I Rescued a Stray Cat, Now Beasts Fear Me

§PROLOGUE

Dorian Kingsley watched her sleep.

The moonlight filtered through the cheap blinds of her cramped studio apartment, casting silver stripes across the rumpled duvet.

Underneath it, Maeve Connolly murmured, one hand thrown over her pillow, her breathing deep and even.

He lay curled at the foot of her bed, a compact knot of muscle and shadow disguised as a perfectly ordinary British Shorthair.

To her, he was George, the stray she’d rescued from a rain-slicked alley, her only companion in a city that felt determined to chew her up and spit her out.

To the ancient world that hid in the cracks of human awareness, he was the King of Beasts.

And she, this woman who smelled of antiseptic soap and quiet desperation, was beginning to smell more and more like him.

Like his territory.

Like his own.

He’d felt the shift tonight, subtle but unmistakable.

The ambient magic of the city, usually a dull, chaotic thrum, had sparked around her for a barest second, a flicker of impossible power before settling again.

It was the echo of a bloodline long thought lost.

A power that made the tiger within him stir, a low growl vibrating in his chest, almost a purr.

He had found her.

After ten long years, he had finally found her.

He watched until the first hints of dawn painted the sky a bruised purple, then rose, stretched, and leaped silently from the bed.

His job tonight was done.

Soon, his real work would begin.

She had to be brought into his world.

Before her own world tore her apart.

§01

My name is Maeve Connolly, and I was officially a failure.

With a Master's in Veterinary Science and a mountain of student debt, the only job offers I’d received were for unpaid internships that required a decade of experience I didn’t have.

My savings account was a joke, a two-digit tragedy staring back at me from my banking app.

The eviction notice tucked under my door felt less like a threat and more like a prophecy.

That night, the Portland rain was coming down in sheets, a relentless, miserable downpour that matched my mood perfectly.

It was on my way back from yet another soul-crushing interview that I found him.

He was huddled in a cardboard box behind a dumpster, a sodden lump of golden-tipped fur, shivering violently.

One of his legs was bent at an unnatural angle, and a raw, ugly gash ran along his side.

He should have hissed, or spat, or tried to scratch me when I reached for him.

Instead, he just looked up, his big, round eyes full of a weary intelligence that tugged at something deep inside me.

He let out a soft, pathetic sound, a cross between a meow and a groan.

"Mrowl."

My own problems evaporated.

The rent, the debt, the gnawing hunger in my stomach—it all faded into the background.

"Okay," I whispered, carefully scooping him into my arms. "Okay, buddy. Let's get you fixed up."

The emergency vet visit cost me nearly everything I had left.

They wrapped his leg, stitched his side, and gave him a shot of antibiotics.

I spent my last few dollars on a can of premium cat food he devoured with a startling ferocity.

Back in my tiny studio, I held the bandaged cat and stared at my empty wallet.

"I can't even feed myself, and now I'm trying to save you," I said to him, the words catching in my throat.

He was lying in my lap, the purr rumbling from his chest a small, steady engine.

It was probably just the pain medication.

He let out a low "mrowl" and then drifted off to sleep.

Watching him, so vulnerable and trusting, I sighed, a long, ragged breath that let out some of the tension.

Fine.

One more mouth to feed.

I'd figure it out.

I always did.

Tomorrow, I'd hit the pavement again.

§02

The next morning, I was up early, résumé in hand.

The clinic where I’d had my disastrous interview yesterday, Hope Vets, had an opening for an assistant.

My former grad school mentor, Dr. Owen Ramsey, was the director there.

Maybe he’d take pity on me.

Owen interviewed me himself.

He asked a few technical questions, then led me to an exam room for the practical portion.

A massive orange tabby cat was loafing on the stainless-steel table, looking utterly unimpressed.

I hesitated, unsure where to begin.

Owen smiled, his expression warm and encouraging. "This is Pippin, our clinic mascot and unofficial director. Feel free to perform a standard physical exam on him."

Reassured, I gently placed my hands on the cat's plump body.

"Okay, Pippin," I murmured. "Let's just take a quick look at you."

The first step in any exam is palpation, a head-to-tail check of the animal's eyes, mouth, ears, lymph nodes, heart, lungs, abdomen, skin, and joints.

It’s the most basic procedure, a way to get an initial assessment of their overall health.

I started at his head, my movements slow and gentle, trying to keep him relaxed.

Everything was going smoothly.

Pippin was a model patient.

But just as I was about to flip him over to check his… well, his private parts, my tote bag on the counter rustled.

A flash of golden fur shot out.

Before I could even process what was happening, Pippin was on the receiving end of a swift, well-aimed swat to the face.

He froze on the exam table, a look of pure, unadulterated shock on his whiskered face.

I stared at the tiny, fluffed-up cat standing protectively in front of me, my own eyes wide.

"George! What are you doing here?"

§03

I’d named him George the night before.

He was curled up beside my pillow, and the more I looked at his small, determined face, the more I adored him.

I'd scooped him up and buried my face in his fur, making silly cooing sounds.

When I finally pulled back, he seemed stunned, his eyes slightly wide and unfocused.

"Should I call you Goldie?" I’d asked.

He’d let out a protesting "mrowl" and wriggled free, turning his back to me in a clear display of feline indignation.

Download the Novellia app, Search 【 707565 】reads the whole book.