23. Jasper
23
JASPER
“G oddamn it, Fluffy—stay still!”
I grit my teeth as the gremlin of a cat lets out a yowl and thrashes at me like I’m his enemy. His claws dig into my arms, front and back legs flailing with the kind of precision that can only come from years of feral vengeance. I’ve wrangled violent men with less fight in them.
“I’m not trying to kill you, you tiny psychopath!” I bark, trying to wrestle one of his legs into the absurd onesie I bought so he won’t be cold. The fucking cat is bald, he must be freezing. “It’s pajamas. Not a death trap.”
Fluffy lets out another hiss and arches like a damn cobra, twisting in my grip. I manage to get one leg through, but as I go for the second, he claws my forearm so hard I’m pretty sure I see skin fly.
“Motherfucker! Ow! Son of a bitch. Fluffy, you little hell-beast.”
Blood starts pooling from the fresh gashes along my arm, but I’m too deep into the battle to back out now. I grit my teeth, growling as I manage to shove the other leg in and give the material one final adjustment so it’s in place.
He glares at me like I’ve just committed a war crime.
Panting, I slump back against the cushions. My forearms look like I tried to hug a rosebush.
“I’m trying to be nice to you,” I mutter darkly, inspecting the bloody mess of my arms. “You were shivering last night. This was a kindness, you little pain in the ass.”
Fluffy flicks his tail, clearly unimpressed by my attempts at mercy.
“Yeah, well, fuck you, too,” I grumble.
I’m inspecting my arms when I hear tiny footsteps coming down the stairs. I look up and immediately wish I could vanish into the couch.
Ariana freezes, eyes wide, mouth parting in stunned horror.
“Oh my God,” she gasps. “What happened to you?!”
“I—”
She’s already in front of me, inspecting my shredded arms with frantic hands.
“Did you fall into a cactus? Are those claw marks? Oh my God , you’re bleeding! Daddy, what did you do?”
“I’m fine?—”
“You are not fine!” she snaps. “Bathroom. Now. Emergency nurse mode activated.”
Before I can argue, she grabs my wrist and pulls me to my feet with surprising strength. I follow her upstairs to our bedroom, then into the bathroom.
“Are you saying we’re going to roleplay, rainbow? You going to be my nurse?”
She blushes and shoves me onto the closed toilet lid and starts rummaging through the bathroom cabinet like a woman on a mission.
Bandages. Gauze. Antiseptic spray. I swear she grabs the glittery rainbow bandages I bought for her.
“Sit still,” she instructs, crouching in front of me. “And don’t be a baby.”
“I wasn’t planning on it,” I mutter. Then she swabs a cut on my wrist, and the sting makes me hiss. “Okay, maybe just a medium-sized baby.”
Right then, Fluffy walks in, still clearly unimpressed by his new outfit.
A slow grin spreads across her face. “You dressed my cat?”
“He was cold,” I defend. “I was trying to help.”
“Uh-huh. You like him.”
“I do not.”
“You totally do.”
“He’s a four-legged demon.”
“You feed him, buy him toys, and now you put clothes on him because you’re worried about him being cold,” she teases, applying multiple rainbow bandages on my arms. “That’s not hate. That’s love.”
I roll my eyes, but I can’t stop the grin from breaking through. “He’s your cat. Only reason he’s still breathing.”
She slows then, her fingers gentler. “He kept me company. On the road. Through… everything.”
I meet her gaze. Her eyes are soft, but tired. A little haunted.
“I know, baby girl. That’s why I don’t hate him.”
She smiles again, gently this time. And it hits me right in the chest.
When she finishes taking care of me with far more bandages than necessary, she steps back, hands on her hips like she’s just patched up a war hero.
“There. Good as new.”
I glance down at my arms. “I look like I lost a fight with an angry toddler.”
“A heroic toddler,” she corrects, grinning.
From the hallway, Fluffy sits watching us, tail flicking, plotting his revenge.
But Ariana’s eyes are glowing, laughter on her lips.
Maybe getting into a fight with her damn cat was worth it. Especially when she looks as happy as she does right now.
* * *
A riana’s body is pressed against me, her face nestled in the curve of my neck, her breath soft and warm against my skin. One arm is draped across her back, the other wrapped around her waist, keeping her close, like I’m afraid she might vanish if I let go. My hand moves slowly, rhythmically, stroking along her spine beneath the blanket. Every so often, she sighs on an exhale.
She fits here.
Fits me .
Her body was made to rest against mine, her soul was built from the same shattered edges I carry in my chest.
I press a kiss to the top of her head, breathing in the scent of her shampoo—something soft and clean and unmistakably her . She’s calm now, more relaxed than I’ve seen her in days. Her breathing is slow and steady, the rise and fall of her chest in sync with mine.
And still, there’s one thing I need to know. One ache I can’t soothe until she lets me in.
“Rainbow,” I murmur, my lips brushing her temple. “Can you tell me about your foster family?”
She stiffens for a moment. Her whole body goes quiet, her breathing stalling slightly, and I know she’s somewhere else. Somewhere far away.
“You never talk about them,” I say softly. “About growing up. But I want to know. I want to know everything about you.”
She draws in a breath. It sounds shaky. Uncertain. But she nods faintly, and when she finally speaks, her voice is barely more than a whisper.
“My foster parents… They weren’t bad people,” she begins slowly.
I don’t move. Don’t breathe. I just listen.
“They were… unconventional,” she continues. “They taught us how to pickpocket. All of us. Said it was a survival skill, something we’d need to know if we wanted to make it in the world.”
Her voice is steady, but there’s a hollow echo underneath it.
“They’d send us out to crowded places: markets, parks, fairs. We’d come home with whatever we could find. Phones, wallets, watches. Jewelry. They’d sell it all and tell us we were helping the family. That we were pulling our weight.”
My jaw clenches, the pressure building in my throat. I press my hand more firmly against her back, grounding us both.
“They believed in living off the earth as much as possible. We each had our own garden,” she adds after a pause, her tone wistful. “It was peaceful. We’d grow vegetables, herbs, sometimes even flowers. But we didn’t get to keep what we grew. They sold some of it at the street market every weekend, and we used the rest for meals.”
I shake my head slowly. “The state was paying them to foster you, weren’t they? Why did they need all this extra money?”
She shrugs, her hair brushing my chest. “Yeah. Monthly. Per kid.”
“Then why the hell did they need stolen wallets and vegetables?”
She’s quiet for a long moment. When she answers, her voice is soft. “I think… maybe drugs. We never saw anything outright. But sometimes, we’d hear things. Smell things. They would act funny sometimes. Some of the older kids said they liked to do psychedelics. They were hippies. Free love and peace type of people.”
Anger coils low in my stomach, hot and bitter. But I say nothing. I let her keep going.
“I always knew I’d have to leave when I turned eighteen. It was a known thing in the house. They would give us a decent life while we were there, and it almost felt like a real family at times, but as soon as one of the kids became an adult, they were out,” she explains quietly. “They needed that bed for a new kid. More funding. But I still hoped…” She trails off.
I rub slow, soothing circles over her back.
“Hoped what?” I prompt gently.
“That they’d ask me to stay. That I’d actually meant something to them over the years because I’d been with them longer than some of the others.”
The words are so soft, so painfully raw, that it feels like someone just cracked my ribs open. I close my eyes, gripping her tighter.
“But they didn’t,” she whispers. “On my birthday, they handed me a thousand dollars in cash. Said it was my fresh start. Gave me a duffel bag with a few of my things and told me how much they loved having me with them over the years. But they didn’t love me enough to keep me.”
She chokes on the last part, and I feel the wet warmth of her tears soaking into my chest. My heart shatters.
Without a word, I shift her gently upward, guiding her until she’s straddling my chest, her legs tucked beside me, her weight light but calming. I cradle her with both arms and press my face into her hair.
“I’ve got you,” I whisper, the words fierce and full of promise. “You never have to go through that again. You’ll never be thrown away. Not by me.”
She sniffles, her small fingers curling into the fabric of my shirt.
“You’re mine now,” I tell her, my voice thick. “And I’m never letting you go.”
She doesn’t respond right away. But her arms slide around my shoulders, her head tucks tighter beneath my chin, and I feel it.