Master pauses as we go to leave the room. Without a word he reaches for the sideboard tray, someone’s left a fresh pot of embercrack tea steaming there. He lifts teapot and tilts it over our matching flasks pouring it in slowly. The sharp, bitter mushroom scent floods the air between us until he caps both flasks and clips them to our belts.

  He then turns to me as his hands slide under my thighs and behind my back in the same motion he used on the rooftops. I’m airborne for half a heartbeat then cradled against his chest again, legs draped over his arm. My tail curls twice around his forearm, fluff brushing his elbow, anchoring me as he starts walking down the corridor.

  “Hmm,” he murmurs against my temple, voice low, “What a holiday thus far, my dear kitten.”

  The words sink into me soft and warm. Holiday. Like we’ve been sightseeing instead of burning warehouses and baring steel in council rooms. I huff a laugh against his throat, half purr, half whine deciding to use that to nuzzle beneath his ear.

  Suddenly his free hand finds my tail. Fingers close around the base, gentle but certain, a deliberate stroke. He follows the line of my thoughts through the bond like he’s reading a map only he can see. The vast room of his mind opens wider for me, but this time he’s the one stepping inside mine. He knows exactly where the craving starts. He knows the pace I need right now, not frantic, not gentle but firm, unhurried and possessive. He knows the exact spots I want simply from invading the bond.

  While he is doing this he carries me to one of the guildhouse balconies. He sets me down gentle on the wide balcony, my boots finding the edge, knees bending so I perch safely. I don’t let go completely though, one of my hands stays on his cloak, claws hooked through the wool, tail still curled twice around his forearm.

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  The city spreads out below us, that particular warehouse district still has the orange glow of the fire, contained now, stopped by the massive stone fire breaks that carve Merchant Cross into districts. The rich don’t let fire cross their lines, they let it eat the poor and call it contained.

  Master pulls his flask free, unscrews the cap, takes a deep swallow of the embercrack tea, I mirror him instantly, fumbling mine open with one hand, the other still gripping his cloak. The tea burns going down yet waking every part inside of me. I tilt my head back, let the warmth spread through my chest, then hold the flask out toward his.

  He taps his against mine, a soft clink happens like a toast to nothing and everything. We drink in silence for a moment, side by side on the ledge whilst watching the distant orange pulse fade to embers. My tail flicks slow arcs behind me, brushing his calf then curls back around his wrist again.

  I lean my shoulder into his side, cheek rubbing once along his arm, slow and deliberate. The bond hums quiet between us.

  The fire down there did damage, warehouses gutted, crates of alchemicals turned to slag, Cartel runners scrambling in the smoke. But the upper districts sleep sound. Wells stand ready, fire breaks wide as streets, guards posted to keep the blaze from creeping elsewhere.

  “Contained,” I murmur, voice husky from the tea and the night. “They’ll call it contained. Let it smolder while they sleep.”

  He doesn’t answer right away. but through the bond he feels it all. So I nip his throat lightly. “Holiday’s not over yet, Master,” I whisper “We’ve got tea, we’ve got firelight, we’ve got the whole damn city below us thinking it’s safe just take me home after this.”

  He exhales, “Eventually" he says.

  I melt against him, tail squeezing, claws kneading his cloak, face buried deeper in his neck.