I pace the length of my private study, hands clasped behind my back, replaying the moment in my mind. The way her breath caught…the way she pushed herself away from me. The crack in her voice when she said it felt like a threat.
Why?
In the Shadow Realm, protection is proven through action—through blood if necessary. I did what any Don would do to protect and avenge a woman who is dear to him.
Who is his.
I stop abruptly. That is where the fracture lies, I think—Julia does not yet see herself as mine. She still sees herself as a woman stolen from her life, not elevated into a new one.
I exhale slowly, forcing my temper down. She is human which makes her fragile in ways my people are not. Her reactions are governed by biology as much as reason.
And then I catch it…wafting under the door—a faint scent in the air, barely there, delicate but unmistakable to my senses.
Blood.
Not spilled from an injury…blooming from inside.
My eyes narrow in comprehension. Ah, of course—her monthly cycle must be coming on.
I’m well aware that human females experience emotional volatility during their cycle. Heightened sensitivity…attachment to familiar comforts….increased tearfulness. My tutors covered it centuries ago, though I have rarely had cause to consider it personally.
Until now.
If Jules is nearing her cycle—or already within it—then last night’s strain, fear, and displacement would strike her twice as hard. No wonder she clings to thoughts of her former life…no wonder the vision of her abusive coworker being punished unsettled her.
I feel a twist of something low and protective coil in my chest.
I must be gentler.
I must baby her, as humans say. Indulge her. Soothe her. I must treat her not as a political asset or a queen-in-training, but as a woman whose body is at war with itself. And I must offer her comfort.
There is one obvious solution—her pet. The small mammal she spoke of with such aching distress, Mr. Mittens. The name alone is absurd—but the emotional tether it represents is not. To Julia, the creature is safety…routine…home.
If I wish her to consider the Crimson Spires her true abode, I must bring her cat to her, which should lessen her distress immeasurably.
Decision made, I cross to my desk and activate the communication sigil.
“Summon Whistler the Realm Hopper,” I command. “Immediately.”
The sigil flares, acknowledging.
“He will be here shortly, my Don.”
“Very good.” I work for a while, hoping that Whistler isn’t too far away. I want this task carried out expeditiously.
When Whistler finally appears, I do not waste time.
“You will go to the Human Realm,” I tell him. “You will retrieve a domestic feline—black and white, long-haired, answers to the name ‘Mr. Mittens.’ You will also bring all associated items—feeding devices…litter box…bedding…toys…food. Any and everything that is with the cat must come with it to the Shadow Realm.”
Whistler blinks.
“Everything, my lord?”
“Everything,” I repeat flatly. “As soon as possible.”
“I’ll do my best, your Fanginess.” He bows flippantly and then exits with a flourish of his ridiculously long coat.
I allow myself a small, satisfied nod. Having her cat will help—I’m sure of it.
