Page 8 of Love the Way You Lion
“What is going on?” I press, my heart pounding a staccato rhythm against my ribs. “Minx, tell me what’s going on.”
But she offers no explanation, no reassurance. There’s only theelectric tension hanging thick in the air, the wild swish of her tail, and the unanswered questions swirling in the dark.
Whatever it is, it’s bad.
A shrill sound splits the air, tearing through the charged atmosphere like a siren’s call. It’s coming from the phone on the dresser—a harbinger of bad news. The screen flashes ominously with the label “The Maison” in bold, urgent letters. I know without a doubt that it’s an alert I shouldn’t ignore. The droids from her house would rather send smoke signals than resort to a phone call. If they’re actually calling, the situation has to be grave.
My minx’s attention, however, remains fixated elsewhere. She’s communicating in deep, guttural growls, a feral feline language known only to her and Aradia. The latter, now fully roused, mirrors Minx’s movements, her own sleek tiger form prowling with the same manic energy. They move in tandem, two creatures bound by instinct; their conversation a series of snarls and hisses that my human ears can’t decipher.
Feeling the sting of exclusion, I push myself off the bed. My feet hit the floor with determination as I head for the dresser. Someone has to answer the clarion call that beckons in the dead of night. With a resigned exhale, I pick up her phone, preparing myself to translate whatever impending chaos is lurking into terms I can grasp. Holding the vibrating phone with a hand steadier than I feel, I answer it with a flick of my thumb. The screen’s ominous glow barely lights our darkened room where chaos reigns in fur and feral snarls, but the sound of panicked voices is immediate.
“Bloody hell, Nancy, you have to sodding pick up when we call! We’re not ringing your bell for our health,” The British accented voice is like a jackhammer to my eardrums, brash and unforgiving.
One of her droids patterned off of my template, I see.
I stifle the urge to hurl the device against the wall in irritation, focusing instead on my feral wife and whatever problem is causing her to shift. Her shadowy silhouette is crouched low, muscles coiled, the primal language she shares with Aradia an undercurrent to the cacophony erupting from the phone.
“This is Taurus, you nit,” I respond, pressing the device harder against my ear as if that will bridge the gap between our worlds. “The cat’s gone—well, catty, right now. She’s not in a human speech place. What in the bloody fuck has you calling and her in feral mode at four sodding am?” My words are icy with a thread of concern, as I try desperately to subdue the tempest within me.
On the other end, there’s a pause and in the silence, I heard my minx’s tail swish across the hardwood floor, an ominous sound like the crackle before a storm.
The droid’s voice, a guttering flamethrower of profanity, scorches through the phone’s speaker. “Fucking hellfire, Taurus. When the shit hits the fan, you don’t just stand there and bloody well paint with it. I’m calling because it’s a sodding emergency.”
I silently tip my hat to Victor’s programming—his creations swear with an artistry I didn’t expect.
“Are you done bitching?” I ask when the storm of continued curses ebbs. I watch my minx, her tail still thrashing in the dark like a live wire. Silence follows, heavy and thick, leaving me teetering on the edge of my patience. “Because we’re wasting time, mate.”
Just as I’m about to disconnect the call, another voice cuts through the static, the tone cool and collected as if ordering an evening cocktail rather than issuing an emergency summons. “Look, Clone in Black,” the aristocratic tone commands, “you need to haul your fashionable ass here fast. We’ve got a 911 that will rock the foundations of this hellhole and we need you. Grab her furry fanny andpop over here before it hits the news. No time for explanations—the writer’s been in an accident and it’s bad. Now, mush!”
The shift in the atmosphere is immediate when I realize the gravity of what she just said. My hand clenches the phone so tightly I can feel the plastic threatening to give way under the strain. The voice on the other end, with its poised enunciation and slight hint of panic, painted an ominous picture. A cold sweat beads on my brow as I consider the impact of Wilde being injured on this community full of worshippers.
Not good. Not good at all, and not only because it will upset both of my women.
“Fuck,” I murmur, the word barely escaping my lips as I struggle to get a hold of the thoughts whizzing through my mind. My glance darts back to my wife—suddenly understanding why her form is a blurred frenzy of feline instinct.
“Bring the emerald amulet, the moon-dusted blade, and don’t forget the?—”
“Enough!” I bark into the receiver as the Duchess’s exhaustive list slices through my scattered thoughts like shrapnel. There’s no time to entertain her manic inventory, but I know my wife will be upset if I ignore the droid’s requests. Suddenly, an image of Talia and Rafe flicker in the back of my mind. They are at that house and their status is unknown—creating a gnawing concern that threatens to unravel me.
“Are they okay?” I mutter to myself, knowing full well the Duchess can’t hear me over the noise in her background. Frantic scenarios play out in my head, each more dire than the last. If they’re unaware of the catastrophe unfolding, it’s on me to get these people to alert them—or worse, prepare for their reactions to the news. Since they’re both involved with the git, they’ll be just as upset as my minx.
This is a bloody fucking nightmare.
“Did you hear me, Taurus? Don’t dick around—get over here now!”
“Got it,” I lie, the contents of her ramble lost to the ether. My focus narrows on the impending storm outside and the tempest brewing within the walls of our home. With the determination of one facing the eye of a hurricane, I steel myself for what lies ahead. She continues babbling for another minute and I finally tire of it.
“Philomena.” The name erupts from my lips, cutting through her ceaseless chatter with the sharpness of a blade. Silence falls abruptly on the other end of the line, like a curtain dropping mid-scene. “Have you told Talia and Sampson yet? They’re at your house.”
The momentary quiet is shattered by a noise that booms through the receiver—a cacophony that can only spell disaster. There’s an unmistakable sound of something heavy meeting an untimely demise, followed by a resonant bellow that reverberates in my chest.
Guess they know now, huh?
My pulse quickens as realization dawns on me; whatever force sent my minx spiraling into her primal state has struck the artist. Philomena’s voice cuts through the chaos, issuing commands to her personal legion, before the line goes dead, leaving me clutching a silent phone.
“Damn it,” I mutter, the device feeling like a brick in my hand. The darkness seems to close in around me, the weight of uncertainty a tangible presence in our room. Whatever we’re hurtling toward, it’s just claimed its next victim. The silence is deafening as I yank on clothes. “Fuck. What in the hell is going on?”
My gaze snaps to Aradia, her form a shadow against the pale moonlight filtering through the curtains. “Help me out here,” I plead,my appeal a desperate entreaty that she seems to understand. With feline grace, she butts her head against Minx’s crouching figure, the movement both comforting and urgent.
