“In the middle of the night.”
“The timing,” he said carefully, “was not ideal. I had anticipated arriving earlier. Your planet’s rotation is somewhat shorter than I calculated for.”
The corner of her mouth twitched. Just once. He wanted to see what it did when it finished the job, which was a draanthing stupid thing to want from a female still holding a frying pan.
“So you’re telling me,” she said, her voice flat and level, “that you broke into my home. In the middle of the night. And it’s my planet’s fault?”
“That is not what I said.”
“That’s what it sounded like.”
“I said the timing?—“
“You said my planet’s ‘rotation’.” Somehow, she managed the air quotes even with the pan in her hand.
What was it with this female? Lady Emily had been nowhere near this irritating or argumentative. She also hadn’t threatened him with a cooking implement, which was a plus. “I was making an observation about orbital mechanics, not assigning blame.”
Her expression didn’t change. The pan didn’t move.
He tried a different approach.
“I am Sub-Commander Thyaar of the Imperial Guard,” he said, keeping his voice level and his hands open at his sides. “I crossed the galaxy in the Emperor’s personal yacht, the Vett’an.” Why the trall was he telling her this? “Why would I come all this way to break into a stranger’s apartment and steal a cat?”
“I don’t know.” She shrugged. “I’m human. I have no idea what weird shit goes through alien heads.”
Her eyes cut to Barnaby and back.
“But I’ll tell you one thing for free.” She shifted her weight, and the pan didn’t waver. “Where Barnaby goes, I go.”
He looked at her.
She glared at him.
The cat watched both of them with mild amusement.
Thyaar ran the situation through his head.
She wasn’t going to put the pan down, and the look on her face said that she certainly would not let him walk out of here with the cat. She would follow him into the corridor screaming, or she’d swing at him again, or she’d do something else equally inventive because she had a weapon and reflexes fast enough to get him across the nose with it before he’d even registered the door was fully open.
He took a step forward.
She gave a short warning swing to keep him away, but he caught the pan by the handle on the downstroke. She had good form, he’d give her that. Pulling it firmly out of her grip, he set it on the breakfast bar and scooped her up and over his shoulder in one smooth movement.
She came up over his shoulder easily, all that fight packed into a frame that fit against him as if the gods had made her just for him. For a second, his hands forgot the mission entirely.
Then a small fist connected with his kidney, and the moment passed.
“Put me down!” she got out. “What the—you absolute—put me down!”
Ignoring her, he reached down and gathered the cat under his arm. Barnaby instantly went boneless and cooperative. At least the cat had sense.
“You said where the cat goes, you go,” he pointed out, ducking through her doorway and heading for the stairs. “I’m accommodating that.”
“That is not what I meant!”
“It seemed like the most efficient solution.”
“I am going to kill you!”
