Page 12 of House of Sin
Nell stared at me from across the table, eyes wide with horror, and I bit back a laugh. She looked genuinely appalled.
“Ah now, you poor thing,” Maeve said between giggles, the corners of her mouth twitching. “Did he at least tip you proper?”
Elona held up a finger, regal as ever. “Generously,” she said. “In cat treats.”
I choked. Wine nearly sprayed across the table. “You’relying.”
“I wish I were. Left an entire bag on the nightstand like it was goddamn currency. Even wrote me a little note:For the best feline trainer in the Rocky Mountains.”
Violet was wheezing now, doubled over. “That man’s kink is a whole veterinary emergency.”
Elona raised her glass. “To fur, fantasy, and fucking delusion.”
“Speakin’ of emergencies,” Maeve chimed in, gazing dramatically at the deep red wine in her crystal glass, “I had Mrs. Thompson again last night.”
Violet straightened, blinking. “Wait,theMrs. Thompson?”
“The very one,” Maeve confirmed, her voice dripping with amused contempt. Her lips curled into a sly, satisfied smile. “Old money. Smells like rosewater and powdered shame. You knowthe sort.”
“Oh, she’s ariot,” Elona said, raising an eyebrow. “Didn’t she once try to tip you with heirloom earrings?”
“Emeralds, love,” Maeve corrected with a wink. “But that’s not the point.” She dipped her head, voice dropping to a deliciously conspiratorial tone. “The woman enjoys ... a bit of attention to her toes.”
“Elaborate.” I demanded.
“I wish you wouldn’t,” Emil said quickly, his voice tight. Nell scooted a little closer and gave his arm a playful rub, as if to say,Oh, come on. It’s all in good fun.
Maeve didn’t miss a beat. “She has me ride her face. And while I’m bent forward, folded like a paper crane, suck on her toes. Slowly and with intention.” She held our gazes, letting the silence build around the image. “After that, I rub a very particular lavender balm into them. Imported from France, mind you. Then, here’s the crucial part, she asks me to kiss ‘em. One by one. Softly. As though I’m sending each toe off to war.”
Violet choked on her wine her face twisting. “I—why?!”
Maeve’s shrug was elegant, almost bored. “She says it helps her relax. Helps her open her spirit, whatever that means.” She took another sip of her wine, unbothered. “I say ... it helps me afford cashmere. And I get my clit sucked in the process, so honestly, it’s a win-win, aye?”
Elona was practically sobbing with laughter, wiping under her eyes with both hands. “So let me get this straight,” she wheezed. “Mrs. Thompson gets her spiritual enlightenment from a face ride and a toe smooch?”
“Oh, aye, she claims it’s deeply therapeutic,” Maeve said, chin high. “And who am I to be questionin’ the self-care rituals of an aristocrat?”
“Self-care?” I cackled.
“You laugh, but she swears it cured her migraines. Every time she moans, ‘Maeve, you’ve got such gifted hands.' "I’m thinkin’, this is exactly how I die rich and slightly disgusted.”
Violet leaned back in her chair, the stem of her wineglass dangling between two fingers, her head shaking in disbelief. “I swear to God, Maeve. You’ve got the strangest regulars.”
“They’re not strange,” Maeve said with mock offense. “They’re just ... uniquely liberated.”
“To uniquely liberated!” Elona toasted, holding her glass high.
“To toe-sucking therapy!” I added, laughing so hard I could feel the ache blooming in my sides.
“To emeralds, lotion, and spiritual enlightenment!” Maeve sang like a hymn, clinking her glass against mine with theatrical flourish.
The mood around the table was electric. Safe. Full of joy and memory and the strange intimacy that only shared absurdity can bring. In a place like The Oily Cat, laughter wasn’t just levity, it was a survival mechanism, as essential as breath.
I leaned back, the edges of my mouth still curved from laughter, and let the glow of the room sink into me. The stew, the wine, the voices of the people who knew me better than I sometimes knew myself, it all stayed with me, clinging to my skin like warmth from a long bath. The ache in my chest hadn’t left, but tonight, here, it didn’t define me.
Emil stood with a quiet stretch, his joints cracking in protest. “Always a pleasure, ladies.”
“Oh, come on,” I teased, smirking. “It’s just a bit of shop talk!”
