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“I can’t.” My voice strangled as a sharp sensation cut through my nerves. Oh god. I was too sensitive. I couldn’t come again.
“You can, and you will,” Death replied, steely as he kissed the side of my face. “Because you’re ours.”
I struggled for air. Oh god, I was gonna come again and it was already too much.
“Say it,” Tor ordered, grabbing a fistful of my hair to wrench my face closer, lips moving over mine. “Fucking say it.”
“I’m yours,” I breathed.
“And don’t ever forget it,” he hissed and made me come again.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
CAT
“I’m so so so,” Honey said, clinging to my arm as we sat at breakfast the next morning, “so so so so sorry for not answering my phone.”
“It’s fine,” I said dully, not pushing her off but not encouraging her either. I picked up my toast and bit into it, the sweetness of Nutella bursting across my tongue. Death brought me breakfast as he did every morning, food miraculously waiting for me when I woke up. It was always fresh and with a lime green tulip sitting beside it, but I needed comfort food. Hence Nutella toast, Pop-Tarts, and pancakes drizzled in honey and cream.
“It’s not fine,” she said fiercely, a furrow between her blonde brows. “You’re my best friend and you needed me. In the Best Friend Code, section thirteen verse two, it explicitly states besties must always answer the phone when their bestie is in need.”
“You just made that up,” I said, humour entering my voice. I met her eyes, my heart crushed at the misery and apology there, and forgave her on the spot. “And you can’t help not answering, Honey.”
She made a throaty sound, scowling into her cereal. “I fell asleep and slept through five texts and three calls. Who does that?”
“People cursed to be a cat that needs eighteen hours of sleep a day,” I pointed out quietly, glancing up when a shadow fell over the table. My entire body buzzed, and I tensed all over, ready to fight or run. But it was just a pale-haired, white-faced girl floating past us. Literally floating.
I stared, my heart quickening.
Honey made a soft sound.
“Yeah, I’m a ghost,” the girl lamented and floated on, out the door. She had nothing in her hands, no bowl of granola or plate of avocado toast. I had to wonder if she could even eat, or if she’d come here to mourn her loss of food.
“First a sexy nurse and now a ghost,” Honey murmured, propping her chin on her hand and stifling a yawn despite just waking up. “This is so fucked up.”
I was trying very hard not to look across the room to where a black girl with a very low-cut shirt was leaning over the table, tending to the world’s most pathetic papercut. She kept cooing over the ‘injured’ guy and promising to make it all better, while he blatantly stared down her shirt. He was one of the fuckboys who ogled my heaving bosom at the party, dressed as a werewolf.
“Any progress with the library search?” I asked Honey. She was supposed to check out a stack of books for us to read—she’d found a promising one about the violent history of Ford.
“Shit,” she hissed, rubbing her eyes. “I was supposed to check them out yesterday but I fell asleep and forgot.”
“It’s fine,” I said even though it wasn’t, and it felt like I’d lost my best friend. It wasn’t Honey’s fault she was acting differently, and it wasn’t her fault she was cursed to be a cat forever. Unless we could break the curse. “I’ll come with you later. I was the one who bailed on you anyway.”
Because the dark-haired, blue-eyed psycho accosted me, and I ran home to cry and lock myself away.
Honey must have been thinking along the same lines because she lowered her voice and hissed—actually hissed— “If I find out who hurt you, I’ll gouge his eyes out and claw his throat.”
I blinked. “I think the feline Honey is a little violent.”
She shrugged, unapologetic. “I’m protective of my friends. Speaking of friends, plural, where the fuck is Byron?”
“Probably with his new boyfriend,” I said, a real smile crossing my face for the first time since Death left me with a kiss and a promise to return later.
“He needs to introduce us,” Honey said, a little sulky. “The people want to know what this new boyfriend is like.”
The people being Honey.
“Extremely shy,” I murmured, finishing my toast and reaching for my Pop-Tart, barely holding back a groan at the warm strawberry filling.1 “My guess is he’s socially anxious and terrified of new people.”
