Hastings appeared at my elbow, looking like a displaced god in his ruined suit. His hair was windswept from the helicopter, his jaw tight, his presence filling the small space like he owned it.
Fritz was right behind him, all easy confidence and charming smile.
Fritz leaned over the counter, sliding a business card toward the woman. "I called ahead about a ten-thousand-pound donation to your facility? In exchange for the immediate release of a certain...'vicious' orange kitty?"
The woman's pen dropped. It clattered onto the crossword, leaving a blue ink stain across seventeen down.
She looked at the card. Then at the two towering alphas. Then at me, with my tear-streaked face and desperate eyes.
"He's in Kennel forty-three," she said slowly. "Straight through the double doors. But don't say I didn't warn you. That cat is mean."
"He's perfect," I corrected, already moving.
I didn't wait for the paperwork. I threw open the double doors and ran.
The smell hit me first. Wet dog, disinfectant, urine, and fear. The sound of barking came next, along with the whining, and the scrape of claws on concrete.
I heard the chaos before I saw it.
In the back corner of the yard, a man in heavy leather gauntlets was cursing. He held a catch-pole through the bars of a gated door, trying to corner a hissing, spitting ball of orange fury that was wedged underneath a metal bed frame.
"Stop!" I screamed, my voice echoing off the corrugated iron walls. "Stop! He's mine! He's my cat! You're going to hurt him!"
The man looked up, sweat beading on his forehead despite the cold. His gauntlets were shredded, white stuffing poking through the tears.
"This beast?" He gestured at the orange blur with the catch-pole. "He nearly took my finger off ten minutes ago. He's dangerous, miss. He's got thedevil in him."
"He's just scared!" I pushed past the man, wrenching the gate open with more strength than I knew I had.
"Presley, wait—" Hastings' voice was sharp with alarm, but I ignored him.
I dropped to my knees on the cold, damp concrete. The wet seeped through my jeans immediately, chilling my skin. I didn't care. I didn't care about the mud or the smell or the danger.
"Mr. Cheddar?" My voice was soft. "It's me. It's Presley. Come on, you old grump. I'm here. I've got you."
The hissing stopped.
The orange blur under the bed frame went still before two wide, copper eyes peered out from the shadows. They were wild, terrified, and ringed with white.
Then, with a low, pathetic meow that broke my heart into a million pieces, Mr. Cheddar scrambled out.
He didn't hesitate. He launched himself into my arms, five kilograms of fur and fury slamming into my chest with enough force to knock me back on my heels.
I hugged him tight, burying my face in his neck. His fur was matted, dirty, smelling of the shelter. But underneath it all, he still smelled like Mr. Cheddar.
Then he started to vibrate.
It wasn't a growl. It was a purr so loud it sounded like a tiny outboard motor. It rattled through his entire body, through mine, filling the space between us with sound.
"See?" I said, tears streaming down my face as I struggled to my feet. Mr. Cheddar was heavier than I remembered, a solid weight in my arms. "He's not mean. He's mine."
"He's hers," Hastings said, his voice coming from right behind me.
I turned.
All three of my alphas stood there, filling the narrow space between the kennels. They looked ridiculous in this grimy shelter.
Hastings in his multi-thousand-pounds suit, Fritz in designer jeans, Etienne in training gear… At least he looked like he could belong here.
