Chapter Text
Oxford, England, End of June 1962
The wind carried the scent of damp stone, and the heavy humidity of a rainy summer day as Charles leapt from the balcony of his flat, a pale blur against the dark. He landed neatly on the garden wall, flexing his paws to cushion the impact. Tail raised, whiskers twitching with contentment, he walked along the wall in perfect balance.
It'd been almost two weeks since he last indulged in his nighttime walks. He'd been buried in thesis work and lab deadlines; he'd started to feel like a caged animal. Literally.
He needed time in animal form. Without it, the prolonged suppression of his true nature left him weak, almost sick. But when he shifted into a cat, the need to roam outdoors was irresistible. He liked curling up on soft couches, sure, but he also craved the freedom to run, stalk, and chase. But when his human life took too much of his time, the only thing he could do was to sleep in cat form. Even if the fact that cats actually napped left him more agitated than rested, in the end.
He wasn't sure if all Shifters felt this way. He'd never met anyone else like him, except Raven. But her situation was different. As a tiger, Charles had always forbidden her from venturing out in animal form. Back home, in their Westchester estate, it hadn't been a problem; there were acres of forest to explore there. But when Charles moved to Oxford for university, Raven – unwilling to remain behind with their family – had followed. Their apartment there was small, and the city was crowded. There was no way she could safely roam the streets as a predator. Someone could shoot her, or worse, capture her.
Charles' father had agreed to adopt her at Charles' own insistence. He was a good man with a kind heart, but he died only a few months later, leaving behind his son, his newly adopted daughter and a wife who didn't care for either of them. On the contrary, she preferred drowning in grief and wine, leaving the house staff to provide for them. Eventually, she remarried one of her late husband's colleagues, a man with a cruel streak and an even crueler son.
And since it's always been the two of them, Charles wasn't willing to risk losing her. His sister had become his only anchor, the one who kept him afloat in his despair. And, above all, someone who was just like him. He'd grown fiercely protective, afraid that the wrong move would see her taken from him.
He knew she was suffocating in the cramped flat, but what else could he do? Apart from considering going back to the States once he graduated, so that she could be free again in the Westchester manor. As much as he hated that place.
That night, they'd fought again about the same thing. Raven wanted to go out, Charles said no. The argument ended in slammed doors and tear-streaked cheeks, both of them furious and heartbroken.
Perhaps it was hypocritical of Charles, but in the end, after making sure she was asleep, he'd slipped out, desperate for fresh air, and to escape the crushing guilt gnawing at his chest. He'd tried to return to his thesis, he really did, but he couldn't focus; twenty minutes staring at the same sentence while his mind spiraled with self-loathing and worst-case scenarios. Every fight with Raven always led to this.
If he could, he'd give her the whole world. But the only thing she truly wanted was freedom. And Charles – selfish, terrified bastard that he was – couldn't give it to her. He couldn't bear to be alone again.
Reaching the end of the garden wall, he jumped down to the street and padded toward Magdalen College, with half a mind to go back to the library or simply turn up at the night porter door for some warm milk. Now, that would have done wonders to cheer up his bad mood.
The night air ruffled his cream-colored fur as his sharp blue eyes scanned the moonlit streets. Midnight in Oxford was unusually quiet, as most students were probably inside, catching up on last-minute coursework before graduation. He'd already noticed several windows still lit as he walked.
But the calm didn't last.
From a dark alley ahead, his heightened senses caught the acrid stench of alcohol and the low murmur of slurred laughter. Charles hesitated, the only way forward was straight past it; he could head back, or he could go and hope to pass unnoticed.
The problem was that, as a Birman cat, he rarely went unnoticed. With his plush cream coat and bright eyes, he looked far too polished to pass as a stray. One could practically see his pedigree written across his fur. And people had a – in his humble opinion – sick tendency to abuse small, cute creatures like him.
He scanned the nearby buildings, searching for a ledge or drainpipe, anything that could offer a safer path. Something that could give him the slightest advantage of height and more control over the situation. He wasn't reckless, he had a well trained feline survival instinct, sharpened by the human intellect.
However, before he could move, a group stumbled out of the alley, tall shadows weaving through the dark, shouting and swearing. Charles pressed himself against a building's wall, trying to disappear into the narrow band of darkness between two street lamps. He barely dared to breathe.
It didn't work. The group spotted him almost immediately, and one of them – a broad-shouldered man with the swagger of a pack leader – lit up with drunken amusement.
"Look at the damn cat," he slurred, stumbling closer. "What's it doing here? This ain't no pussy's playground."
Charles wanted to bolt out of the way and run to safety, but as soon as he turned his little head he saw the rest of them closing in, blocking any escape routes. There were twelve of them, maybe fifteen, rounding up on him. He was trapped.
He hissed, retreating toward the wall behind him, his back arched as he bared his claws and fangs. He still wasn't totally helpless, cats were predators after all. But prey too, came a little traitorous voice in his mind. His own damn voice.
If he could dart between their legs, maybe he could try to escape. They were drunk and slow, it could work…
Unfortunately, he hadn't taken into account how cruel they were, and was surprised when pain exploded in his side. One of them had already kicked him.
He hit the ground hard, claws scraping stone. His flank was already throbbing in pain, and it took him a second too much to get back on his paws. If those bastards hit him a little harder it could have become risky. Charles could have died. After all, it didn't take much for a grown-up adult to kill a cat.
Help, he screamed, letting out a frightened yowl. Maybe someone could hear him and come to his rescue.
Meanwhile, one of the others was almost shouting excitedly, "There's a bridge nearby. We could–"
If cats could cry, Charles would've been sobbing by now. He saw no way out, no one to save him. He was completely, miserably alone. Helpless.
"Shut the fuck up," the leader snapped. "Someone might hear you. Idiot."
"Here, kitty kitty," cooed another with mock sweetness, his hand outstretched, eyes gleaming with cruelty. "I'm not going to hurt you."
Yes, of course.
Just as the man's hand was about to grab him, Charles lunged, claws slashing deep into flesh. They came out stained in blood. The guy howled in pain, jerking back and lifting his other hand to clutch his arm. Blood was already pouring down onto the cobblestone.
"You little shit!" he roared, face twisting into something almost inhuman with rage. "You're dead now!"
They rushed him. A blur of fists and boots and adrenaline surging too fast for him to think straight.
Shitshitshit–
Charles braced himself, limbs tensing instinctively, preparing to fight back even though he knew it wouldn't be enough. Not with the bruised ribs. Not when there were twelve, fifteen of them and only one of him.
He didn't want to hurt anyone, but he wasn't going down quietly either.
Then, everything happened in a blur. A growl resounded in the air and, from the shadows beyond the alley's mouth, a hulking figure materialized. A Dobermann – pitch-black, sleek, huge – barreled out from the darkness with a deep, resonant bark that cut through the night. His teeth were bared in a furious snarl, foam catching on his gums, breath heavy. His glowing eyes gleamed like twin coals in the dark, filled with icy rage.
Charles froze.
It was a haunting sight. This creature came out of the mist like something conjured from a nightmare. An avenging hound, a hellbeast made real. The swirling fog along the curb seemed to part for him, ghostly tendrils wrapping around his legs as he approached with a menacingly pace.
The boys stood paralyzed and wide-eyed. One of them muttered something under his breath, something between a prayer and a curse. The leader flinched. Even the drunkest of them could sense that this was no ordinary dog.
The growl that rumbled from deep in its chest was low and steady, like distant thunder or the earth itself groaning underfoot. The bone-deep rumble that seemed to shake the very ground beneath Charles' paws.
Charles stared, heart pounding, legs still trembling from the earlier blows.
Is this really happening?
And then, clear as a bell, a voice echoed inside his mind.
Back off. The voice didn't sound English. No, it was something more continental… Dutch or maybe German.
Charles blinked, stunned. It took a second for his brain to process the implication. In front of him, came to his rescue, was a Shifter. He didn't know whether to laugh or cry or purr in relief. All these years, it had just been him and Raven. No one else. No proof that they weren't freak accidents of evolution; just theories, daydreams and hopes. But now, here he was. Proof, standing four-legged and furious between him and a group of would-be murderers.
The students hesitated. They weren't laughing anymore. Their cocky bravado wavered. Some of them were already backing up, slowly, unsure if they should bolt or play it cool. But the leader wasn't smart enough to take the warning.
He squared up with a lopsided grin, fists clenched like he was still in control of the situation. "What're you gonna do, doggie?" he sneered. "Bite us?"
Wrong move.
With terrifying speed, the Dobermann lunged.
A blur of black muscle and bared teeth slammed the man flat on his back. He hit the pavement hard with a thud and a choked yelp, air knocked from his lungs. The dog stood over him, jaws bared, muzzle pressed inches from his face. The growl now was deafening, close enough that the man's hair fluttered in the breath of it.
The others scattered, panic erupting between them. Their shoes slipped on damp pavement, as they tripped over themselves. One of them fell and skidded into a trash bin with a shout, another ran headfirst into the alley wall before scrambling away again.
Charles watched, blinking slowly. The leader's bravado had vanished, and he was now whimpering, trembling beneath the Shifter's weight, muttering apologies and pleas.
How quickly they broke when their own fear was reflected back at them.
Charles limped closer. Pain radiated from his side with every breath, but he forced himself forward anyway. He looked at the boy on the ground – this dumb, angry kid who, just a minute ago, was ready to stomp him into unconsciousness – and felt no anger, no satisfaction. Just… exhaustion.
He didn't believe in retaliation. Not for something like this. Not even now.
The Dobermann's snarl continued, low and guttural, vibrating in the air between them. Charles took a breath.
Please, he said to the dog. Let him go.
The Dobermann glanced at him, as if checking whether he was serious – or just mad – then looked back at the boy beneath his paws. With a final snarl in the student's face, he stepped aside. The guy didn't waste a second. He scrambled to his feet and bolted, not daring to look back.
You're lucky I'm in a good mood, the dog called after him. But only Charles heard the words; to anyone else, it was just a sharp bark echoing down the now-empty street.
Then the Dobermann turned to Charles, eyes keen and calculating. He was studying him, assessing. Like a chess master looking over the board before the opening move.
Neither of them moved. They stood there, opponents in a ring circling around each other before the round began. It felt absurd that he, a skinny, scuffed-up cat, was trying to hold the gaze of this looming, muscular Dobermann who looked like he'd walked straight out of some warzone.
Even in the dim light, Charles could make out the scars scattered across the dog's body. They crisscrossed the dog's shoulders and flanks, thin and white, like old reminders of brutal encounters. Some had healed ragged and deep. They gave him a grim, worn-in look. He'd clearly fought before, maybe often. Charles thought he might've been a soldier. He seemed young, though – at least by dog standards – so likely not from the last War.
Still, there was something striking about him. His coat was inky black, almost unnaturally so, gleaming in the streetlight. Every movement revealed a ripple of taut muscle beneath it. But it was those eyes that held Charles in place. They were of an intense, piercing green-grey that seemed to see right through Charles. There was no softness in them, as they peeled back Charles' skin, looking for weakness.
He was beautiful, Charles realized. Disturbingly so.
Which was an entirely unwelcome revelation, because Charles didn't like dogs. Charles especially didn't like dogs who were tall, dangerous, and smug. And, God forbid, handsome.
Dogs were loud and impulsive. Messy. Always sniffing things, barking at leaves, wagging those ridiculous tails like their hearts were going to explode from joy over a stick. They had no self-respect, all it took was a high-pitched voice and a scrap of food, and they'd throw themselves on their backs, tongue lolling like idiots.
One couldn't reason with a dog, they were either trying to lick your face or chew your shoes.
And cats – it was well known – didn't like dogs. He'd met enough of them to confirm it with certainty.
Which made the flutter in his stomach all the more frustrating.
You can talk, the Dobermann said at last, circling him like a predator sizing up prey. Charles grimaced. God, please don't.
He straightened as much as he could, trying to reclaim some dignity, doing his best to stand tall; though "tall" was generous. Every inch of him ached. Tomorrow, he'd be wearing a bruise the size of a teacup.
You too, he retorted, with a flick of his tail that he hoped read as confident rather than pissy. It probably didn't. But at least his voice was steadier than he felt.
Anyway, he added, voice tight with restrained annoyance, thank you, I suppose.
The words were bitter in his mouth. He hated thanking people. Hated needing anyone. He'd grown up more or less alone, raising another child along with him. Help had never come when he needed it, so he'd learned to stop expecting it. Being saved didn't sit right, being indebted even worse.
The Dobermann stopped pacing and planted himself directly in front of Charles. Looming. Just enough to make his presence felt.
You're a little thing, he said, flatly. You should be careful, Kätzchen.
Kitten.
That, he knew the meaning of.
Charles' ears flattened instinctively. His tail lashed once, betraying his irritation before he could catch it. Kätzchen? Seriously? Who the hell did this guy think he was? Just because he'd swooped in like some mangy, four-legged vigilante didn't give him the right to mock him. Charles hadn't been that helpless. He'd just been caught off guard, that was all. It could have happened to anyone.
I'm perfectly capable of handling myself, he replied sharply, posture stiff with wounded pride. Thank you very much.
The Dobermann almost laughed. It was a deep, amused sound reverberating inside Charles' skull. There was something infuriatingly smug about it.
Oh yes, he said, with the faintest trace of irony. I could see that.
Charles hissed.
For a moment, it looked like the Dobermann might have walked away. His body shifted, head tilting slightly toward the shadows as if he were ready to melt back into them. And that… that shouldn't have bothered Charles. But it did, as the adrenaline of the past few minutes began to ebb, Charles' excitement surged back with renewed force. He didn't want to let him go.
Charles took a step forward, careful not to show how much it hurt. He forced his voice into casual neutrality, even though everything inside him was buzzing with exhilaration.
You've got a long way to go, he added casually, his voice laced with poorly masked curiosity. As if he didn't desperately want this stranger to stay.
The dog looked down – literally – at him. A flicker of disdain passed through his eyes. Or maybe it was just irritation. I am, he conceded.
What are you doing here? Charles asked, before he could stop himself.
The Dobermann growled low, a dangerous warning to drop the questioning. It's none of your business, Kätzchen.
Then he cast Charles one final glance and turned to walk away, heading back the way he came. Be more careful next time, Kätzchen, he called over his shoulder.
And he was gone, like a shadow swallowed by the night.
Charles decided to call it a night and head home. He needed sleep, needed to rest and let the pain dull with time. But as he made his way back, he couldn't shake thoughts of the other Shifter. He wished he'd had the chance to talk to him longer; maybe even make a connection, despite the Dobermann's aloof demeanor and prickly nature. The missed opportunity stung. He should've asked for his name. Idiot.
Back at his building, he jumped on the balcony with a pained mew. Once inside, he collapsed on the bed, shifting to human form again but not even bothering to cover himself. He was too tired and sore. But sleep didn't come.
The image of those piercing green-grey eyes flashed in his mind. There was something about the other Shifter that pulled at him, something in the raw strength he carried, in the mystery and danger that clung to him.
Charles tossed and turned all night, his thoughts too entangled in the encounter to find peace. When he finally drifted off, he dreamed of a tall, dark, and handsome stranger with green-grey eyes who whispered his name, holding him close against a warm, bare chest. A wave of pleasure spread through his body as he purred in contentment.
When morning came, bruises painting his ribs and shoulder in painful colors, Charles awoke smiling. And that smile stayed with him for days.
✤✤✤
London, England, June 1962
The room was stale with the smell of smoke, sweat and blood. Dust hung thick in the air, disturbed only by the ragged breaths of the man slumped in the chair. Somewhere, in the distance, a dog barked, making his ears automatically perk in response. Otherwise, the world was silent.
They were on the outskirts of London, in a rotting house left to ruin. Erik had drawn the man here with a well-placed whisper about an international money network. A half-truth, just convincing enough for a man like him, a man with secrets and too much arrogance to hide them well. He knew what strings to pull on such a man. After all, he'd been the head of the lab in which Erik had been tortured for years.
A single bulb swayed overhead, the light flickering as it cut through the dimness. It cast long, nervous shadows across the cracked plaster. Erik stood still, arms crossed, a silhouette against the far wall. He was waiting for a single answer, always the same one.
"Wo ist Schmidt?" he said again, voice calm but carrying an edge of annoyance now. [Where is Schmidt?]
The repetition was starting to wear thin.
The man coughed, a hoarse rattle that became a wince. He twitched as the pain surged through his battered frame. Blood had dried in thick, rust-colored lines along his collar, but fresh trails still seeped from the gash at his temple. "Ich weiß es nicht," he rasped. [I don't know.]
Erik stepped forward, his boots whispering through the dust. From his pocket, he drew a coin – a German Reichsmark that had belonged to Schmidt himself – and he made it twist between his fingers.
"Ich glaube, Sie wissen es," Erik said coolly. "Und ich glaube, Sie glauben, dass jemand kommen wird, um Sie zu retten." [I think you do.] [And I think you believe that someone will come to save you.]
He grabbed the man by the collar and yanked him forward. Their faces were inches apart now, breath to breath.
"Ich sag dir was… niemand wird dich holen kommen," he murmured, lips curling into something that wasn't quite a smile. [Let me tell you what… nobody will come for you.]
The man's expression twisted, his fear momentarily overtaken by hate. "Du bist verrückt, Judensau" he spat. [You're insane, Jew pig.]
Erik froze, for just a split second.
How many times had he heard those words in the camps? How many other insults they'd forged to degrade his people and make fun of them, while they died of starvation and exhaustion. It made him angry, and it made him cruel to hear it again after that many years.
His hand stilled. The coin slipped from his fingers and hit the concrete with a soft, metallic click.
That was the only warning.
He drew the gun and struck the man again on the head, then he pressed the barrel between his eyes. The steel sank easily into the thick layer of fat covering his forehead, already slick with sweat. The man whimpered, and his face crumpled as sobs overtook him. Small, pitiful sounds. But Erik wasn't finished, he lifted a foot and pressed it on the already broken kneecap of the scientist, eliciting a loud, pained scream.
"Wo ist Schmidt?" Erik said again, leaning closer. [Where is Schmidt?]
The man shook his head violently, the movement almost childish, as the flesh of his cheeks swayed back and forth. "USA, New York, Las Vegas. Ich weiß es nicht genau, bitte." [USA, New York, Las Vegas. I don't know exactly, please.]
Erik exhaled through his nose. Coward.
These men were always brave in white coats, dissecting lives and souls like insects under a microscope. But take away the protections, strip them bare, and they shriveled.
He said nothing for a long, terrifying moment. Just watched the man squirm under his silence. Then he stepped back and turned his back on him.
"Sie werden alles aufschreiben, woran Sie sich erinnern. Namen, Orte, alles," he said. "Wenn Sie lügen, werde ich es wissen. Und ich werde dich und deine Familie holen." [You're going to write down everything you remember. Names, places, anything.] [If you lie, I'll know. And I'll come for you and your family.]
When Erik turned again, he saw the man nodding frantically, nearly choking on the relief. Idiot. Maybe he thought cooperation would earn him mercy.
He wouldn't live long enough to be disappointed.
"Links oder rechts?" Erik asked, motioning lazily from one of the man's hands to the other with the barrel of the gun. [Left or right?]
"Rechts," came the trembling reply. [Right.]
Erik holstered the weapon and drew a pocket knife, slicing the rope binding the right hand. The man flexed his fingers, barely able to hold the pencil Erik placed between them. Then he began to clumsily write on a scrap of paper balanced on his thigh.
When he was done, Erik took the paper and read it in silence. Then, without a word, he raised the gun again and fired once; the shot was clean and efficient. The body sagged in the chair, still.
Erik turned, stepped over the threshold, and disappeared into the night.
Outside, the rain had started again, draping the world in silver streaks and the sour smell of wet stone. The street shimmered under the amber glow of the lamps, puddles catching reflections like broken glass. Erik moved through the narrow alleys of East London, his coat catching the wind and fluttering behind his back. He walked steadily, but with no rush. The paper in his pocket already told him where he was going next.
USA. He needed to search both New York and Las Vegas. Schmidt's – or Shaw, as he called himself in America – business apparently extended from the West to the East Coast.
But first, Italy. He needed supplies, and a safe passage.
Schmidt was close now. He could feel it in his bones, like a storm approaching behind his ribs. The thought twisted sharply in his chest, and his jaw clenched so hard it sent a pulse of pain into his temple. Every step forward made the hunt feel more real. Inevitable.
The adrenaline was wearing off. As he neared the hotel – a shabby place tucked into a forgotten side street – he felt the weight of his body settle. A heaviness that went deeper than exhaustion.
Still, the coppery tang of blood clung beneath one fingernail, a tiny reminder of what he'd done. What he'd become. He needed to clean up, pack, and disappear.
And yet…
His thoughts kept circling back. Not to the man he'd killed, but the one he'd saved. He wondered what that said about him. Was he just a vicious murderer, or was there still something good, pure, that had survived the camps?
He didn't know it, but that damn cat was making him rethink his entire existence.
Damned cat!
The image surfaced uninvited in his mind again: those blue eyes – the bluest he'd ever seen – staring up at him, wary and defiant; the shiny, fluffy cream-white fur with a splash of grey on the muzzle, ears, paws and tail. Cute was the right word to describe him; but Erik wasn't the kind of person who used such words.
Even bruised and trembling, the Kätzchen had stood tall, dignity intact. Seemingly unbothered by the danger he'd just dodged. Rather, he'd fought back bravely, even though a little thing like him would've had no chance against fifteen grown humans.
Erik had seen plenty of strays before, and he was sure that he wasn't one. His fur was too well-kept, his body too plump, he looked like a house cat. A rich one, too. And well, he was no ordinary cat. He'd spoken to him, they'd been able to communicate while in animal form.
That cat was like him.
Die Wechselnden, Schmidt called them. Shifters.
Schmidt had always claimed there were more, even whole populations of them, scattered and hidden. An entire species who could transform from humans into animals at will. In ancient times, they'd been treated as myths, stories about cursed souls who could take the shape of beasts told to scare the kids.
Erik had dismissed it all as another manipulation. He'd never met another, and he'd learned long ago not to believe anything Schmidt told him.
But now…
The realization felt like vertigo. And beneath it – buried in the place he tried never to reach – was a strange, aching hope. What if there were more? What if he wasn't alone?
What if…
No. He shut the thought down. There was no room for fantasy in war. He had a mission. Schmidt had to die. And Erik couldn't afford distractions, especially ones with soft paws and stubborn blue eyes.
Still, there had been something about him. That Kätzchen had fire. Even in pain and terrified, he'd stood his ground. Probably it was just instinct, perhaps arrogance. Or maybe something else, pride, something that Erik recognized too well.
He'd known the Kätzchen was trouble the moment he'd heard those cries for help in the alley. Knew it the second his feet moved toward them. An unknown variable in a plan that had no room for error, and encompassed his entire life.
But he had rushed forward anyway, as if he'd been pushed in the direction of the kitten by an inevitable superior force.
Gott, if he focused hard enough, Erik could still smell him. A strange, comforting scent of floral soap, Earl Grey, and something like paper. It stirred something he'd long since buried with his childhood. It smelled like… home. Or something close enough to hurt.
Maybe once he completed his mission – assuming he survived, of course – he could return to Oxford and look for that cat. Wishful thinking, really. But the thought clung to him all the same.
He stopped just outside the hotel entrance, and exhaled slowly, trying to shake it off.
He's a distraction. Irrelevant. No one. And I'll never see him again.
But the memory lingered. That moment of hesitation, like the kitten didn't want him to go. As if Erik was someone interesting worth knowing, instead of a rotting monster who knew nothing but evil.
And Erik – damn him – had almost stayed. Drawn by the promise of... a connection. Maybe even friendship. Something of which he certainly wasn't worth.
A bitter curse hissed out in German under his breath. No. That part of him – the soft, foolish, weak part – had gotten people killed. He knew better. He'd always known better. Dreams like that were luxuries he couldn't afford.
He slipped into the building, as quiet as a shadow in a city that didn't care who lived or died. The concierge didn't even look up. Upstairs, the room was dark and damp. He didn't bother with the lights.
He peeled off the coat, set the gun on the dresser, and headed into the tiny bathroom. He turned on the tap and pushed his hands under the ice cold water. Blood swirled into the sink, diluted pink at first, then clear. He scrubbed until his hands stung.
He had work to do. There was no time for ghosts that already belonged to the past. No time for guilt. No time for… him.
He dried his hands slowly, staring at his reflection in the cracked mirror. The man staring back looked older than he remembered. Tired. Harsher. But behind the eyes, something had shifted. A sliver of... longing?
"Dumme kleine Katze," he muttered, the words brittle, bitter on his tongue. [Stupid little cat.]
He should've kept walking, should've let the thugs finish it. That would've been simpler. Yes, but then the kitten would've died, a treacherous voice whispered in his head. And he certainly wouldn't have wanted to see the little thing beaten to death by drunken imbeciles.
Again, he wondered what this said about him, who had killed dozens of Nazis in cold blood and melted at the thought of a Kätzchen in danger.
Maybe it was exhaustion. Or maybe he was just unraveling at the edges. He told himself a good night's sleep would help. Push the kitten back into the past where he belonged.
He couldn't be getting attached. Not to the first spoiled, arrogant, too-pretty cat to cross his path.
He hated cats. Arrogant little bastards. Aloof and smug, walking around like they owned the world. Pedigreed ones like Kätzchen? Even worse. Erik was a respectable animal, not some pampered house pet chasing attention like a prince in fur.
He stared into the mirror a moment longer, something restless moving behind his eyes. Then he clicked off the bathroom light.
Rome, tomorrow.
And, hopefully, no more kittens.
