Page 12 of Catnip, Claws, and Chaos

“Welcome to your new palace, Demon,” I mutter, setting the carrier down. The cat responds with a low, threatening growl.

I switch on the single lamp illuminating my living room, casting a warm glow over the space I worked so hard to make my own. It isn’t much, but every piece means something. I rescued the threadbare couch from a sidewalk sale and covered it with a colorful throw my mother crocheted. I found the coffee tableat a thrift store and refinished it myself. Now, it holds a small collection of paperbacks and my precious framed photo of my family.

Along the windowsill sit my proudest possessions, three small potted plants I’ve kept alive for six months. A miracle, considering my track record with living things.

My gaze drifts to the sideboard against the wall where my grandmother’s fine china plates sit. Mom reluctantly entrusted them to me after extracting numerous promises about their care.

If anything happens to those plates, Emily Eleanor Baker, I swear to God...

Her voice still rings in my head. I arranged the plates on display, a reminder that I can be trusted with precious things and that I’m building a real adult life here in the city despite my string of ridiculous jobs.

My attention catches on the small porcelain cat figurine next to the plates. It was a gift from Kate when I moved in. Every apartment needs a cat, she said. Little did she know.

I bend down and extend a tentative hand toward the little carrier door. My fingers shake as I fiddle with the latch. “Please don’t bite me,” I whisper. “I’ve had enough trauma for one day.”

The cat has gone eerily quiet. Her yellow eyes gleam in the darkness of the carrier. Perhaps she’s scared and confused, thrust into a strange environment with a human who has no idea what she’s doing.

I hurriedly get to my feet, giving her space to come out on her own terms. The carrier door swings open, but she remains inside, watching me from her plastic fortress.

After a while, Demon pokes her head out, nose twitching as she processes this new domain. A strange flutter of pride rises in my chest as she surveys my tiny home.

“So, um, this is it.” I clear my throat. “Not much, but it’s home. The bathroom’s through there, kitchen’s basically thatcorner, and my bedroom’s behind that door. Mi casa es su casa and all that. Just... please don’t break anything?”

The cat steps fully out of the carrier, and I swallow, suddenly aware of how alone I am with this miniature predator. Her yellow eyes narrow as she stares up at me, sizing me up like a walking buffet.

“I know what you’re thinking.” I back up. “But I’m too stringy to eat. Plus, I’m pretty sure humans give cats indigestion. We’re basically junk food for your species.”

As if understanding my babbling, she licks her lips with deliberate slowness. Great, now I’m negotiating with a cat about whether or not I’d make a tasty meal. This is what my life has come to.

Wait—dinner! Right. I should feed her before she decides to sample the human cuisine.

I reach for one of the cans of cat food Logan gave me and look at the label. It features a smiling cartoon cat that looks nothing like the little devil I have.

I hunt through the cabinets in the kitchen, searching for a proper bowl. After exhausting all options, I’m forced to use one of the plates from my grandmother’s fine china set. Mom would disinherit me if she could see me now, using Grandma’s hand-painted porcelain to serve smelly cat food to a stray. A hysterical giggle bubbles up from my chest.

I plop the brownish, gelatinous mass onto the delicate floral-patterned plate. The pungent fishy aroma fills the small kitchen. Disgusting.

After setting the dish down in a corner, I take a step back and wait.

She doesn’t approach.

Instead, she gives me a look of pure disdain, as if I offered her cafeteria food when she expected a five-course meal.

I shrug. “Suit yourself, Your Highness. I guess you’ll eat when you’re hungry.”

Ignoring her royal attitude, I walk to the bathroom. The day’s events cling to my skin like a film only hot water can wash away.

Closing the door behind me, I turn on the shower. The pipes groan in protest before releasing a stream that gradually transitions from ice-cold to barely warm.

As I pull my T-shirt over my head, Logan’s image intrudes. Those penetrating green eyes, the strong line of his jaw, the way his dark blond hair falls across his forehead when he concentrates...

How would it feel if he were undressing me instead?

I shake my head. What the hell? The man is an arrogant, insufferable jerk who’s done nothing but complicate my already complicated life.

And yet...

I step into the shower, letting the warm water cascade over my shoulders and down my back. My nipples harden under the spray, and I bite my lower lip to suppress a moan. One hand braces against the tiled wall for support while the other slides down my stomach. I teeter on the precipice of release when?—

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