Page 134 of The Unwilling Bride
"You have a pet?" I crouch down slowly. The black cat with white paws watches me with suspicious blue eyes, tail twitching.
"She’s a rescue."
I extend my hand, knuckles first, letting her sniff.
She stays still, clearly considering how to react.
“Watch out, she's not?—"
She headbutts my fingers and rubs against my palm.
"—friendly." There's genuine surprise in his voice.
I scratch behind her ears, right in that sweet spot, and she leans into it, purring.
"What's your name, gorgeous?" The baby voice comes out automatically. I can't help it with cats.
Wow… James. Hamilton. Has. A. Cat.
Who'd have thought the Ice Commander would rescue something this small and vulnerable?
"Her name is Malice."
"Malice?" I look up at him, disbelieving. "You named your cat Malice?"
"I found her in the alley behind The Edge. Maybe a few weeks old, half-starved, hiding near the bins. When I picked her up, she sank her claws into my hand and drew blood." His mouth quirks slightly. "She's lived up to her name ever since."
"Just like you," I mutter under my breath.
"Excuse me?" The tips of his ears go white.
"I said she's beautiful." And she is, with her sleek black fur, those piercing blue eyes, and a small, jagged scar across her pink nose that only adds character. She's purring now, properly, that deep rumbling sound cats make when they're truly content.
Then she jumps up and sinks her claws into my calf.
"Ow!" I wince on reflex.
"Malice. No." James' voice drops to that commanding tone that works on his team in the kitchen.
The cat freezes. Looks at him. There's a moment of silent standoff. Alpha predator versus tiny predator. Somehow, James wins.
Malice releases my leg, sits back on her haunches, and starts grooming her paw like she meant to do that all along.
"She does that when she's happy," James says. "Overstimulation. She doesn't know her own strength."
Malice ignores this, gives me one long, slow blink. The cat equivalent of "I love you," then stalks toward the kitchen with her tail high.
James follows, like this is routine. She's waiting by her bowl. It’s stainless steel, pristine, clean.
There’s also a cat water fountain that probably cost more than my last paycheck.
"She won't drink from a regular bowl." He glances at me. "The running water reassures her it's fresh."
He pulls a container from the fridge that looks like high-end wet food with chunks of meat. He portions it precisely into her bowl.
Malice meows once, imperious, then digs in.
James watches her eat for a moment, his features softer than I've ever seen them. Huh.
