"The cats," I say instead, pointing at his cardigan. "Why cats?"
His whole face transforms.
It's like watching the sun come out. One second he's tired and resigned and barely holding it together, and the next he'sglowing, animated in a way that makes him look younger and brighter and entirely too appealing.
"Found it at this amazing vintage shop on Third," he says, pulling the sodden cardigan away from his chest to show me the pattern. "The owner said it was from the seventies. Look, each cat has a different expression." He traces one with his finger, careful despite the wet fabric. "This one's winking. This one looks scandalized. And this one is definitely plotting something."
He goes on about the cats. The winking one is his favorite. The scandalized one reminds him of his roommate—and there's that word again,roommate, and my lion's ears prick at the mention of Robin.
My pack slowly relaxes around us, going back to their conversations and pool games, though I can feel them keeping half an eye on our table. Toby doesn't seem to notice or care that he's holding the complete attention of an apex predator while rambling about cartoon cats on a vintage cardigan.
He's ridiculous. He's completely ridiculous, and he smells like rain and something sweet, and he's wrapped in my blanket, and heglaredat me, and my lion hasn't been this interested in anything in years.
The storm rages outside. He's stuck here, in my territory, covered in my scent, and completely unaware of the danger he's in.
Or maybe the danger I'm in.
Because my lion has already decided. Has probably decided from the moment I walked through the door and caught that first hint of his scent. All the logic in the world isn't going to change it now.
Mine.
Chapter 3
Toby
The last thing I remember is Knox telling Jason to stop bringing me food.
"He's not a stray cat," Knox had said, exasperated, as Jason set down yet another plate—this time some kind of pie that smelled like apples and cinnamon.
"He clearly needs feeding," Jason argued. "Look at him. He's all... small and cold and pathetic."
"Thanks," I mumbled into my third cup of tea, too tired to be properly offended.
"Pathetic in a cute way," Jason amended. "Like a kitten."
Knox made a sound that might have been a growl, and I think I laughed, and then—
Nothing.
Now there's a hand on my shoulder, warm and heavy, shaking me gently.
"Toby. Wake up."
Knox's voice, low and careful, like he's trying not to startle me. Which is considerate, given that he could probably kill me with that hand if he wanted to.
I peel my face off what turns out to be the table, grimacing at the sensation of vinyl unsticking from my cheek. There's probably a pattern imprinted on my face. My glasses are askew—I must have fallen asleep wearing them—and when I try to straighten up, my entire body protests. My neck is stiff, my back aches, and my left arm has gone completely numb from being pinned under my head.
"Wha—" I blink in the dim light, trying to get my bearings. The bar looks different now. Quieter. The jukebox has been turned off, and the silence feels heavy and expectant,pressing against my ears. Most of the lights are off too, just a few dim fixtures casting pools of amber across the wooden floor.
"Time's it?" My voice comes out rough, scratchy, like I've been gargling gravel.
"Just after two."
"Two," I repeat, not processing. Then it hits me. "Two in themorning?"
"Storm just stopped."
Two in the morning. I fell asleep in a biker bar full of lion shifters, and now it's two in the morning. I have to be at work at six to set up for the early literacy program. That's—I do the math slowly, my exhausted brain struggling with basic arithmetic—three hours. Three hours of sleep if I leave right now and fall asleep the instant I get home.
