Page 17 of Purrfectly Outfoxed

Because that was actually brilliant.

She waited until I was asleep, shifted to human form, opened my door, created just enough chaos to look like a fox went wild, then shifted back to cat form and locked herself back inside her room until Bea let her out, positioning herself as the innocent bystander.

I should have thought about that myself.

The tabby cat outfoxed me.

I can’t help but admire her cunning, even as I plot my revenge. Pacing the laundry room’s tiled floor, my claws clicking softly with each step, I mull over my options. The space feels smaller now, more like a cage than a cozy den, and the locked door mocks me with its sturdy hinge. Bea’s footsteps fade upstairs, probably getting dressed as she said, leaving me to stew in this temporary prison.

‘I’ll admit,’ I send through our connection, injecting as much mock defeat as I can muster. ‘That was a masterstroke. But don’t get too comfortable on your throne, kitty-cat. Turnabout’s fair play.’

Her response comes back laced with triumph.‘Try it, fox. I’ve got nine lives; you’ve got... what, one good scam before you bolt?’

Ouch. She hits closer to home than I’d like, but I shake it off, focusing on the faint sounds filtering through the walls. The distant clatter of Bea cleaning up the mess tugs at something in my chest—guilt, maybe, for putting her through this charade. She’s been nothing but kind, feeding me, giving me shelter without asking questions. And here I am, tangled in thisridiculous game with a cat who’s equal parts infuriating and intriguing.

The moment I hear Bea leaving for the library, I shift back to human form in a fluid twist of bones and fur, the cool air raising goosebumps on my skin. Naked again, but at least the basket of blankets offers some cover. Wrapping one around my waist like last night, I test the door—locked tight, as expected. No knob on this side, just a smooth panel. Clever setup for containing pets, or in my case, wayward shifters.

I lean against the washing machine, running a hand through my hair. Wanderer has been my middle name, or at least it has been since I left the den to find a life of my own. I’ve spent my adulthood drifting from place to place, taking what I needed and never feeling sorry for it. But here’s the thing Tabitha doesn’t understand—I’m not planning to bolt. Not anymore.

Because as I sit here, wrapped in a blanket in a locked laundry room, I’m starting to realize something that scares the hell out of me.

This thing going on between us isn’t just Halloween magic.

The pull I feel toward her—the constant awareness of where she is, what she’s feeling, the way my entire body lights up when she’s near—that’s not some temporary magical glitch.

That’s the real deal.

That’s a fated-mate bond.

I’ve heard stories. Every shifter has. The instant recognition. The telepathic connection. The overwhelming need to be near them, touch them, claim them. I always thought it was bullshit, some romantic notion passed down through generations to make us feel special.

But now?

Now I’m feeling it in every cell of my body. This ache in my chest that has nothing to do with being locked in a room and everything to do with being separated from her. The way mycock gets hard just thinking about her voice. The way I can’t stop replaying the feeling of her hands on my chest, the smell of her skin, the sound of her breath catching.

That’s not magic wearing off when the season passes.

That’s permanent.

“Fuck,” I mutter out loud, scrubbing my hands over my face.

I’m fated to a territorial cat shifter who hates my guts and just framed me for property destruction.

Of course I am.

Because the universe has a sick sense of humor.

I reach out through our connection, trying to feel where she is, what she’s doing. But there’s... nothing. Or not nothing, exactly. It’s like she’s put up a wall between us, blocking me out.

‘Tabitha?’

Silence.

‘I know you can hear me.’

Still nothing.

‘Come on, this is childish.’