Chapter 27 #2
“I know it’s antiquated, but it’s an opportunity for me to protect JJ and hopefully make changes for the future.”
Story grins, voice soft and strange. “Vivarium,” she says, almost to herself. “Growth in confinement. Moving forward even when the walls are closing in.”
The women share a look–something deep and unspoken, like they’re remembering the same cage. The word nudges something in my mind. Vivarium. I’ve seen it before. Heard it. It slips away before I can catch it.
“We’ll be there,” Story says.
“We will, too,” Lavinia agrees. “We wouldn’t miss it.”
No one asks me if I’ll be in attendance, and I’m relieved when the conversation drifts back to sorting–stuffed animals here, puzzles there, dolls in another pile.
But what’s obvious is that everyone moves with renewed energy, chatting, laughing, the room full of easy noise, while I continue my work alone.
The toy drive winds down in a blur. Just being around that many people feels overwhelming, and by the time we’re back in Hunter’s truck, I’m ready for the quiet.
I sit in the middle, pressed warmly between them, Damon’s knee solid against my thigh, his hand resting loose but steady on my leg like an anchor.
I didn’t understand it at first, not until I watched the other royal women with their men.
Damon is asserting his claim with the way he handles me, small and big.
He’s possessive, letting everyone around us know that I belong to him–belong to the Barons.
It’s not just a touch on my leg or back, it’s the heat in his eyes.
The hunger that I see whenever I look at him.
He takes me whenever he feels like it. I’m used to waking up with him inside of me, thick and hard, his hot breath on my neck and his hands between my legs, tipping me over the edge, forcing me to fall.
Even with all of that, I don’t always feel like I belong. Not to him. Not anywhere.
Today was no different, with the little cliques and groups, but I know we did something good. I can feel it in the way my body is tired instead of hollow.
“Mind if we stop somewhere?” Damon asks eventually, staring out the window like it just occurred to him.
Hunter glances at him. “You mean somewhere that sells beer or somewhere that sells double cheeseburgers?”
“Neither,” Damon says. “Just pull up at that market for a minute.”
Hunter shrugs and pulls into a mini-mart, the fluorescent lights buzzing like insects. Damon hops out, tugging his hood up against the cold.
Hunter watches him go, then looks at me. “You good?”
“I’m fine,” I say automatically.
He hums, unconvinced. “You don’t sound fine.”
I pick at a loose thread on my sleeve. “It was just… a lot of people.”
“Why do you think I volunteered to drive the truck all day?”
His lips curve, and it’s contagious. Something tight in my chest eases, just a little.
The door chimes when Damon exits and he’s back in the seat a moment later, setting a plastic bag at his feet.
I peer down. “What is that?
“Food,” he says, teeth tugging at the rings in his lip. “For the cats.”
“Cats?” Hunter asks, confused.
My head snaps up. “Are we going to feed the cats?”
The corner of his mouth lifts, quick and private. “Yeah. We’ve got time.”
Hunter glances between us. “You didn’t mention cats.”
“They’re feral,” I say immediately, words tumbling over each other. “They live in this broken-down boathouse near Northridge. There’s a black one with a white foot, and she’s mean but smart, and this skinny boy with a torn ear, and there are kittens–one of them has a crooked paw.”
Damon huffs a quiet laugh. “They’re little monsters.”
“Don’t listen to him. They’re kind of perfect.”
Hunter raises a brow, but there’s something surprised in his eyes. “Since when?”
“Since I found them and it was obvious they’d been dumped and were starving,” Damon says, already giving directions. “And I didn’t tell you because you’re obviously a dog person.”
“People can be both.”
Damon gives him a hard look. “Are you one of those people?”
“Unlikely.”
“We fed them a few weeks ago. Before the wedding,” I add quickly, like that explains everything. “And they recognize Damon. Mostly.”
“Of course they do.” That earns a snort from Hunter as he turns the wheel and then mutters, ”Cat whisperer.”
We start the drive out toward Northridge, and some of my anxiety from earlier loosens, the energy shifting into something different—anticipation. The road narrows, streetlights thinning until we’re swallowed by the dark.
“Turn here.” Damon directs Hunter down a rutted side road, past a sagging fence and a line of bare trees.
The boathouse crouches near the water. Half-collapsed, tagged with graffiti, surrounded by rusted cans and old bottles.
Damon grabs the bag and a flashlight from the truck’s glove compartment. “Watch your step.” As soon as his feet hit the ground, shadows peel themselves out of the dark. Six shapes, at least.
“There they are,” I say, a little surprised. I guess I wasn’t sure they’d still be here.
“Little monsters,” Damon says, ripping the top off the bag. He pours little piles of food straight on the ground.
A sleek black female slips forward first, narrow as a blade, a single white sock on one foot.
She circles wide, clever eyes fixed on Damon like she’s already beaten him at a game he doesn’t know he’s playing.
He ducks into the boathouse with the flashlight, leaving us in the pale moonlight, and returns with his metal trap.
He pulls out a single can of tuna, baiting the trap.
She ignores it completely, stepping around it to steal kibble from one of the piles.
“She does that on purpose,” Damon mutters. “I swear to God she’s laughing at me.”
“You’re trying to catch them?”
“Her for sure. She needs to get fixed before she has another litter.”
A scrawny male with a torn ear muscles in next, then a gray cat that hangs back, waiting until everyone else commits before creeping closer. Kittens tumble out last–all ribs and fuzz and attitude. “They’re bigger,” I point out, then I notice it. “Oh no, she’s still limping.”
Damon’s already watching it. A tiny body, one front paw bent wrong, twisted just enough to make my stomach hurt. When I crouch and extend a finger, it bats at me.
“Still spicy,” Damon says softly.
“It’s worse,” I whisper. “It’s worse than last time.”
The kitten stumbles when it tries to move away, then sits, breathing fast.
I feel it then–that pull. That awful, familiar recognition of something so innocent and pure being neglected.
The kitten cries, a thin, broken sound.
I stand abruptly. “We can’t leave it.”
Hunter straightens from where he was watching the swarm of kittens eating from a metal pan. “We can’t take a kitten back to the House of Night.”
I turn to him. “You have Ares.”
His jaw tightens. “I got permission to bring Ares.”
“Well,” I say, stepping closer to the kitten again, my voice filled with certainty, “we can’t leave her here. She’ll never make it. Not like this.”
The kitten lets out another broken cry, like it’s proving my point.
“It’s a slippery slope, Doll Baby. There’s a never ending supply of feral kittens and if you get sucked into taking one, next thing you’ll have an entire colony living under your back porch.”
“That’s awfully specific," Hunter says.
“Yeah, well, lesson learned.” He goes quiet, eyes flicking between me, the kitten, and the boathouse. I can see the wheels turning, like he’s already made a decision but hasn’t said it out loud yet. Finally, he exhales. “Fuck,” he mutters. “Okay.”
“Okay?” I ask, heart leaping. “Really?”
“Yeah,” he says, already reaching for the flashlight again. “I’ll figure something out. But just the one. I’ll come back tomorrow and see if Mama took the bait.”
I turn, ready to argue further, just in case, but Hunter has gone completely still. For a beat, I think he’s about to say no.
Instead, he moves.
It’s quick and decisive. One step forward, a careful scoop. “Gotcha.”
The kitten freezes in his hands, all bones and trembling fury, then lets out a tiny, outraged hiss that barely qualifies as a threat. Hunter holds it like he’s handled fragile things before–firm enough to keep it from wriggling, gentle enough not to hurt it.
I laugh, breathless. “Oh my god.”
“It tried to bite me,” he says mildly, glancing down at it. “Respectable effort.”
Damon snorts. “Told you she was spicy.”
We hustle back to the truck, the cold biting harder now that the adrenaline’s worn off. Hunter settles the kitten into my lap once we’re inside, layering his jacket over it without a word. The little body shakes, then cautiously, stills.
I cradle it against my stomach, one finger resting near its crooked paw. It doesn’t bat this time. It just breathes, it’s little body warm and alive. Safe.
My chest aches in a good way.
“She’s going to be okay,” I say softly, more promise than fact.
Damon glances over from the passenger seat, eyes lingering on the kitten, then on me. “Yeah,” he says. “She is.”
The truck rumbles to life, headlights cutting through the dark, and for the first time all night, I feel light–like we stole something precious out of the dark and got away with it.