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Logically, I knew it was fine. It’s covered in fur and fat. For gods’ sake, it lives outside.

Then I’d close my eyes and imagine my father catching it sulking around the yard. He’d get that cruel look in his eyes and immediately begin plotting the fastest way to end its life.

Happy animals don’t exist at the Varenthrall estate.

So I gave in. I chose to do something I never would have done before.

When I opened the door and saw its furry black face and huge yellow eyes staring back at me, it startled a laugh out of me that was so loud I worried someone would hear it. It sauntered in, curled around my legs once, and jumped on the end of my bed, where it began bathing itself with smug indifference.

I shake out the nervous energy in my hands, reminding myself that I’ll hear Father coming long before he makes it to my room. And if last night is any indication, the cat will as well.

He rarely comes to this side of the house. He doesn’t care about you enough to check up regularly.

Wincing, I press a hand to my bruised ribs and gingerly crawl onto my mattress.

That may have been true before my escape attempt two days ago, but not anymore.

After forcing me downstairs to see Alexander off, Father followed me back to my room. He didn’t speak the entire walk from the foyer to my wing of the estate, and when we arrived at my room he calmly shut the door behind him

Then proceeded to use his belt to ‘teach me a lesson.’

As usual, I didn’t fight back. I curled into a ball on the floor, doing my best to protect my face and head from his strikes.

That was stupid, in hindsight. I should have been protecting my stomach.

He wasn’t going to leave bruises or marks on my face.

I’m no stranger to corporal punishment, but there was a moment last night when I truly thought he might not stop.

I can still hear the ringing slap of the leather hitting my flesh. Over and over and over again.

My back, my arms, my side. Everything was fair game to him.

The scariest part was how relaxed he was. While I bit back whimpers and keening whines, he stayed calm. Methodical. I was covered in tears and sweat, and he wasn’t even breathing hard.

When it was finally over, he threaded it back through his belt loops, buckled it, and crouched down, looming over my head.

I didn’t move. Didn’t even dare to open my eyes.

“The next time you try to run,” he warned, brushing a limp strand of hair away from my tear-soaked face, “it will be worse.”

Looking back, that’s probably why I let the cat inside, mere hours after falling asleep to finally escape the burning, throbbing pain.

I suppose some part of me figured that even if I couldn’t save myself, I could at least try to save the cat.

Not that he needs saving.

The first time I saw him was a week ago. Father was gone, and I was taking advantage of the quiet to spend the afternoon reading on the balcony.

A dark blur had zoomed across the yard, weaving in and out of my mother’s old Dahlias. Not ten seconds later, a very insistent mewling came from directly below me.

When I stood to investigate, there was already a huge black ball of fur pulling itself up onto my second-story balcony with an unreal amount of determination.

He spent the day with me, lounging in the sun.

When I went back inside, he scurried down the trellis with the same gusto he exhibited climbing up and ran off into the forest.

Now, he’s in my bed, giving himself a bath with all the self-importance of royalty.