No courting. They bowed and thanked me when it was done.

None of them were mean.

Katja had a ward around her, one that effortlessly repelled my usual tricks, one that made me work.

And that delighted me.

Intrigued me.

For the first time in centuries, the object of my desire challenged me, possibly without even realizing it.

I cast her a sidelong glance, fiddling with a wilted rose, pretending to be busy while I studied her. What a gift, this witch.

“Tell me about Café Crowley.”

She snipped too hard, fumbling over the request, then shot me a frown. “What?”

“I’ve heard you mention it in conversation,” I remarked casually. Eight days ago, at breakfast, with Rafe—discussion topic: coffee. Lately, I had taken it upon myself to note, catalogue, and file interesting tidbits about her—about all of them, actually—for later use. But just those three, only Katja, Elijah, and Rafe. No one else necessitated that level of detail. Everyone else was an open fucking book: no layers. “Tell me about it.”

Setting her scissors aside, Katja laid into the newly clipped rose, ridding it of its thorns. “Why?”

“Because you interest me.” Ah, yes, there it was—the delectable plume of pink in her cheeks. A dewy carnation, just like those on the table across from the roses. “Therefore, your life interests me. Ergo, Café Crowley interests me—”

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