“Well… hey there,” I whisper, crouching slowly so I don’t scare him off.
The kitten wobbles toward me like his legs are still figuring out how they work. He lets out another pitiful meow and bumps his tiny head against the lattice.
The cross on his forehead is unmistakable. Bright against the orange fur.
Just like?—
My stomach drops.
Mr. T.
The cat from my childhood had the same mark. Same orange fur. Same ridiculous white cross between his ears that made my mother insist he was blessed.
A sob rises in my throat. I never knew what had happened to Mr T. after the night my family was slaughtered.
I straighten slowly, heart thudding in a way that has nothing to do with Ever or Shiloh or Nash.
The kitten meows again and squeezes through a broken slat in the lattice. He pads straight toward my boot, latches his claws in my jeans-clad leg, and climbs it without invitation.
“Okay,” I murmur faintly, scooping him up before he can tumble backward. “Okay, I’m picking up what you’re putting down…”
He fits in my palm like he was designed for it. Warm. Fragile. Purring already.
And that little white cross staring up at me like a message I’m supposed to understand.
“Reva.”
Two syllables. Rough and low. My pulse jumps before I even turn.
Shiloh is crossing the lot toward me, eyes flicking from my face to the door and back again like he caught me at the exact second before a bolt. There’s no easy swagger in him tonight, no lazy grin built to smooth things over. He moves like a man handling something breakable he doesn’t trust himself to hold too tight.
“Where do you think you’re going?”
I almost laugh, because the answer to that question changes every five seconds. Home. Back inside. Nowhere. Anywhere. Fuck you.
“I just neededair.”
The kitten squeaks softly in my grip and curls against my wrist like he’s already claimed me. Shiloh’s gaze snags on the kitten, and for one infuriating second, gentles.
He stops a few feet away instead of crowding me. “Air usually doesn’t take you halfway to the staff lot exit.”
“I said I needed air, not a geography lesson.”
That almost earns a smile.
Almost.
“Nash wants to see you,” he says, chucking the kitten gently under the chin. “Whatcha got there?”
“He was over near the dumpsters.” I brush a finger over the kitten’s head. “I think he was abandoned or something.”
Then his statement slams through the mess in my head and lines my thoughts up by force.
I came here for Midnight. A killer for hire. I came here to find out what Deacon’s connection is to this bar. I’ve gotten nowhere with Shiloh and Ever, but maybe Nash can—or will—help me?
I square my shoulders and make my mouth work. “Does Nash personally greet every new hire?”
Shiloh’s mouth curves, but tension keeps it from becoming a real grin. “Only the ones who move into his house. You know you can’t take this little beastie home, right?”
