When I put the empty bottle down, she’s watching me. Not the polite kind of watching. The kind that measures and pokes until it finds a soft spot. What she doesn’t know is she won’t find one.
“You could’ve just said ‘good morning,’” she says lightly.
“I could have,” I agree. “But then you’d think we were friends.”
“Right. God forbid.” She turns back to the cat, voice soft again. “It’s okay, Duchess.”
I blink. “Duchess?”
“She needs a name.” A shrug. “She looks like a duchess. A very tiny, homeless duchess with abandonment issues.”
“You sure you’re not talking about yourself?” I cock a brow.
She turns toward me and sticks her tongue out. “Funny. And no, I’m not talking about myself.”
“Could’ve fooled me. She looks like a liability.” I move closer despite myself, the towel ghosting the back of my neck.
The kitten’s fur is a mess, whiskers akimbo. She smells like dirt and leaves.
“She could be feral.”
“Then she’ll fit right in.” Mara’s mouth tilts. “You know, with the wild animals you let roam this place.”
“Like you,” I say.
“Like me.” She doesn’t deny it. “Now, I need cotton pads and warm water and something for her eyes. And food. And a blanket.”
“You need to put it back outside.”
Her head snaps up, eyes flashing. “Her. Not it. And no.”
“Your answer is no?”
“Yes.” She squares her shoulders lie she expects a fight. “I’m not leaving her out there.”
I hold her stare for a beat too long. It’s a mistake; I know it the second my gut goes hot and mean. I look away and reachpast her for another bottle, just to do something with my hands besides drag her out of this kitchen and teach her what the word no means.
“She’s not staying in this kitchen,” I say. “This is a workspace, not a shelter.”
“I’ll clean up,” she counters, already wiping the counter in small circles as if she lives here. As if the decision is hers to make. “I’ll keep her quiet. You won’t even know she’s here.”
“I already knew she was here.” I motion at the kitten with the bottle. “She’s meowing at me.”
“She’s saying ‘thank you.’”
“She’s saying ‘feed me,’” I correct.
“Same difference.” She dares a small smile. “You want to help?”
“No.”
She takes that like a challenge, which of course it is.
“What’s stopping you?” she asks, voice turning honeyed, razor hidden under the sugar.
“Stopping me from what?” I decide to entertain whatever she’s pushing for.
“You act like every second near me might kill you, but you haven’t thrown me out. You haven’t taken Duchess from me and thrown her out. Instead, you just let me get away with it. You haven’t even told me to leave.”
