Chapter 31 - Presley
Presley
I didn't wait for the alphas to catch up. The moment the helicopter touched down in the car park, I was running.
My boots slipped on an icy patch just outside the entrance. I windmilled my arms, grabbing the door handle to stop myself from face-planting on the concrete.
"I'm here for the ginger tom," I gasped, bursting through the door.
The council animal shelter was a depressing sprawl of concrete and chain-link fencing that smelled of industrial bleach and something else I didn't want to think about. Despair, maybe. Or hopelessness baked into cinder blocks.
It was certainly a world away from the cedar-scented hallways of Kensington.
“Which one?” the woman replied, bored.
I slammed my palms onto the laminate counter. My breath came in ragged bursts, fogging in the overheated air. "The one from the caravan park that you brought in yesterday. His name is Mr. Cheddar."
The woman behind the desk didn't even look up from her crossword. She was older, gray-haired, with the kind of tired eyes that said she'd seen too many animals come through these doors and not enough leave.
"You sure you got the right cat, love?" She circled a word with her biro. "That cat's a menace. He's scheduled to go to sleep at noon. He's too aggressive for rehoming."
"He's not aggressive!" I shouted, my voice cracking. Tears were already streaming down my face, hot and angry. "You'd be angry too if you were kidnapped by a council van!"
"Miss—"
"He's scared! He just lost his owner! He doesn't understand what's happening!" My hands slapped the counter again, the sound sharp in the quiet office. "You can't kill him for being traumatized!"
A shadow fell over the desk.
Hastings appeared at my elbow, looking like a displaced god in his ruined suit. His hair was windswept from the helicopter, his jaw tight, his presence filling the small space like he owned it.
Fritz was right behind him, all easy confidence and charming smile.
Fritz leaned over the counter, sliding a business card toward the woman. "I called ahead about a ten-thousand-pound donation to your facility? In exchange for the immediate release of a certain...'vicious' orange kitty?"
The woman's pen dropped. It clattered onto the crossword, leaving a blue ink stain across seventeen down.
She looked at the card. Then at the two towering alphas. Then at me, with my tear-streaked face and desperate eyes.
"He's in Kennel forty-three," she said slowly. "Straight through the double doors. But don't say I didn't warn you. That cat is mean."
"He's perfect," I corrected, already moving.
I didn't wait for the paperwork. I threw open the double doors and ran.
The smell hit me first. Wet dog, disinfectant, urine, and fear. The sound of barking came next, along with the whining, and the scrape of claws on concrete.
I heard the chaos before I saw it.
In the back corner of the yard, a man in heavy leather gauntlets was cursing. He held a catch-pole through the bars of a gated door, trying to corner a hissing, spitting ball of orange fury that was wedged underneath a metal bed frame.
"Stop!" I screamed, my voice echoing off the corrugated iron walls. "Stop! He's mine! He's my cat! You're going to hurt him!"
The man looked up, sweat beading on his forehead despite the cold. His gauntlets were shredded, white stuffing poking through the tears.
"This beast?" He gestured at the orange blur with the catch-pole. "He nearly took my finger off ten minutes ago. He's dangerous, miss. He's got the devil in him."
"He's just scared!" I pushed past the man, wrenching the gate open with more strength than I knew I had.
"Presley, wait—" Hastings' voice was sharp with alarm, but I ignored him.
I dropped to my knees on the cold, damp concrete. The wet seeped through my jeans immediately, chilling my skin. I didn't care. I didn't care about the mud or the smell or the danger.
"Mr. Cheddar?" My voice was soft. "It's me. It's Presley. Come on, you old grump. I'm here. I've got you."
The hissing stopped.
The orange blur under the bed frame went still before two wide, copper eyes peered out from the shadows. They were wild, terrified, and ringed with white.
Then, with a low, pathetic meow that broke my heart into a million pieces, Mr. Cheddar scrambled out.
He didn't hesitate. He launched himself into my arms, five kilograms of fur and fury slamming into my chest with enough force to knock me back on my heels.
I hugged him tight, burying my face in his neck. His fur was matted, dirty, smelling of the shelter. But underneath it all, he still smelled like Mr. Cheddar.
Then he started to vibrate.
It wasn't a growl. It was a purr so loud it sounded like a tiny outboard motor. It rattled through his entire body, through mine, filling the space between us with sound.
"See?" I said, tears streaming down my face as I struggled to my feet. Mr. Cheddar was heavier than I remembered, a solid weight in my arms. "He's not mean. He's mine."
"He's hers," Hastings said, his voice coming from right behind me.
I turned.
All three of my alphas stood there, filling the narrow space between the kennels. They looked ridiculous in this grimy shelter.
Hastings in his multi-thousand-pounds suit, Fritz in designer jeans, Etienne in training gear… At least he looked like he could belong here.
Hastings stared at Mr. Cheddar, his expression unreadable.
Then he let out a short, surprised laugh.
"He's remarkably scruffy," Hastings said, stepping forward. His eyes tracked the tattered orange ears, the bent whisker, the scar across Mr. Cheddar's nose from some long-ago fight.
"He's a survivor," I sniffled, wiping my nose with my sleeve.
Mr. Cheddar's purr ramped up another notch.
"And I'm warning you now that he's really grumpy.
He doesn't like men. He'll probably scratch the Italian leather in your car.
He might even pee on your handmade shoes if you look at him wrong. "
I waited for the growl. Mr. Cheddar usually hated men. Hissed at them. Swiped at their ankles. Made his displeasure known in violent, creative ways.
But when he looked at Hastings, his golden eyes narrowed.
"Be good if you want to stay," I whispered into his fur.
The cat let out a loud, rumbling trill.
And in a move that shocked me to my core, he leaned out of my arms and stretched his entire scruffy body forward before rubbing his face all over the lapel of Hastings' expensive wool coat.
He left a wet streak behind. And what looked like a bit of dried food.
Hastings froze.
He looked down at the cat. Then at the damp, slightly dirty fabric of his jacket.
I held my breath, waiting for the complaint. The disgust. The "Absolutely not, that creature is not coming home with us."
But Hastings just smiled. It was slow, genuine, transforming his entire face. He looked younger. Softer. Like the man I'd glimpsed in Wales when he'd dropped to his knees and apologized.
He reached out a tentative hand and scratched behind the cat’s tattered ears. His purr went supersonic.
"I think we can make room for one more grump in the pack," Hastings murmured.
My throat closed up. Fresh tears spilled down my cheeks, but these were happy tears. Grateful tears.
Fritz laughed, clapping a hand on Hastings' shoulder. "Careful, Henry. I think he's claimed you."
"Looks like it," Hastings agreed, still scratching. Mr. Cheddar had gone boneless in my arms, his eyes half-closed in bliss.
"Let's go home," Etienne said, stepping forward to wrap an arm around my waist. He pressed a kiss to my temple, then reached out to stroke Mr. Cheddar's head. "Welcome to the pack, mon ami."
I leaned into Etienne, holding my cat, my heart finally feeling light. For the first time since Hastings had claimed me, the bond didn't feel like a weight or a complication.
More a circle that was finally closing.
"Wait," I said, my smile fading as I remembered the cold fear in Maeve's voice. "We have one more rescue to do."
The alphas' expressions instantly sharpened. The easy warmth drained away, replaced by something harder. More dangerous.
"Maeve," Hastings said, his voice dropping into that dark, lethal tone that usually terrified me. But today, I was glad for it. "I have it on good authority that she's in a small bed and breakfast close to the beach in Scarborough."
"Not Bridlington?" I whispered, clutching Mr. Cheddar tighter. He mewed in protest, but didn't struggle. "She's already moved. She really is scared that he's coming for her."
"Then we find her before he does," Fritz said simply.
The Scarborough bed and breakfast was painted a cheerful yellow that clashed with the gray sky and grayer sea beyond it. A hand-painted sign swung in the wind: The Seabreeze - Vacancies.
The helicopter had landed on the beach car park, drawing stares from the handful of tourists brave enough to walk the pier in February.
I climbed out, still clutching Mr. Cheddar. He'd calmed down during the flight, curling into a ball on my lap and occasionally opening one eye to glare at Fritz, who'd tried to pet him.
"Which room?" Etienne asked Hastings.
"Room seven. First floor. Booked under the name Mary Murphy."
We climbed the stairs to the first floor, our footsteps echoing on the threadbare carpet. The building smelled of fish and chips and damp.
I knocked on the door to room seven. "Maeve? It's me. It's Presley."
Silence.
I knocked again, harder. "Maeve, please. I know you're scared, but I'm here. With friends. We want to help."
More silence.
Fritz tried the handle. Locked.
Hastings pulled something from his pocket—a slim leather case. He flipped it open, revealing lockpicks that gleamed in the dim hallway light.
"Seriously?" I asked.
"Useful skill," he said, already working on the lock.
Thirty seconds later, the door swung open.
The room was small, shabby. A single bed with a faded quilt. A window overlooking the car park. A tiny bathroom with a shower that had seen better days.
And it was empty.