Page 13 of Feeding Beauty (The Lost Girls #5)

The Devil Cat Who Owns Me

TALON

T he acrid yet sweet scent of burnt cinnamon fills the apartment. Butter sizzles faintly as it smokes around the charred French toast. Breakfast might be a lost cause, but the intention is there. That has to count for something.

I stand at the stove, shirtless and focused, a pair of tongs in one hand and a new scorch mark on the laminate counter beside me.

Lucifer watches from atop the counter. I'm sure now, he’s a creature summoned straight from the pit. His tail flicks in malicious rhythm, yellow eyes trained on me, plotting the perfect murder.

He’s jumped me three times this morning already, thus the ruined food. He only paused his harassment when I ditched my jacket. Now he’s perched like a gargoyle on the leather, purring with possessive menace.

I hear the pad of bare feet, then her sleep roughened voice. "Hi sweetie."

My heart flips half a second before it realizes she’s talking to the cat.

I reach for the dish soap to clean up and curse under my breath when it tips over—Aurora left the cap loose again. Soap pools across the counter, another small mess in the endless series of messes she leaves in her wake.

Yesterday it was the milk carton, creating a sour puddle in the fridge. And I'm still finding traces of that face makeup she spilled all over the bathroom counter last week.

Though I’m the one who’s a disaster zone this morning.

Aurora stretches out a hand, slow and careful. Lucifer hisses and swipes his claws at her with the clear intent to disembowel.

She jerks back. "Well, that’s rude," she mutters, then turns to me. "Did you know this little stinker peed in one of my drawers?"

Her pout is adorable. Distractingly so.

She rambles about the laundry. How she’s just figured out the communal washer. How her clothes almost smelled musty. It’s mundane and absolutely precious, but I don't let myself dwell on that.

"Shall we throw him out the window?" I ask.

She pauses, seriously considering my offer. Then she shakes her head. "He’s probably been abused. That’s why he’s so distrusting. He probably needs extra love and patience."

I stare at her. At the sincerity in her face. The softness she hasn’t let the world beat out of her. "He nested on my crotch last night. Claws out. I almost woke up neutered."

Lucifer, smug bastard that he is, starts kneading my jacket again, purring, certain the world—and me—belong to him.

"Okay, what is his deal with you?" Aurora points accusingly. "To him, I’m nothing more than a roach, but your dirty laundry is the best thing since canned sardines?"

"I have no idea," I mutter.

Lucifer leaps down, circles my legs, and makes a bold grab for my calf.

"Down, Satan," I growl, softly shaking my leg to get him off without hurting him. He clings, evil Velcro with claws.

Aurora steps closer. "I smell burning."

"French toast," I answer, finally freeing myself from the feline barnacle.

Lucifer leaps to the top of the fridge to glare from up high, giving loud scratchy meows of displeasure at not being allowed to treat me as his personal scratching post.

Aurora eyes the pan skeptically. "Was?”

I straighten, jaw tight. "It’s salvageable."

She blinks down at the pan. It is not salvageable.

I take a moment to observe her. Her chopped hair is messy from sleep. She tucks the blue tips behind her ear, revealing rows of metal studs and rings adorning the shell of her ear. A bar cuts through her perfect eyebrow, only adding to her ire when she lifts at me in annoyance.

A black tank top clings to her frame, one strap slipping off her shoulder, leaving the ink on her arms bare to the warm kitchen light.

She sports the same tattoo all the other Lost Girls have.

A mix between a dripping poison apple and a skull and crossbones.

But it’s the roses on fire, etched in red and gold on the swell of her bicep, that burn into me every time I look.

She looks nothing like the royal she was brought up to be. Instead of the forced mask of stateliness she’d been trained to wear, a natural confidence has bloomed in her over the last couple of weeks. It radiates from her without trying.

And fae lords help me, I want her. I want her so badly the need cuts through me.

I’m dying to melt her until she resembles the butter on that skillet, to feel her lips give way under mine, to taste her so deeply she’s imprinted on my tongue.

The desire pushes up against my skin until my fingers twitch and my forehead tingles from suppressing my urges.

I want to spread her legs and latch onto that perfect little clit with my lips until she’s clawing at the counter and making those mewls of pleasure I’ve memorized. Or maybe given a chance, I’d inspire a new pitch of moan or scream from her.

Aurora steps forward as I discreetly attempt to adjust my thickening length.

"I can help," she says, reaching for the pan just as flames leap up the side.

She startles back, but I’m already moving.

I grab the pan barehanded. Fire licks over my skin, harmless to me. Smoke twists around my wrist. She gasps. I toss the pan into the sink and crank the faucet with my knuckles.

Steam erupts in a hiss, clouding everything.

When it clears, she’s caged in. My arms are braced on either side, with her back to the counter. My body between her and the world.

"You okay?" I ask.

Aurora nods, slow and dazed. Her eyes are wide, her breath coming fast. Her lips...

She licks them, and their glistening plumpness becomes the center of my focus now that I know she’s okay.

"I was just trying to help," she whispers.

"I know." My voice is rough. "I see you trying. Every day." I force my gaze back up to meet hers, no longer talking about breakfast. I'm in awe of how she tries, of how she’s adapted, of how she’s picked herself up after disappointment or embarrassment.

By the pink flooding her cheeks, I know she hears everything I’m not saying.

"Doesn’t mean I think this plan of yours is smart,” I add in a stern tone. “But you are so...impressive, Aura."

Her breath catches, but she doesn’t move. Neither do I.

I know I should, but I can’t force my muscles to budge. My body drinks up her nearness. It’s as close as we’ll ever get, but I revel in it.

Even with the few inches between us, my claws have sunk so deeply into her soul, entwined around her heart, that no one else could ever reach her core.

No matter whose flesh invades or penetrates hers, they will never reach the profound depths I have claimed.

I'll always be deeper, guarding her fiercely, adoring her with unbreakable devotion.

For so long, my life was about being alone and making the most of my solitude. Then it became about protecting Aurora, about following the rules, and cleaning up after the curse. But since we’ve been here, she hasn’t needed my protection. Which has allowed me to become more than her guardian.

Sometimes I’m just a man, and she’s just a woman.

The last few weeks have been full of these moments.

Little domestic things, like going to work together then coming home.

The paycheck is miniscule compared to the fortune she’s entitled to, but the money feels so well earned.

We pick out fresh produce at the farmer’s market.

She forces me to drink cheap boxed wine and watch crappy reality television which I claim not to care for, but I’m secretly invested in the drama.

She banters with the Lost Girls, who frequently poke fun at me, and she understands that I don’t mind being the butt of the joke if it brings her joy.

And I’m constantly teased by the lot of them for visiting the sketchy lobster roll food truck at least once a day.

Since they aren’t convinced by the butter to lobster ratio as to why it’s a perfect meal, I have to point out how reasonably priced they are.

That I’m being frugal in a city that is insanely overpriced.

Snow and Ariel insist that the hospital bills will change my mind when I end up with botulism.

The line that’s always separated us is blurring, and I’m struggling to maintain those boundaries.

Aurora laughs softly, nervous. "I’m starting to seriously resent my lack of culinary and domestic education."

I hum, a low throaty sound. "Even I’ve gotten soft after years of spoiled castle kitchens."

Aurora’s lips twitch. "You, soft?"

Her gaze drifts down to my abs, as her tongue darts out.

My muscles tighten.

"I guess I should get out of the kitchen," she murmurs. "I’m not any help."

I meet her eyes. "I haven’t known you to back down from a challenge."

Her breath catches again.

She tightly grips the counter behind her, chest pushing out. I swear I smell her arousal in the air. Judging by the tight buds pressing against her thin tank, it’s more than wishful thinking.

In another life, I’d have her splayed out on this counter screaming my name. And then I’d finish making her breakfast, draw a bubble bath when she was done eating, and spend the rest of the day alternately washing her body, feeding her, and getting her filthy all over again.

"You never tell me to just sit down and do it for me," she says softly. "That’s what everyone else always did."

My throat closes.

“You are more than capable.” The words are no more than a whisper.

She licks her lips again and shifts a centimeter closer.

The words are there. Pressing into the air between us. The longing is a palpable thing, attracting and repelling us with its massive presence.

Even the continued angry chorus from Lucifer, still perched on the fridge, doesn’t break the moment.

My throat works. I swallow then step back.

My stomach sinks even as I grab the tongs. Nothing can come of this. I have to remind myself of that before I hurt Aurora. Best to keep things light and easy.

I give her a lopsided smile. "Let’s try pancakes. Maybe they don’t catch fire as easily."