Chapter 33, The Quiet start
Dawn never comes sweetly in Maw Mine. It seeps in, blue-grey and cold, through the cracks in the walls, never enough to banish the dark entirely. I’m awake long before the world stirs, curled tight around him, watching the lamplight bleed into a murky haze. My tail drapes over his waist, thumping slow and idle, the tip flicking with restless energy that never really fades, not even after a night half-spent dozing and half-prowling the shadows of my own mind.
He’s still there, his chest rising and falling beneath me, my body wound round him, claws curled just above his heart. I can feel the pulse, slow, measured, so infuriatingly calm it makes my own blood itch for mischief. I breathe him in, inhaling deeply, feverishly, the scent of salt, iron, and old wool, never quite clean, never quite tamed. He’s mine, even now, helpless under the weight of me, trapped by the tangle of arms and tail and the way my legs pin him in place.
COMPLETELY MINE.
I lean in, nuzzling his neck, teeth scraping lightly over the soft skin just above his collarbone, not enough to wake him, just enough to remind him in his dreams that I’m always there. My lips curl in a sly, mean little smile, a brand of mischief, twisted round my tongue, hungry for a reaction, for chaos, for anything to shatter the peace he’s always so desperate to maintain. I could bite him. I could mark him up, ruin the quiet with laughter and claws and the raw proof that he belongs to me, and only me. But I don’t. Not yet. The anticipation is half the pleasure.
He shifts in his sleep, and I press closer, all heat and bone, breath ghosting over his skin as my ears twitch, listening to every little noise from beyond the door, the thud of boots, the scrape of bowls, the distant groan of miners rousing for another day of drudgery. None of it matters. Nothing matters but this, my claim, my victory, the silent truth that even in sleep he cannot escape me.
I watch his face for any sign of waking, my eyes narrow and glinting with a predator’s patience, tongue flicking out to taste the salt at his jaw. My tail knots tighter round his thigh, possessive, greedy, refusing to give him up to daylight or duty or any world that doesn’t have me at its centre. Let the market scream and the Vigilance rattle their spears outside. Let the Crimson Swarm hunt their prey in the streets. He’s not moving until I say so.
And for now, I just savour it, my spoils, my secret, the warmth and weight of him trapped beneath my claws. MINE, ALWAYS MINE, The world will wait.
He’s cocooned under me, limbs tangled, my thighs tight on either side of his, my claws pricking at the fabric of his tunic, just hard enough to threaten, never enough to draw blood. My tail is knotted round his thigh so tight it leaves marks, the little pink imprints of ownership that will still be there long after I let him go. I lick his throat, slow and taunting, just below the jaw where the skin is softest. He doesn’t wake, of course not, he trusts me far too much, or maybe he’s just resigned, because he knows there’s nothing in this world that could pry me off when I decide to stay.
That makes me smile. No, it makes me grin, teeth bared, tongue flicking against his skin as I huff a laugh, low and mean and full of that spoiled spite. I nuzzle, then bite, a playful nip, just enough to threaten bruising, and purr against the spot, daring him to stir, to challenge me, to even try to leave before I’ve had my fun. All that discipline, all that control, and yet here he is, utterly at my mercy, the clever, untouchable Master reduced to just prey under my paws.
I squirm, shifting my hips so the weight of me pins him harder, my tail drumming in lazy, mocking arcs against his leg, making sure he feels every inch of me. I start to murmur, voice sing-song and sticky sweet, right into his ear, nonsense about how lovely he is when he’s quiet, how pretty his throat looks bared like that, how maybe I’ll just keep him like this forever, just mine, helpless, never allowed to move without my say-so.
“You’re not going anywhere,” I whisper, letting my voice drip with honey and malice. “Not until I’ve had my fill. Not until I say so. They could burn this inn to the ground and I’d still be here, laughing, making you mine, again and again. All those stupid little animals out there? Chasing scraps, chasing gods, chasing order? Useless. They’ll never understand what it means to own something real.”
I dig my claws in a little deeper, just a promise of pain, then shift so I’m nose-to-nose with him, grinning wide enough to hurt, eyes alight with a fever that never cools. “Wake up, Master,” I purr, “or I’ll eat you alive. I’m bored, and you know what happens when I get bored.”
And the moment his eyelids so much as flicker, I pounce, pinning his arms, laughter bubbling up, wild and delighted and so possessively cruel there’s nothing gentle left. This is my morning. My prize. My game. And I’ll play it until he begs for mercy, or for more.
He wakes with that cold, blank-eyed calm "Morning, kitten", like it’s the most natural thing in the world to find himself pinned under a half-wild thing hungry enough to eat him alive. He barely even blinks as he rolls onto his side, arm curling round me, burying his face in the heat of my tail, so possessive and casual it makes something inside me snap taut, delight and fury all knotted up together.
I arch, purring viciously, pressing in closer, twisting my body around his, my tail wrapping tighter, tighter, until he can barely breathe for all the fur and muscle and hunger I pin him with. I flick my ears and bare my teeth, nipping the top of his ear, running my tongue over the spot as my purr rattles the air, low and territorial.
“You know you shouldn’t let your guard down, Master,” I taunt, voice sugary and sharp, claws dragging just beneath his collar, tracing the line where skin meets leather, the one place that proves who owns him. “You keep waking up wrapped in me, one of these days I really will bite down and never let go.” My hips shift against him, a sly, mocking pressure, all cruelty and laughter, my eyes flashing with the gleam of someone who would rather ruin a morning than let it pass quietly.
He nestles into my tail like it’s some comfort, like it belongs to him. I dig my claws in a little, not enough to hurt, just enough to remind him he’s got no say in this, not really. Not when I decide he’s mine. My tail thumps the bed, half threatening, half invitation, heat spiralling in my chest, that constant, gnawing ache for him.
“Say it again,” I purr, voice soft and dangerous, “call me your kitten. Show me you remember who’s really got you trapped here. Or maybe...” and I laugh, manic and bright, nuzzling against his jaw, “maybe I’ll just keep you here all day and let the whole world burn without you. Let them wait. Let them starve. I’ve got what I need.”
I wrap myself tighter, content to lie there with him tangled up in my tail, daring the world to try and take him back, knowing they’ll fail every time. This morning is mine, and so is he, and I’ll stake my claws in both until there’s nothing left but the shreds of anyone who tries to say otherwise.
The command doesn’t arrive as a word. It doesn’t arrive as a sound. It detonates directly behind my eyes.
Heel.
The bond hits me like a falling boulder, slamming through my skull, ripping my breath away in a single violent jolt. My entire body convulses in instinct before I can think, before I can breathe, before I can decide anything at all. One moment I’m smirking, sharp and smug and cruel, tail wrapped tight around him in playful dominance. The next I’m scrambling.
The mania flips inside me. Heat, delight, arrogance, gone. Replaced by a full‑body spike of dread so intense it nearly knocks the air out of my lungs. My ears snap flat. My tail unravels around him in a panicked shiver. My breath catches, sharp and frantic.
I don’t choose to move, my body just obeys.
My nose buries against his chest, pressing again and again, desperate and wild, frantic little nudges searching for danger, fear, fury, anything. I paw at his shirt, claws barely contained, trying to check his pulse, his breathing, the tension in his muscles, the tone of his scent.
“Master, Master, Master", The words tumble out of me in a cracked whisper, breath shaking, pupils blown wide. My whole body curls around him like a shield made of trembling limbs, my mind spiralling in the bond, slamming into every wall looking for an explanation, for reassurance, for a sign that he isn't angry, that I haven’t shattered something without knowing.
The mania reverses so hard it feels like my skull is splitting. One second I was grinning. The next I’m shaking. “Are you hurt?” “Are you angry?” “Did I do something wrong?”
“Master, look at me, look at me, I’m here”
I nose at his jaw, at his cheek, at his throat, tiny panicked touches as if trying to physically fix whatever I might have broken without realising it. My tail wraps around his leg again, but not out of pride or ownership. Out of fear. Fear of losing his warmth. Fear of displeasing him. Fear of the bond going silent.
One whispered psychic command. One single thought thrown into the bond. And I fold instantly. Kneeling mentally. Curling physically. Clinging desperately. The manic grin is gone. The sly cruelty dissolves. All that remains is raw, shaking instinct.
My forehead presses against his collarbone again. “Please… talk to me…” I breathe, voice tiny, terrified, almost childlike in its fracture.
Then he just pets my head, fingers weaving through my hair, scratching behind my ears with that slow, detached calm. I shiver under his hand, leaning into the touch so hard it almost hurts, needing him to ground me, to remind me that I’m still wanted, still his, not in trouble, not about to be thrown out like some ruined toy.
He sits up, rubbing the sleep from his eyes as if nothing happened, as if my mind isn’t a storm of panic and need. "Come on then, let’s go get some breakfast." No emotion, no accusation. Just an order, as easy as breathing. I nod, quick and eager, tail coiling round his leg for reassurance, forcing my body to calm, to shrink down, to be the good little thing he expects.
I slide off the bed, hovering at his side, every muscle strung tight, eyes never leaving him. My purr comes back, thin, nervous, but there, rubbing my head against his arm with a desperate, apologetic need, as if I can erase whatever made him snap the leash. My ears flatten, and I follow him to the door, always one step behind, heart pounding, ready to prove I can obey, I can behave, I can be exactly what he wants.
