Chapter 5
Jasper
Iwake up grinning like an idiot.
Sunlight streams through the small window in the laundry room, and I’m still in my fox form, curled up in the basket of blankets Bea made for me. My tail is tucked over my nose, and for a few blissful seconds, I just lie there, basking in the warmth and replaying last night in my head.
The way Tabitha looked in that robe.
The way she smelled—like flowers and sunshine and something uniquely her.
The way her breath hitched when I got close.
The way she tried so hard to pretend she wasn’t affected when I could feel her desire pulsing through our connection like a goddamn heartbeat.
‘Stop being so smug,’ her voice cuts through my mental replay. ‘It’s nauseating.’
‘Good morning to you too, beautiful. Sleep well?’
‘I’d have slept better if you weren’t broadcasting your self-satisfaction like a foghorn.’
‘Can’t help it. Last night was... enlightening.’
‘Last night was nothing.’
‘Sure it was. That’s why you practically melted when I—’
‘Finish that sentence and I’ll claw your eyes out.’
I chuckle, stretching in my basket. God, even her threats are hot. There’s something wrong with me.
I’m about to send back another teasing comment when I notice something off.
The laundry room door is open.
Not wide open, but cracked. Just enough that I can see into the hallway.
I know I didn’t leave it open. I specifically made sure everything was exactly as it was when Bea locked me in here last night.
‘Tabitha? Why is this door open?’
Silence.
‘Tabitha?’
Still nothing, but I feel something through our connection. Something that feels suspiciously like... satisfaction.
‘What did you do?’
Then I hear it—a woman’s gasp from the living area.
“Oh, my goodness! What happened here?”
Bea.
I’m on my feet in an instant, racing out of the laundry room and into the living room.
And freeze.
The place is destroyed.
The couch cushions are on the floor. A potted plant has been knocked over, dirt spilling across the hardwood.
The throw pillows have been strewn about, with stuffing everywhere.
The curtains are half-off their rods. And in the kitchen, I can see the remnants of what looks like the entire contents of the trash can scattered across the floor.
Bea stands in the middle of it all, hand pressed to her chest, looking absolutely horrified.
“Oh no. Oh no, no, no.”
And there, sitting primly on the kitchen counter, tail wrapped around her paws, is Tabitha.
She looks at me with those yellow-green eyes, and I swear to god, she’s smirking.
‘You didn’t.’
‘I absolutely did.’
‘You framed me?!’
‘Consider it payback for last night. And for eating my chicken. And for existing in my space.’
‘You vindictive little—’
“Sox?” Bea’s voice cuts through my internal tirade. She’s looking at me now, and the disappointment in her eyes makes my stomach drop. “Did you... did you do this?”
I lower my ears and try to look as innocent as possible, but it’s hard when there’s literal evidence of destruction everywhere and my door was wide open.
‘Tell her it was you,’ I think desperately at Tabitha.
‘Can’t. I’m just a cat. I was locked in my room all night. I couldn’t have possibly opened that door by myself.’
‘You’re a shifter!’
‘Prove it.’
Bea kneels down, and I notice she’s still in her nightgown and robe, her silver hair mussed from sleep. “Oh, sweetheart. I know you’re probably not used to being inside, but this...” She gestures at the chaos. “This is very bad. Very, very bad.”
I whine, trying to convey that I didn’t do this, that I was asleep in my basket, that the actual culprit is sitting right there looking smug as hell.
“I’m going to have to put you back in the laundry room,” Bea says, her voice sad. “With the door locked this time. I can’t let you in the living area until you’re a little more tame.”
‘Tabitha, please.’
‘Should have thought about that before you got all up in my space last night.’
‘I wasn’t—we were just—’
‘Just what? Flirting? Trying to prove we’re fated? Well, we’re not. And I still want you gone.’
Bea scoops me up—I’m too shocked to resist—and carries me back to the laundry room. She sets me down gently, then checks the door latch.
“This seems fine,” she murmurs. “I don’t know how it came open.
Maybe I didn’t close it properly.” She looks down at me, and the disappointment is still there.
“But, Sox, you can’t do that again. Do you understand?
This is my home, and I’d love to share it with you.
But you’re going to need to learn some manners. ”
I lower my head, ears flat, the picture of remorse.
Even though I didn’t do a damn thing.
“I’m going to get dressed and then clean up this mess,” she says with a sigh. “Then I’m going to go to the library and see if they have any books about fox care and training. In the meantime, you stay in here and think about what you’ve done.”
She closes the door. This time, I hear her test the latch and flick the lock.
The moment she’s gone, I reach out to Tabitha in my mind.
‘That was low, even for you.’
‘That was strategic. You needed to be reminded that this is my territory, my home, and I make the rules here.’
‘By making me look like a destructive wild animal?’
‘You ARE a wild animal. You said so yourself. Wild’s in your blood, remember?’
‘That’s not—’ I pace the small laundry room, frustrated. ‘You didn’t have to trash the place!’
‘I didn’t trash much. Just made it look that way. Most of the damage is superficial. I know how to stage a scene without actually destroying Bea’s things. Unlike you, I care about this house. And her.’
I want to be angry. I should be angry. But underneath the frustration, there’s something else.
Respect.
Because that was actually brilliant.
She waited until I was asleep, shifted to human form, opened my door, created just enough chaos to look like a fox went wild, then shifted back to cat form and locked herself back inside her room until Bea let her out, positioning herself as the innocent bystander.
I should have thought about that myself.
The tabby cat outfoxed me.
I can’t help but admire her cunning, even as I plot my revenge.
Pacing the laundry room’s tiled floor, my claws clicking softly with each step, I mull over my options.
The space feels smaller now, more like a cage than a cozy den, and the locked door mocks me with its sturdy hinge.
Bea’s footsteps fade upstairs, probably getting dressed as she said, leaving me to stew in this temporary prison.
‘I’ll admit,’ I send through our connection, injecting as much mock defeat as I can muster. ‘That was a masterstroke. But don’t get too comfortable on your throne, kitty-cat. Turnabout’s fair play.’
Her response comes back laced with triumph. ‘Try it, fox. I’ve got nine lives; you’ve got... what, one good scam before you bolt?’
Ouch. She hits closer to home than I’d like, but I shake it off, focusing on the faint sounds filtering through the walls.
The distant clatter of Bea cleaning up the mess tugs at something in my chest—guilt, maybe, for putting her through this charade.
She’s been nothing but kind, feeding me, giving me shelter without asking questions.
And here I am, tangled in this ridiculous game with a cat who’s equal parts infuriating and intriguing.
The moment I hear Bea leaving for the library, I shift back to human form in a fluid twist of bones and fur, the cool air raising goosebumps on my skin.
Naked again, but at least the basket of blankets offers some cover.
Wrapping one around my waist like last night, I test the door—locked tight, as expected.
No knob on this side, just a smooth panel.
Clever setup for containing pets, or in my case, wayward shifters.
I lean against the washing machine, running a hand through my hair.
Wanderer has been my middle name, or at least it has been since I left the den to find a life of my own.
I’ve spent my adulthood drifting from place to place, taking what I needed and never feeling sorry for it.
But here’s the thing Tabitha doesn’t understand—I’m not planning to bolt. Not anymore.
Because as I sit here, wrapped in a blanket in a locked laundry room, I’m starting to realize something that scares the hell out of me.
This thing going on between us isn’t just Halloween magic.
The pull I feel toward her—the constant awareness of where she is, what she’s feeling, the way my entire body lights up when she’s near—that’s not some temporary magical glitch.
That’s the real deal.
That’s a fated-mate bond.
I’ve heard stories. Every shifter has. The instant recognition. The telepathic connection. The overwhelming need to be near them, touch them, claim them. I always thought it was bullshit, some romantic notion passed down through generations to make us feel special.
But now?
Now I’m feeling it in every cell of my body.
This ache in my chest that has nothing to do with being locked in a room and everything to do with being separated from her.
The way my cock gets hard just thinking about her voice.
The way I can’t stop replaying the feeling of her hands on my chest, the smell of her skin, the sound of her breath catching.
That’s not magic wearing off when the season passes.
That’s permanent.
“Fuck,” I mutter out loud, scrubbing my hands over my face.
I’m fated to a territorial cat shifter who hates my guts and just framed me for property destruction.
Of course I am.
Because the universe has a sick sense of humor.
I reach out through our connection, trying to feel where she is, what she’s doing. But there’s... nothing. Or not nothing, exactly. It’s like she’s put up a wall between us, blocking me out.
‘Tabitha?’
Silence.
‘I know you can hear me.’
Still nothing.
‘Come on, this is childish.’
More nothing.
But I can hear her out in the living room. Humming. Actually humming while she probably prances around enjoying her victory.
Fine.
Two can play at that game.
I close my eyes and do what she’s doing—push her presence to the back of my mind, building my own mental wall. It’s harder than I expected. She’s like a constant hum in my consciousness, but I manage to shove it down, mute it, until the connection is barely a whisper.
There.
Now I can focus.
I need to get out of this room.