Chapter 7

Kael

The new apartment smelled too clean. Too white. No mold clinging behind cheap paint, no sour edge of leaking pipes under the floorboards. When I turned the key at night, no wind slipped through the cracks to whistle over my mother's blankets while she slept.

It was supposed to make me feel safe. I'd found it few blocks away from the old place — tucked behind a row of half-fixed shops that sold secondhand clothes and knockoff perfume that never clung as well as Lilith's scent still did. I told myself it was far enough — that a new door, new walls, new name on the mailbox would be enough to keep her from sniffing out the truth she'd buried in my throat that night.

It wasn't.

The money helped at first. Hers — too much. Mine — scraps hoarded over months of scrubbing floors, fixing engines in alleys behind shops that paid in folded bills under the table. I used it all to sign the lease, tuck my mother somewhere clean, fill the fridge with real meat for the first time in years. I pretended it would last.

But every time I tried to stand on my own — to claw out some tiny scrap of dignity from the ashes of what she'd taken — the city laughed in my face.

The first job: a tidy kitchen in a café that smelled like burnt sugar and cheap cinnamon. They smiled so wide at my interview I almost felt human again. Then the call: Sorry, we can't. No reason. No voice behind the words. Just silence that told me she'd whispered my name somewhere it didn't belong.

The second job: a warehouse gig, heavy boxes and good bruises to keep my claws sharp. Same thing. One look at my hands, my eyes — then the polite smile turned to ash the moment they checked whatever shadow she'd left on my record.

It kept happening. Every door shut just as my fingers brushed the knob. By the third week, I stopped pretending it was bad luck. She'd salted the earth behind me, one soft word at a time — making sure no one could buy what only she owned now.

And under it — worse than the quiet dread of rent slipping through my claws — was the ache. The burn. A hunger I couldn't name at first. The sharp edge of it gnawed at my spine, pooled hot between my thighs, curled behind my ribs when I lay awake on clean sheets that smelled too new to feel like home.

I told myself it would fade. A leftover dream from that night. The raw stretch she'd pressed into me until my body forgot how to pretend it didn't want to be soft under her hands.

But it didn't fade. It sharpened. Each day that passed made it worse — a slow, restless pull in my belly, my throat, my teeth. I found myself pressing my palm between my thighs when I thought no one was looking — hoping it would quiet the itch that made my mouth dry and my tail flick restless across the cold floor.

It didn't help. Nothing helped. The charm I'd tucked back in my coat, the bitter old herbs I swallowed with cheap water — they crumbled around the edge of her taste still buried in my mouth.

I don't know when I stopped pretending I could fight it. Or how I found myself standing three blocks from the club's black doors, the neon sign humming soft through the thick night air.

My legs didn't want to hold me up. My throat tasted like salt and shame and something sweeter that made my chest ache when I breathed it in. The ache coiled down my spine — heat blooming between my thighs, slick already dampening the back of my shorts like a brand I couldn't scrape clean.

I should've run. I should've turned back, crawled home, locked the door and begged the cold floor to swallow me before she did again.

Instead, my feet moved. Step by step. The closer I got, the worse it burned — sharp and raw, hunger thick on my tongue until my knees trembled with it. By the time I reached the door, my vision flickered at the edges.

The men at the entrance saw me stumble — eyes cold, confused enough not to understand the scent rolling off me like a broken promise. One stepped forward — a hand half-raised, his mouth already shaping Not tonight.

But another voice cut through — smooth, certain, soft enough to make my tail flick between my knees like I'd been called home by a leash I hadn't realized I still wore.

"He's expected."

A young steward stepped out from the hush behind the doors — eyes down, mouth hidden behind the soft smile of someone who knew exactly what I was before I even opened my mouth to beg.

I didn't remember stepping inside. Didn't remember how my boots found the hush of velvet and candlelight again, the soft gold glow sinking into my skin until it felt too warm to hold.

She was waiting — I felt her before I even saw her. She didn't stand. Didn't greet me like a guest or a customer.

She sat — draped across her private seat, silk flowing over her thighs like warm night water, one hand resting lazy on the armrest like she hadn't planned for this at all but knew exactly how it would go.

When her eyes found mine, my knees threatened to fold.

"Come here," Lilith said — soft, sharp, the same way she'd told me to open my mouth the first time. "Come sit where you belong."

My lips parted — some tiny sound caught in my throat. My feet moved before my mind did. Slow steps. Heat dripping down my spine, every nerve humming with the same hungry, terrible ache I'd lied to myself about for days.

I stopped at her knees. My hands hovered useless at my sides. Her eyes didn't leave mine — one dark, soft smile curving her mouth like she'd waited for me to crawl back all along.

I didn't want to bend. Didn't want to feel her warmth coil around my ribs like a collar slipping back where it belonged. But when she touched my wrist — light, just a brush of silk and heat — my body folded on instinct.

I sank into her lap — soft, shaking, straddling her, my tail curling tight around my thigh like I could still hide the way I burned for her. Her arm slipped around my waist — warm, strong, patient in a way that made my throat tighten.

"There you are," Lilith murmured, her mouth brushing my ear. "Good boy. Let's get you sated."

And when her hand slipped lower, the hunger in my belly purred like it never left at all.

Her arm curled firm around my waist — not tight, not rough, just enough to remind me I wasn't going anywhere unless she let me. Her other hand traced slow circles at my hip, soft through the thin fabric stretched too tight over skin that already felt too warm to keep hidden.

I tried to swallow, but my throat stuck — dry as ash, raw from the way I'd bit down every small, stupid sound that wanted to crawl out of me on the walk here. I could still taste the salt of it on my tongue — all the ways I'd tried to pretend I didn't want to be here, pressed up against her heat like some soft thing begging to be fed.

"Look at you," she murmured — low, pleased, her breath sliding behind my ear like a secret. "You tried so hard to run, didn't you, little cat?"

Her nails brushed under my shirt — tracing the bare line of skin just above my waistband. I couldn't help it — my hips twitched, my tail flicking hard against the back of her chair before curling back between my thighs like it could hide the soft ache dripping out of me now that I was this close.

I hated the sound I made — a tiny breath, too raw, caught between my teeth when she pressed her mouth against my throat. She didn't even kiss me — just breathed me in, slow, like she was savoring how sweet the heat had ripened since the last time she'd peeled me open.

"Please—" The word fell out before I could catch it. It didn't even sound like mine. My claws curled into her silk robe where it pooled warm under my palms, soft and useless.

She laughed — low and wicked, lips brushing the corner of my jaw. "Please, what?" Her hand drifted lower — over my stomach, brushing just above the ache pressed tight behind my waistband. "Say it for me."

My spine jolted when her thumb dipped lower — pressing just enough to feel how wet I already was, slick seeping out no matter how tight I tried to clench it back.

Gods, it hurt. Hurt in a way that felt good — a raw pulse under my skin that made my hips twitch helpless against her thigh.

"Please," I gasped again, softer this time. Shame burned behind my eyelids — but it only made the heat worse. "Please, Mistress— I need—"

She hummed — pleased, gentle, like she had all the time in the world to watch me squirm. Her fingers slipped just under the waistband now — warm skin to skin, brushing the soft damp ache that made my head spin when she touched it.

"You smell so sweet," she whispered — her nose brushing the hollow under my ear where my pulse thudded loud enough to drown out my thoughts. "All this pretty heat — burning you up just to crawl back into my lap and beg for more."

Her fingertip slid lower — grazing my hole through the slick that wouldn't stop. My breath cracked — a soft moan slipping out before I could bite it back. My hips rocked — desperate, hungry — pressing into her touch like I didn't know how to do anything else.

I felt her smile against my neck — soft, sharp. Her other hand cupped my jaw, turning my face just enough that I had to look at her. Her eyes caught mine — dark, endless, warm enough to drown in if I let go.

"Good boy," Lilith murmured, voice like silk dragging across raw skin. "Say it again."

"Please—" I choked — the word tangled with the soft whimper that broke when her finger pressed a little deeper, teasing me open, gathering more slick until it dripped warm over her palm. "Please— please feed— take it— please—"

Her laugh curled around my ribs, sweet and terrible. She kissed me then — not gentle, not polite, just her mouth claiming mine until my breath broke and my claws scratched useless lines into her robe.

I felt her tongue taste me — the soft shiver of my heat spilling right through my teeth into hers, like I'd never really left her bed at all.

Her mouth pulled back just enough to whisper against my lips — soft, sharp, certain: "baby boy. I'll take it all."

And when her finger pushed deeper — warm, patient, spreading me open in the hush of velvet and candlelight — I knew I wouldn't beg her to stop. Not now. Not ever.