Chapter 6
Jasper
Pushing off the washing machine, I stand and survey my prison. It’s a decent-sized laundry room—washer, dryer, a folding counter, cabinets above and below, and a utility sink. The door to the house is locked from the outside with no handle on this side.
But on the opposite wall is a door to the backyard. I walk over to it and turn the knob. Locked. And of course there’s no key.
I step back to consider my options and notice the tiny rectangle at the very bottom of it—a cat door.
Of course. Bea probably had it installed so Tabitha could go outside whenever she wanted. Spoiled brat. But at least it’s perfect for me.
I drop the blanket and shift, bones compressing and reshaping until I’m back on four legs. Then I pad over to the cat door and press my nose against it.
It doesn’t budge. Seems it’s one of those fancy magnetic ones that only opens for pets wearing special collars.
And I don’t have a collar.
Shit.
I shift back to human form and crouch down, examining the door more closely. There’s got to be a manual override or something—
Wait.
Maybe there’s something in the cabinets.
I yank open the lower cabinet doors, rummaging through cleaning supplies, spare light bulbs, and—hello—a small toolkit. Inside: a screwdriver, some duct tape, a measuring tape. But nothing that looks like the magnetic key to the cat door. Damn.
I stand up and start rummaging through the other cabinets. There has to be something in here I can use to get out without also causing property damage. And that’s when I spot them. In a little dish between the detergent and fabric softer are a handful of hair elastics and bobby pins. Perfect.
I grab two of the hairpins and bend them into shape, crouching in front of the outside door to examine the lock. I’m not the greatest at this, but I’ve been in enough tricky situations to have a decent success rate.
“Here goes.” I slide the first bobby pin into the keyhole as a tension wrench, apply slight pressure, then use the second one as a pick. It takes a few tries—my fingers are cold and my patience is wearing thin—but finally, I hear the click.
The lock gives.
The door swings open.
“Freedom,” I whisper, grinning as I get up and step out into the crisp fall morning. The yard is beautiful—well-maintained flower beds, a little garden area, that gazebo I noticed yesterday. Bea clearly loves her outdoor space.
But I’m not out here to admire the landscaping.
My eyes dart to where I hid my backpack yesterday, and I do another quick scan of the yard before I dart out and grab it, using the cover of the gazebo to pull on my pants before taking everything else back into the laundry room, where I hide it behind a box of Christmas decorations in the back of a cabinet.
I listen for a moment. Tabitha’s still humming somewhere, but I tune her out, focused on my desire to get back inside—and back into that fridge. I have a turkey leg to finish.
I creep from the laundry room around the back of the house, looking for another way in. Everything seems locked up tighter, but there’s a basement window that’s cracked open slightly—probably for ventilation. It’s small, but I’m a fox. Small is my specialty.
Crouching down, I work the window open wider.
It lets out a soft creak, but nothing that would alert anyone inside.
I quickly shift, then wriggle my fox body out of my pants and nose them through first—don’t want the princess of the house to scream at me for not wearing clothes again.
Then I slide through and drop into what looks like a storage area filled with boxes and old furniture, then I shift back to a human, pull on my jeans and pad up the basement stairs.
The door at the top is unlocked—thank god—and I ease it open and peek out.
The house seems quiet except for—
Water running.
Shower.
I freeze, every sense suddenly on high alert. The sound is coming from upstairs, and I can smell it now—that floral shampoo smell mixed with steam and underneath it all, her.
Tabitha is in the shower.
Naked.
Wet.
Payback’s a bitch, kitty-cat.
A slow grin spreads across my face as I head for the stairs. My bare feet make no sound on the carpet. Every instinct I have is firing, telling me to turn around, to not do this, that cornering a cat in a confined space is a terrible idea.
But I’m done playing nice.
She wants to treat me like a wild fox with no manners?
She’s about to discover how wild I am firsthand.
The bathroom door is slightly ajar, steam curling out into the hallway. I can still hear her humming, completely oblivious to my presence.
Perfect.
I reach the door and pause, hand on the frame, giving myself one last chance to back out.
But then I remember the look on Bea’s face when she saw the mess. The disappointment. The way she called me a ‘poor thing’ while thinking I was some destructive wild animal.
And the way Tabitha sat there on that counter, smug as hell, watching me take the fall.
Nope.
She started this war.
I’m just evening the score.
I push the door open wider and step inside, the steam immediately wrapping around me.
The shower curtain is one of those semi-transparent ones, and I can see her silhouette—all those curves I felt pressed against me last night, now on full display. Water cascades over her, and she’s still humming, completely unaware.
I lean against the sink, arms crossed, and clear my throat.
“Having a nice shower?”
The humming stops.
There’s a beat of silence.
Then: “WHAT THE FUCK?!”
The shower curtain is ripped back and Tabitha’s face appears—eyes wide, mouth open, hair plastered to her face. She looks down at herself, then at me, then back at herself.
“You—how did you—GET OUT!”
I don’t move. “Not until we talk.”
“We can talk when I’m not NAKED.”
“Funny. You didn’t seem to mind being mostly naked last night.”
Her face goes red—whether from anger or embarrassment, I can’t tell. Probably both. “That was different!”
“How?”
“I was wearing a robe!”
“Barely.”
She grabs the shower curtain and yanks it closed again. “Get out, Jasper. Now.”
“Make me.”
“I’m serious!”
“So am I.” I lean forward slightly, pitching my voice lower. “You framed me. Made me look like a destructive animal in front of sweet, little old Bea. Got me locked in a room. All because you’re too scared to admit what’s really happening here.”
“Nothing is happening here!”
“Oh, sweetheart. Lying isn’t going to change the truth.”
The water shuts off. There’s a tense moment of silence, and then a dripping wet arm snakes out from behind the curtain, blindly reaching for the towel rack.
I grab the towel before she can.
“JASPER!”
“Admit it,” I say, holding the towel just out of reach. “This isn’t Halloween magic. You feel it too. The pull. The connection. The fact that you can’t stop thinking about me any more than I can stop thinking about you.”
“You’re delusional.”
“Then why is your heart racing right now? Why did I feel every ounce of your desire last night when we were in the kitchen? Why are you blocking me out of your head instead of just ignoring me like a normal person would?”
“Because you’re annoying!”
“Try again.”
The shower curtain flies open and she stands there, completely naked and dripping wet and absolutely furious.
And god help me, she’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.
Her curves glisten under the bathroom light, water droplets tracing paths down skin that’s all creamy softness and tempting shadows, and for a moment, I’m struck dumb, my brain short-circuiting on the sheer perfection of her.
Those full breasts, the dip of her waist flaring into hips that could make a man beg, and lower—god, lower is a paradise I shouldn’t be staring at, but I am, because how could I not?
She’s a vision of feline grace even in her rage, eyes flashing like storm clouds, lips parted in what could be a hiss or an invitation.
“Give me the towel,” she demands, voice low and dangerous, one arm instinctively crossing over her chest while the other reaches out, fingers curling like claws.
I dangle it just beyond her grasp, my grin turning wolfish—or foxish, I suppose. “Admit it first. Say the words, Tabitha. This isn’t some seasonal spell wearing off at dawn. We’re fated, you and me. Destined. The whole cosmic joke wrapped up in fur and fate.”
She lunges for the towel, but I sidestep, and suddenly she’s out of the tub, slipping slightly on the wet tile, her body slamming into mine.
Wet skin against my bare chest, heat everywhere, and fuck, the scent of her arousal hits me like a freight train despite her best efforts to block our connection.
It’s there, faint but undeniable, mixing with the steam and her floral shampoo, making my blood roar.
“You’re insane,” she spits, but her hands are on my shoulders now, nails digging in—not quite painfully, more like she’s holding on for dear life. Her breath comes fast, cheeks flushed, and those eyes, those incredible eyes, lock onto mine with a fire that could burn us both down.
“Am I?” I murmur, dropping the towel to wrap my arms around her waist, pulling her closer until there’s no space left between us.
She’s all slick curves and trembling fury, and my body’s reacting in ways that are impossible to hide, especially with only my jeans between us.
“Then why aren’t you scratching my face off right now?
Why are you letting me hold you like this? ”
“Because you’re an idiot who doesn’t know when to quit,” she retorts, but her voice wavers, and I feel the wall in her mind cracking, emotions seeping through—desire, confusion, that same pull I’m drowning in.
She doesn’t pull away, though. If anything, she presses in tighter, like she’s testing the waters, or maybe just testing me.
I lean down, my mouth hovering near her ear, voice dropping to that raspy timbre I know gets under her skin. “Or maybe because you feel it too. That itch you can’t scratch alone. The way your thoughts keep circling back to me, to us, tangled up in ways that’d make even the gods blush.”
She shivers—just the subtlest quake through her muscles, a tremor that says she’s fighting herself even more than she’s fighting me.
“Let go,” she says, but it’s a whisper, not a command.
I read her body, the lean in, the soft hitch of her breath, the way her pupils are blown wide.
Her hands slip to my biceps and I’m half-expecting her to shove me away, but instead she holds on, steadying herself, and suddenly we’re both suspended in a moment neither of us owns.
“You like this,” I say. No question. A fact. “You like the fight.”
Her lips part, and for a second I think she’s going to deny it, but what comes out is a sound halfway between a purr and a moan. “You think you’re so irresistible,” she says, but her voice is thready, like she’s already bracing for what comes next.
“Not irresistible. Fated,” I whisper, and lower my mouth to hers.