Page 59 of Catnip, Claws, and Chaos

“They're not allowed to eat sugar!”

Emily freezes, cookie suspended mid-air. Her eyes dart from me to the animals and back again. “But they keep looking at me with those sad puppy eyes!” She gestures toward Bob, who intensifies his pleading expression to theatrical levels.

“What exactly are sad puppy eyes?” I raise my hand to stop her explanation, a genuine smile breaking through. It's actually my fault. I'm the one who left the cookie jar on the kitchen island. Setting her plate before her, I lift Demon from the counter and put her on the floor, earning an indignant meow. I sit on my own stool, acutely aware that Emily is inches away, still wearing only a sheet. “No sugar for animals, Emily,” I repeat firmly. “Am I making myself clear?”

She rolls her eyes. “Yes, sir,” she mutters, grabbing her fork to enthusiastically attack her breakfast. It's not the first time I've seen Emily eat, yet I still marvel at how she can eat anything without working out or gaining an ounce.

“It's so good!” she moans, with her mouth full and her eyes closed in pleasure.

“Listen, Emily, about last night—” Just as I find my courage, the doorbell's harsh buzz interrupts. “Hold that thought,” I say, rising to answer.

My intuition screams danger before I reach the entrance. I throw open the door and stop at the sight of the man standing on my doorstep. He looks worse than during our last encounter, with patchy stubble and bloodshot eyes in sunken sockets.

“What do you want?” I growl, deliberately lowering my voice.

“Aren't you going to invite me in?” he slurs. He's way too drunk to be able to talk properly.

“No,” I respond, planting myself firmly in the doorway. “I've told you I don't want anything to do with you.”

“Is this any way to treat your father?” Indignation raises his voice. “Your own flesh and blood?”

My jaw goes rigid. I don't want to cause a scene out here in the hall, but I also don't want Emily to meet this joke of a father I've got. In the end, though, I don't have much choice. I grab his arm and yank him inside, slamming the door to contain whatever disaster follows.

He lifts his head and stares in Emily's direction. She's still sitting on the kitchen stool.

I position myself in front of him, creating a shield. “What do you want?”

“You know, son, it's hard to get ahead,” he whines. “No one wants to hire an old man like me. And the city's expensive.” His gesture nearly topples him.

“So then move out of the city.” The muscle beneath my left eye twitches.

“How can you say such a thing? How can you think I would move far away from my only child?” His feigned hurt elevates his voice.

“Cut the crap,” I mutter through clenched teeth. “You know that tactic doesn't work with me. I don't give a damn if you go live under a bridge. I'm not your fucking ATM!”

I hear a noise behind me and turn to see Emily standing there, her expression mixed with confusion, horror, disgust, and pity. The pity hurts the most.

“Emily—” I reach toward her, but my father's reflexes are faster.

“Good morning, my dear!” He sidesteps me with surprising agility and positions himself before Emily. Taking her hand, he raises it to his lips. Revulsion crawls across my skin at the sight of his contaminating touch on her delicate fingers.

“Let her go,” I growl, striding forward. Gripping his elbow, I wrench him away from her. He staggers, but I instinctively steady him before he falls. It's a reflex I wish I could kill.

“Logan, what—” Emily's voice sounds small and uncertain.

“Emily, please, could you give us a few minutes? I need to discuss some things with my... father.” Saying that word leaves a bitter taste in my mouth. This man has never been a father to me. I avoid meeting her gaze, unwilling to face her questions or, worse, her judgment.

“Don't be rude, Logan. Allow me to introduce myself to your new friend.” The old bastard tries to approach Emily again, his gaze roving over her with predatory assessment.

“Please, Emily,” I implore, letting rare vulnerability show. “Go to your room.”

My father is a violent bastard who spends his days swilling booze. He's the last person I want close to Emily or anyone else.

“Why won't you let me talk to her, Logan? Are you afraid that she might find out who you really are?” His bloodshot eyes challenge me, trying to diminish me in front of Emily. He's angry because I refuse to give in to his pleas.

“That's enough!” My voice erupts as I draw myself to my full height. “I want you to leave and never come back. If you do, I swear I'll—” My fists clench so hard my nails pierce flesh.

“You'll what, son? What will you do? Are you going to kill me the way you killed your mother, your fiancée, and your son?” His words strike exactly where intended, tearing open wounds that never healed.

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