Chapter 8, The evening at Maw Mine's Inn
Master’s voice cut through the church’s lingering heat and blood-haze. “Come on,” he murmured, the noir dryness threading through the words, “it’s been a long day. And I know you need feeding. Let’s head to the inn.”
Just like that. No drama. No lingering on the corpse cooling on the stone. No look back at the mural that made a goddess of me. Just his voice, pulling my instincts tight like a leash carved from his breath alone. My tail wrapped round his thigh without me deciding it. My ears flattened, then perked. My whole body found him again like a compass snapping straight north.
Master stepped out of the Vel’Rasa church, and I fell into place beside him with a soft, compulsive glide, the eternal shadow reclaiming its rightful position. We passed through the fishing district first, the place where we’d carved history into the stone with spear and blood. Old boards creaked underfoot; nets hung frozen in the cavern drift; lanterns swung low on rusted chains. Some faces ducked away when they recognised us. Others watched with reverence.
I stayed close. Too close of course. Tail wrapped tight. Hip brushing his. Eyes scanning every rooftop, every alley. The market district opened ahead, a narrow throat of makeshift stalls and battered crates. Smoke from cook-fires curled up into the cavern air, mixing with the sharp tang of metal and fish. Ren lounged near their stolen booths like wolves pretending to be vendors. Embercrack dwarfs bartered loudly, their voices echoing off the stone. Travellers wove between factions with carefully neutral expressions, clutching their coin pouches like lifelines.
Tension hung like wire across the throat of the market. But with Master walking through it, long shadow, sharp jaw, coat swaying like a story no one dared interrupt, paths opened. Violence inhaled and held its breath. Instincts shifted. And I kept everyone aware of the silent promise trailing behind him. My claws clicked. My tail twitched like a live fuse. My eyes dared anyone to think too loudly about him. No one did.
We left the marketplace by the eastern cut, where the cavern widened into a collapsed fairway once meant to hold a proper road. Now it was a broken slope of stone and old timber bracing, still unstable, still avoided by anyone with sense. But Master’s stride never changed. He walked as though the Maw itself bent out of his way.
We followed the curve of the old roadway until the tunnels opened into the outskirts of the Maw Mine entrance district. The air felt different here, cooler, cleaner, drifting in faintly from the outside world. A reminder that beyond this hole in the earth lay forests, roads, politics, and wars waiting to be sparked.
To the east of the inn sprawled the Maw Lake. The border checkpoint sat along the lake’s northern ledge watching all who came from the east.
Master paused at the overlook near the lake’s edge, the inn lamps flickering faintly behind us, the checkpoint torches burning ahead, the whole Maw stretched out beneath the cavern ceiling like a map only he could read.
I moved to his side. Tail sliding slow around his thigh again. Claws lightly grazing the rock beside his boot. He looked tired in that noir way of his, not weak, never that, but worn down by the weight of answers that kept refusing to surface. My ears tilted toward him. My voice barely a whisper. “Master…” But he’d already made his decision hours ago. Home, tonight, was the inn.
Food for me. A bed for him. And whatever unsolved pieces of the Crimson Swarm still lingered in the back of his mind like cigarette smoke curling over closed case files… could wait until morning.
The Maw Mine Inn greeted us with the warmth of a furnace and the stink of too many bodies packed into too little space, a bifurcated structure of civilisation where caste and chaos drank under the same roof but pretended not to breathe the same air.
Master stepped through the heavy wooden door first. My tail instantly tightened around his thigh, dragging my body flush at his side before instinct even caught up. Left side, Clan Seating. A polished cavern of privilege. Carved stone pillars, green rugs from Embercrack, neat round tables dressed with iron lanterns, benches padded with dyed leather. Everything arranged with careful symmetry, everything clean, everything warm.
The people sitting there were wealthy, proud, self-important. Dwarfs in Vel’Rasa scar hoods. Catgirls wearing gemstone clasps in their cloaks. Alderian merchants in bleached-blue tunics. They glanced up at Master, assessing, cautious, and then their eyes caught mine.
Right side, Common Rabble. A different world. Long wooden tables jammed into every spare corner. Torches stuffed wherever they fit, dribbling wax onto the floor. Rough miners. Drunk Ren fighters slumped over half-finished mugs. Travellers wrapped in mismatched cloaks. Three dwarfs arguing loudly over a rabbit stew. And a cluster of Embercrack zealots whispering a Vel’Rasa prayer beneath their breath
The alcove rooms lined the north wall on the common side, open. Cramped. Barely private. Curtains instead of doors. Cheap bedding. Used by anyone who couldn’t afford anything better. To the left, behind a pair of carved pillars, the Clan rooms waited, actual doors, proper beds, locks that worked, rugs at the foot of the frame. Expensive. Quiet. Safe.
Master walked straight through the middle of the inn, the narrow lane between wealth and rabble, and every pair of eyes tracked him like torches following a shadow that wasn’t supposed to exist. He didn’t stop. Didn’t speak. Didn’t hesitate. He walked with that cold noir calm, boots tapping rhythmically against the floor, coat brushed by the glow of lanterns. His presence carved open a path through the noise without a word.
And I walked with him, tail wrapped round him in a possessive spiral, ears flicking at every movement, eyes burning down anyone who so much as breathed wrong. A Ren thug at one of the common tables stared a moment too long. My head snapped toward him, claws flexing. He dropped his mug. Didn’t even try to pick it up. Good.
Master paused just long enough to sweep a calculating glance across the inn layout:
Clan area here, common rabble there, the innkeeper behind his bar polishing a mug with a rag that was definitely dirtier than the mug.
The smell of Maw Lake fish stew and mushroom broth hung thick in the warm air, drifting in waves from the kitchen, rich enough to twist something hungry inside my ribs. Master breathed out, quiet and steady. Long day. Longer night. Too many questions unanswered. Too many trails leading nowhere. But food was food. And he knew my body needed twice what his did.
I leaned my cheek against his arm, tail dragging across the floor behind us as I murmured under my breath, voice soft but thick with that possessive heat.
Master moved to the counter with that measured noir calm of his, the weight of the day hanging off his shoulder. The innkeeper stiffened the moment he approached, elbows tight, back straight, eyes flicking nervously between him and me.
Master placed the coins down with a quiet clink, 5 silver for a Clan room and 15 copper for rabbit stew, the sound slicing clean through the babble of the common hall. The innkeeper swallowed hard, nodded, and slid the room key across the bar with trembling respect, careful not to let his fingers brush Master’s.
Then Master turned toward me, the faintest edge of exhaustion threading into his voice. But even tired, even worn down, he spoke with that dry, cynical tone that always curled heat tight around my spine. “Right. One rabbit stew for me. And what do you want, kitten? And no mushroom tea, otherwise you’ll be awake all night. We’ll take boiled water and whatever food you want.”
My tail curled around his leg instantly, instinct locking me to him like steel wire. The way he said kitten… gods, the ground should kneel. I stepped closer, tail brushing his calf, ears angling forward as I tilted my head up at him. The inn’s lamplight caught in my eyes, making them glow in narrow slitted reflections. I felt the hunger in my stomach, sharp, feral, the kind that came from battle, from blood, from the bond tightening around my ribs.
But I also felt the warmth in his voice, that rare softness buried beneath the cynicism, the way he chose my comfort even when he didn’t bother choosing his own. I purred low, leaning in so my breath brushed his collarbone. “You know what happens if I have mushroom tea, Master,” I murmured, voice sugared with dangerous amusement. “I’d be bouncing off the walls, and you’d never get any sleep.” My tail flicked, tapping his boot lightly. Possessive. Hungry. Warm.
“As for food…” I drew the word out, savouring it. “Rabbit stew sounds good. Rich, hot, meaty. Better than the fish here.” My hands slipped behind my back, posture deceptively innocent as I tilted my head again. “And boiled water’s fine. So long as I get to drink it sitting beside you.” I leaned into him more fully, shoulder brushing his arm, tail spiralling tighter around his thigh. “Feed me, and I’ll be your good kitten tonight,” I whispered. “I promise...”
The Clan room Key clicked in the lock with a soft metallic certainty, and the door swung open to reveal a pocket of warmth carved into the stone like a secret someone cared enough to protect from the rest of the Maw.
The Room. Soft lanternlight pulsed from the iron sconce near the door, spilling amber heat across a thick woven rug dyed in swirling blues and reds. A sturdy bed with deep green blankets tucked neatly. A polished wooden cabinet. A longer low dresser pressed against the wall. A tiny circular table meant for two Two mismatched chairs with Embercrack-style carvings And the faint lingering scent of lavender oil from however many travellers had softened the air with it before us. Everything here was neat, warm, almost civilised.
Master’s boots made a dull thud across the floor with each trip up the stairs, and the bowls on the tiny table multiplied like a feast meant for someone twice my size. Steam rolled off the rabbit stew in savoury curls, thick with spices and onion slices, and the mugs of boiled water gathered between them like little lanterns without flames.
The room was too small for the intensity between us, but the world was too small for that anyway. Master finally set the last two bowls down, wiped his hand calmly on his coat, and took a seat on the wooden cabinet beside the lantern. He didn’t fuss with the table. He didn’t rearrange a thing. He just sat there with that noir stillness, watching the room, watching the spread of food, watching me. Always watching...
As soon as he settled, instinct dragged me inward like gravity. My tail hit the floor once, then again, thumping in a rhythm that matched my heartbeat. I hovered beside him for a breath, waiting to see where the heat inside me wanted to anchor itself.
The bed? Too soft. Too distant. The rug? Too low. Too exposed. His lap? Tempting... dangerously tempting, but I could feel the day’s exhaustion coiling through him, and the blood on his knuckles. There was a balance to keep.
So I hopped lightly onto the other wooden cabinet, the one opposite him, small enough that my knees brushed against the edge of the little table between us. It placed me at eye-level with him, close enough to catch his scent, close enough to touch him if I wanted, close enough that my tail could curl toward his leg from across the gap like a curious serpent.
I perched there with one thigh up, one foot dangling, claws tapping idly on the cabinet top. The bowls of stew steamed below us, scent rich enough to make my stomach twist with hunger. Four full bowls. Three mugs of boiled water. A feast for a catgirl who needed double nutrition and lived half her life burning energy on instinct.
Master was calm, coat falling neatly around his frame, eyes half-shadowed by lanternlight. I tilted my head slowly, ears flicking in a gentle question that wasn’t really a question. Tail curling across the air toward him, brushing the edge of his boot like a shy touch disguised as an accident.
The whole scene felt suspended, warm room, stew, boiled water, lanternlight painting gold across his jaw, and me watching him with that curious, reverent hunger that never slept. My voice finally cut the quiet, soft and warm and a little too breathy. “Everything’s ready, Master.” My claws tapped once more on the cabinet. “And I’m hungry.”
He lifts a bowl... thick steam rising, the rich smell of slow-cooked game and marrow filling the room. He doesn’t just hand it to me. No, he holds it to my lips, watching me with that flat, unblinking stare that makes everyone else shrink but only makes me shiver. I bare my teeth in a slow, hungry smile and lean forward, tongue flicking against the rim before I continue. The stew is rich, greasy, full of stringy meat that falls apart on my tongue, the taste of real food and survival.
I devour it, mouth pressed to the bowl, letting the warmth flood through me, filling every hollow place left by the day’s violence and the long, gnawing ache of always being so close to him and never close enough. The heat slips down my throat, thick and comforting, and I lock eyes with him over the rim, daring anyone, alive or dead, to try to take this from me. My ears flatten, tail thumping faster, the hunger turning to pleasure, to need, to something that would set the room on fire if anyone else so much as looked through the door.
The light catches the collar at my throat, glinting with the words burned into the leather, Master’s Property. I swallow another mouthful, and when I pull back I let a low purr roll out, rumbling and territorial, claws scraping lightly at the cabinet’s wood as I dare the world to try and separate us.
He watches, his expression always unreadable, but I can feel the pride and possessiveness radiating through the bond, feel it in the way he holds the bowl steady, just for me, just the way I need. In this moment, in this room, nothing outside matters, not Crimson Swarm, not Kaelenna, not gods, not fate. Only his hand, his will, my hunger, my satisfaction. My domain.
I flick my tail around his leg, squeezing him close, claiming him all over again, never letting go. Let the world burn. I will feast so long as he is here, and I will bite anyone who tries to take him from me, one by one, until the room runs red and there’s nothing left but us, and the endless, greedy hunger that no stew will ever truly sate.
I let him shove every bowl down my throat, swallowing, never satisfied, licking the rim clean each time he brings it up, tongue flicking shameless, ears twitching with every mouthful, breath coming faster, little growls humming up from my chest. My tail thumps against the cabinet, hunger turning giddy, heat curling up inside me until my claws scrape the wood in raw, greedy pleasure.
He finally stops, picks up his own bowl to eat, and something in me snaps, the manic, giddy part twisting under my skin, that spoiled, snide smile slicing across my face. I leap from the cabinet, blocking his arm with a flick of my tail, sliding right into his lap with a slinky, predatory twist, pressing up into his space, eyes wide and unblinking, voice honey-thick and poison-sweet.
“No, no, no, Master,” I purr, snatching the bowl from his hand with claws that don’t bother to ask permission. “It’s your turn. My turn. You think you get to eat after just tossing scraps at me? You think you get to feed your little beast and then ignore her, is that it?” I drag the bowl up to my lips, eyes never leaving his, and take a slow, long mouthful, making a show of swallowing, licking a bit of broth from the edge.
“Feed me, feed me, feed me, then you’ll eat.” My smile is vicious, lips curling, tail tightening around his waist as I lean in, pressing the bowl to his mouth this time, holding it there, fingers wound tight enough around the rim to make sure he can’t pull away. “Your kitten’s hungry, and she always gets what she wants. Isn’t that right, Master?” My voice drops, dark and intimate, soft for only him. “You wouldn’t want anyone to see you starve your precious pet, would you? Go on. Open up.”
The room is full of me, my need, my scent, the purrs that vibrate straight into his bones. My claws bite into the bowl, possessive, daring, spoilt beyond words, MINE, MINE, MINE, and I’ll prove it with every stolen mouthful, every command, every hungry laugh that fills the space between us, until he remembers that nothing in this filthy little world owns him except me.
His eyes are ice, empty, no flicker of affection or mercy as he holds the bowl steady, mouth pressed to mine, drinking down the stew the same way I did, slow, relentless, not breaking eye contact for a single second. The rim is hot and greasy between our mouths, my breath fusing with his, and I taste the iron in him, the dark, deep pulse that always calls me home. Every swallow is a battle, a possession, his lips on mine not for sweetness, but for control.
“Go eat some dried venison from my pack if you’re still hungry,” he says flat and cold, the words as much command as dismissal, as if I’m just some creature that’ll never be satisfied, something feral he tolerates out of habit or necessity. It sends a thrill through me, a twisted, delighted pain that makes me want to bite and laugh and tear the whole room apart until he admits I’m more than just tolerated, I’m the obsession, the need, the endless, gnawing hunger he can’t ever put down.
I don’t flinch. I don’t break away. I let my gaze devour him as he drinks, letting our mouths meet at the rim, sharing the last mouthful as if it’s some dark communion, my purrs deepening, claws curling against the cabinet as I lean in, refusing to let go. I want him to see every ounce of greed in my eyes, every savage promise, every mania and need and broken bit of love twisted into something ugly and beautiful all at once.
When the bowl is finally empty, I pull back just enough to breathe the steam from his lips, tail thumping, heart hammering. “That’s right, Master,” I whisper, voice trembling between laughter and violence, “drink it all down. Take everything. Leave nothing for anyone else. No one gets a taste but me.” I bare my teeth in a smile that would terrify anything with sense, then slide off the cabinet, low and sinuous, stalking toward the pack where the venison waits, but never turning my back on him, never letting him out of my sight for even a heartbeat.
Let the world think he’s cold. Let them think he feels nothing. I know better. I know the darkness in him, the emptiness that only I can fill, and I’ll crawl inside that hunger and make it mine until nothing remains but us, gnawing at each other, always wanting, never whole, never finished.
I tear into the venison with my claws, ripping thick strips of dried meat from the bundle in his pack, shoving them into my mouth so fast I barely taste the salt and smoke and old blood. My ears flatten, my tail flicks and jerks against the cabinet leg, every muscle tight with manic, animal energy. I don’t care how I look, savage, greedy, a mess of hunger and need, because I know he’s watching and I want him to see it all, every ugly, feral scrap of me.
The venison is tough, hard to chew, my jaw aching as I grind down each bite. I don’t stop, not until I feel swollen and sick, belly bloated with meat and broth, every nerve ending tingling, not with satisfaction but with the wild, ugly ache of excess. My stomach cramps, my limbs go heavy, and suddenly all that manic energy melts into something smaller, rawer, something broken and petulant and needy.
I drop what’s left of the venison onto the cabinet and curl around myself, whining soft and miserable, voice pitched high and trembling with frustrated hunger that never seems to end. My tail wraps around my thigh, ears drooping. My breath comes in little shuddering huffs, every part of me desperate for him, for comfort, for warmth, for anything to make the emptiness go away.
I whine louder, like a wounded thing, helpless and pitiful in the half-dark. “Maaaaster…” I draw the word out, thick with longing, resentment, exhaustion, a ruined, needy sound that echoes the worst of me, pure, soft and fraying at the edges. I bury my face against the pillow, clawing at the sheets, aching for him, needing him to make the world right again.
It takes him a minute, maybe two, before he finally joins me in the bed, and only then do I begin to settle, tension draining out of me as his weight sinks into the mattress. I slide up against him instantly, curling into his side, my face pressed to his chest, tail winding round his waist like a living chain. My purr is a weak, uncertain thing, more whimper than rumble, but it steadies as I feel his presence, the solid, cold certainty of him anchoring me to the world.
I breathe him in, slow, greedy, possessive, letting the heat of him seep through me until the need stops hurting and turns to something warm, safe, absolute. Mine. Always mine. Even at my worst, even bloated and broken and wild, I am his. And as I finally, finally settle, I press a last little whine into his skin, just to remind him, he’s the only thing that ever fills me, the only comfort in the dark.
