Hopefully, she’ll argue with me or at least to make a joke so the tension running through my body has somewhere to go, but the cat just sits there, perched on the edge of the faded corduroy armchair, eyes narrowing as she studies the object. She frowns,or more accurately, she draws her eyebrows together and bites down on the inside of her lip.
“What’s a bad idea?” She leans forward with her elbows on her knees, as if the closer she is to the object, the less power the words themselves will have. Her fingers drum on the edge of the coffee table, leaving faint echoes, like a series of soft exclamation points.
The question lands solidly between us. I want to spill everything, but the right words won’t come. I swallow hard and force out what I think she wants to hear. “I didn’t know if I should ask. It’s… I mean, it’s probably lame.”
My voice goes up at the end, turning the statement into a question, even as I loathe myself for it. I can already sense the conversation veering toward the territory where I’m least sure of myself, the place where I’m just a collection of impulses and half-formed intentions.
She gives me a look—wry, a little indulgent, the look that makes me want to crawl under the couch cushions and hide. “How would I know if you don’t show me what it is?”
Her logic is unassailable, but it also feels like a dare.
“Fine! But—” I pause, considering the risk, then push forward. I slip my thumb under the knot and tug the golden thread free, watching as it unwinds in a slow, hypnotic spiral. The velvet tube slackens between my hands, heavy with anticipation, and I let the cloth unspool onto my lap, the dark fabric stark against my jeans. For a moment, I just stare at it, unsure how to continue, but then I reach in and gently pull out the strip of scales.
This is more vulnerability than I prefer to share, and our relationship is new and tumultuous, so I’m scared by this sentiment.
Its contents are delicate, almost weightless, but when the overhead light hits, the entire band comes alive—iridescent green edged with veins of coppery red, shifting with every twitch of my wrist. The scales are arranged in a precise pattern; the design is so intricate that I know Damien spent hours arranging it. There’s a thin membrane backing the whole thing, so it flexes and shimmers like the surface of a beetle’s wing.
Deli leans in, peering at it from several angles, her eyes picking out the subtle gradations of color. “It looks like your costume,” she says, finally, and I can’t help but laugh, high-pitched and awkward, because she’s right and also missing the point.
A flush spreads from my face down to my collarbones, pooling in the hollow of my throat. “That’s where the design came from,” I admit, voice dropping. “I guess I wasn’t as subtle as I thought. This is… muse art, not a costume.”
She flicks her gaze up at me, surprised. “Art? What is it for?” Her hand hovers over the strip, then, with my reluctant nod of permission, she touches it. The scales shift, making a faint metallic ripple.
It’s keyed to her on purpose, not that she realizes it.
I shrink into myself, heart pounding, and the words are barely audible. “Not what it is for. Who it is for is the better question.”
She looks puzzled. “Is it for someone?”
I throw my hands in the air for emphasis, exaggerating the gesture as I look at her in disbelief. My fingers splay wide, andthen I let the momentum pitch me backward onto the mattress. I let myself bounce, knees jackknifing up, and my feet hang for a second over the footboard. “It’s supposed to be for someone. It’s supposed to mean something. But I’m not good at this stuff, not like Taurus. I mean, look at this,” I say, shoving the scale band at her like a failed science project. “Ugh.”
“Stop that. You’re good at all the things that matter. You just… overthink everything.” My new mate says it like she’s cataloguing one of my better flaws, and then she cocks her head inquisitively. “Do you mean… it’s for me?” Her voice softens at the end, the question mark trailing out longer than the words that preceded it.
It takes effort, but I prop myself up on my elbows and watch her over the uneven quilt. “Who else would it be for?” I can’t help the way my voice cracks. My ears burn as I duck my chin. I wish I could just hand her the feeling I have without all the mess of explanation, and let her unwrap it in privacy.
She’s holding the scale band with both hands now, as if afraid it will slip through her fingers, and she’s smiling in the way people only do when they’re surprised by something that’s almost beautiful. Deli turns the band over and over, inspecting the lines and color shifts. Her inspection is more forensic than aesthetic, which is endearing if not also excruciating. “This is like my feather that Damien made. It’s a magical tattoo,” she says.
I flop back onto the bed and drag a pillow over my face. “That’s the point, I guess.” I let the hint of unavoidable, consistent internal jealousy bleed through just a little as I say, “But I’m not as frilly as Mr. ‘My Tailfeathers Are Prized Possessions.’ This is what I came up with instead. It’s… less flashy, I know.”
The cat lets out a genuine laugh, loud and bright and full of snorts. She’s not always a delicate girl, and I love that about her. “First, you love Taurus’s feathers too. Don’t even pretend you don’t. Second, frills don’t matter; it’s the thought that counts. That’s, like, the universal law of marks and gifts. I love it.”
I peek out from under the pillow and meet her gaze. “I hope so, or I’m screwed. You’re my mate and I love you, but I haven’t marked you. Rafe and I have rings. Taurus has my brain permanently marked, like a brand. But you—” I wave my hand toward her collarbone, of the vulnerable hollow above her sternum. “I’ve done nothing but bite.”
The admission is a little embarrassing, but it’s true.
Deli looks down suddenly—not at the band, but at herself—as if searching for something. There’s a flush climbing up her neck, a slow burn that makes her ears blend into her crimson hair. She says nothing for a long moment, and when she does, her voice is so small I almost miss it, but the words hit me like a punch. “Where do you want it to go?”
I sit up quickly, my eyes wide as I look at her eagerly. “I have no idea—that’s the problem. I don’t want it to cover anything else, but it can go wherever you want. It could twist into a bracelet or an armband, or even a necklace. Damien made it flexible because he ‘knows I’m not flexible’ and the rainbow kitty is hella bendy like a half-pipe curve.” I can’t help laughing, but I know out of anyone, my feline mate will understand his riddles.
She laughs too, and it settles the tension between us. “You might not be flexible, but you’re adaptable,” she points out, giving me a narrow-eyed look. “There’s a difference.”
I shrug, conceding with as much grace as I can manage. “If you say so.”
Deli leans forward, her elbows resting on her knees. She’s still running her finger along the scales, this time tracing the edges with such attention that I wonder if she’s mapping out the entire pattern in her mind. “What if it goes here?” she asks, placing the strip along her bicep, and suddenly it’s a perfect fit, hugging the muscle. “Like an armband. That would look cool, right?”
I nod eagerly. “That’s exactly what I thought. Or maybe here—” I gesture at my wrist, as if modeling it for her. “But I didn’t want to decide for you. You should pick—that’s the point.”
Holding it to her wrist, then her upper arm again, and then her neck, she looks thoughtful, as if each try is getting closer to the right position.
