“Ugh,” Snow says against the top of my head. “That sucks so bad.”
I nod, sniffling. “It really does.”
Despite all the raw, broken parts of me that long for Talon, I sink into the love and compassion of my friends. Real friends. I choke back another sob, thinking it’s more than I deserve.
Chapter 11
The Devil Cat Who Owns Me
TALON
The acrid yet sweet scent of burnt cinnamon fills the apartment. Butter sizzles faintly as it smokes around the charred French toast. Breakfast might be a lost cause, but the intention is there. That has to count for something.
I stand at the stove, shirtless and focused, a pair of tongs in one hand and a new scorch mark on the laminate counter beside me.
Lucifer watches from atop the counter. I'm sure now, he’s a creature summoned straight from the pit. His tail flicks in malicious rhythm, yellow eyes trained on me, plotting the perfect murder.
He’s jumped me three times this morning already, thus the ruined food. He only paused his harassment when I ditched my jacket. Now he’s perched like a gargoyle on the leather, purring with possessive menace.
I hear the pad of bare feet, then her sleep roughened voice. "Hi sweetie."
My heart flips half a second before it realizes she’s talking to the cat.
I reach for the dish soap to clean up and curse under my breath when it tips over—Aurora left the cap loose again. Soap pools across the counter, another small mess in the endless series of messes she leaves in her wake.
Yesterday it was the milk carton, creating a sour puddle in the fridge. And I'm still finding traces of that face makeup she spilled all over the bathroom counter last week.
Though I’m the one who’s a disaster zone this morning.
Aurora stretches out a hand, slow and careful. Lucifer hisses and swipes his claws at her with the clear intent to disembowel.
She jerks back. "Well, that’s rude," she mutters, then turns to me. "Did you know this little stinker peed in one of my drawers?"
Her pout is adorable. Distractingly so.
She rambles about the laundry. How she’s just figured out the communal washer. How her clothes almost smelled musty. It’s mundane and absolutely precious, but I don't let myself dwell on that.
"Shall we throw him out the window?" I ask.
She pauses, seriously considering my offer. Then she shakes her head. "He’s probably been abused. That’s why he’s so distrusting. He probably needs extra love and patience."
I stare at her. At the sincerity in her face. The softness she hasn’t let the world beat out of her. "He nested on my crotch last night. Claws out. I almost woke up neutered."
Lucifer, smug bastard that he is, starts kneading my jacket again, purring, certain the world—and me—belong to him.
"Okay, what is his deal with you?" Aurora points accusingly. "To him, I’m nothing more than a roach, but your dirty laundry is the best thing since canned sardines?"
"I have no idea," I mutter.
Lucifer leaps down, circles my legs, and makes a bold grab for my calf.
"Down, Satan," I growl, softly shaking my leg to get him off without hurting him. He clings, evil Velcro with claws.
Aurora steps closer. "I smell burning."
"French toast," I answer, finally freeing myself from the feline barnacle.
Lucifer leaps to the top of the fridge to glare from up high, giving loud scratchy meows of displeasure at not being allowed to treat me as his personal scratching post.
