Page 7 of Catnip, Claws, and Chaos

Her mouth opens halfway, then she closes it with a head shake. “Forget it,” she mumbles. “You’re not going to cut me into little pieces, right?”

A genuine laugh rips from me. This girl defies all logic. “If I planned to hurt you, wouldn’t I have done it already?”

“Right.” She inhales. “Hearing you say it helps, though.” Her face transforms with a genuine smile, brightening those eyes. My arms ache to pull her close, to crush her against me until neither of us can breathe.

“You’re strange,” I mutter, voice rough as I fight against the warmth spreading through me.

“Thanks... I think,” she whispers.

Silence falls between us while I treat her cuts. Only two need bandaging. The rest barely skimmed the surface. Her perfect skin should heal unmarred. Such beautiful legs deserve no scars.

“What’s your name?” she asks after an eternity.

“Logan,” I answer without meeting her gaze, afraid she’ll see too much.

“Nice to meet you, Logan.” I can hear the smile in her voice without looking up.

“Sure—”

“Emily,” she interjects.

“Emily,” I repeat. The name fits her. “Any other injuries needing treatment?”

She shakes her head. “No, I’m good. Thanks, Logan.”

My name on her lips sends blood rushing south, and I feel like a goddamn teenager. Shit. I move away abruptly, pretending to check on the cat, and it’s a pathetic excuse to create distance.

The cat. Fuck. I haven’t even addressed the main issue yet.

“So,” I say, trying to sound professional rather than affected, “about the cat.”

Emily’s expression falls like a stone. “Right. The cat.”

I move to the carrier and peer inside. The small black feline shrinks back, ears flattened. Street cats rarely trust easily. They learn early that the world just wants to hurt them.

“She’s malnourished but otherwise seems fine,” I explain, keeping my voice clinical. “Probably abandoned. Black cats often face the worst odds.”

“That’s horrible, but—” Emily shifts uncomfortably.

My phone vibrates for the third time this hour. I ignore it, recognizing that particular brand of harassment anywhere.

“Is everything okay?” Emily’s soft voice cuts through my thoughts.

“Fine,” I snap, harsher than intended.

The phone vibrates again, insistent, demanding. Just like him. My fist crushes the pen.

Emily watches me. “Your phone’s going crazy.”

“Nothing important.” The clipboard clatters against metal as I set it down too forcefully.

Another vibration. A text this time.

Need money. Emergency. You owe me.

I shove it back into my pocket. Ten years, yet nothing has changed. Always an emergency. Always my responsibility. Always my fault.

“Persistent caller,” Emily observes, curiosity brightening her eyes.

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