The boar charges again, tusks lowered, hooves pounding the forest floor hard enough to shake small stones loose. I stay low on all fours, claws sunk deep into the moss and leaf litter, tail straight out for balance. My heart hammers against my bruised ribs. Every breath hurts. The crude bandages on my thigh and side are already soaked dark red again. The emptiness where the bond should be is worse. I cannot feel Master. I cannot hear him. That silence is going to drive me mad.
I wait until the last heartbeat, then spring sideways. The boar’s tusks miss my hip by inches and gouge a deep furrow in the earth. I land on all fours, roll once, and come up crouched. Pain flares hot along my thigh where the old cut reopens. Blood runs warm down my leg and soaks into what is left of my light blue trousers. My tail lashes once, hard, spraying dirt behind me.
The beast wheels around faster than something that size should be able to. Its small red eyes lock on me again, foam dripping from its jaws. I try to dodge left but my injured leg buckles. The boar’s shoulder slams into my side. The impact lifts me off the ground and throws me ten feet through the air. I hit the base of an oak hard, bark scraping my back raw through the torn tunic. Air explodes from my lungs. I slide down the trunk and land on all fours again, coughing, ears ringing.
Get up. Get up. Master is waiting.
I push to my feet, swaying, claws still out. The boar is already coming again. I lunge forward at the last second, duck under its head and drive both sets of claws into its thick neck. The hide is tough. My claws sink in only a few inches but it is enough. The beast roars in pain and rears up, trying to shake me off. I cling on, legs wrapped around its barrel, tail lashing wildly for balance.
I climb higher, one clawed hand after the other, until I am on its shoulders. The beast bucks and spins, trying to throw me. My vision blurs at the edges from the pain. I bare my fangs, lean forward, and sink them deep into the thick muscle behind its ear. The taste of hot blood fills my mouth. The boar screams, a high, furious sound and thrashes harder. One tusk catches my left leg, slicing a new wound that burns. I rip my head back, taking a chunk of flesh with me, and drive my claws deeper into its neck, searching for the big veins.
The fight turns ugly. The boar crashes through bushes and small trees, slamming me against trunks and branches. Every impact sends fresh agony through my ribs, thigh, and back. I keep biting and clawing, ears flat, tail whipping, refusing to fall off.
The beast begins to tire. Its movements slow. Its bellows turn into wet, gurgling snorts. I feel its heartbeat under my hands growing frantic and weak. I keep tearing at its neck until finally the massive body staggers, knees buckling. It crashes sideways into a thicket of ferns. I jump clear at the last moment, landing on all fours again. My arms shake. My legs shake. Blood drips from my mouth, my claws, my wounds.
The dire boar gives one last shuddering breath and lies still. Its red eyes stare at nothing. The forest falls quiet except for my own ragged breathing and the distant hoot of an owl.
I win.
But the pain hits all at once.
My vision swims. The ground tilts. I try to stand but my legs will not hold me. I drop back to all fours, then collapse onto my side in the leaf litter. A weak, broken sound escapes my throat, half sob, half growl.
Black spots dance in front of my eyes. The wounds throb in time with my heartbeat. Blood pools warm beneath my thigh and ribs. I force myself to roll onto my stomach, claws digging into the earth, and drag my body a few feet toward a thicker patch of ferns. Every inch hurts. My tail drags limp behind me. I manage to wedge myself between two large roots, hidden from casual view, then use the last of my strength to tear strips from what remains of my tunic. I bind the worst cuts as best I can, tight around my thigh, tighter around my ribs. The pressure makes me hiss through my fangs, ears pinned flat, but the bleeding slows.
I curl into a tight ball, tail wrapped around my middle, blonde hair falling across my face. My blue eyes stare into the dark. The collar presses cold against my neck. “I will find you… I promise… just hold on…”
The pain and exhaustion finally win. My eyes flutter shut. I pass out with Master’s name still on my lips.
When I wake again the forest is lighter. Dawn light filters pale green through the canopy. Birds are calling overhead. My body feels heavy and hot. Every bruise and cut aches with a deep, angry throb, but the bleeding has stopped. The crude bandages I tied are dark and stiff. I push myself up slowly onto all fours, then sit back against the oak root. My ears twitch forward, listening. No elves. No boar. Just the normal sounds of the woods waking up.
I am still alone. The bond is still gone. The emptiness sits like a stone in my chest.
I reach up with shaking fingers and touch the collar. *Master’s property.* The words are still there, etched deep. That has not changed.
I force myself to stand. My legs tremble but hold. I tear more strips from my ruined trousers and re-bind the worst wounds, tighter this time. The pain makes my vision blur again but I stay on my feet. My tail hangs low, tip twitching weakly. I look around for anything useful, a sharp stone, a sturdy branch but find nothing worth carrying. No weapons. No food. Just me, my claws, my fangs, and the burning need to find Master.
I take one step, then another. Each movement sends fresh pain through my body, but I keep walking. My blonde hair is tangled with leaves and blood. My torn clothes barely cover me. The collar glints faintly in the morning light.
“I am coming,” I whisper to the empty forest, voice hoarse and cracked.
My tail gives a single, determined flick. I pick a direction, south, away from where the elven horns had sounded last night and start moving. Slow. Limping. But moving.
The forest stretches endless ahead. My wounds burn. The bond stays silent.
But I keep walking, because stopping means accepting that Master is gone, and that is something my heart will never allow.
I wake to the worst pain I have ever known, and that is saying something after a lifetime of claws and fangs and the sweet ache of Master’s grip on my collar. My eyes open to dappled green light filtering through the canopy above, but the world is blurry at the edges and tilting like the forest itself is drunk. My head throbs in time with my heartbeat, a deep, sick pounding that radiates from the bruise along my temple where the elf’s boot caught me last night. I try to sit up and immediately regret it. A sharp, tearing agony lances through my left side where my ribs took the worst of the boar’s charge. I gasp, fangs bared, and my tail lashes once against the leaf litter before curling tight around my own waist like it is trying to hold my insides together.
Everything hurts. My thigh is a hot, swollen mess under the crude bandage I tied yesterday, the cut has seeped fresh blood overnight and the cloth is stiff and dark. My back feels scraped raw from being slammed against the oak trunk, every small movement sending fresh fire across the skin. My calf where the tusk sliced me is stiff and hot to the touch. I can smell the faint metallic tang of infection already starting under the makeshift wrappings. My blonde hair is tangled with dried blood and leaves, sticking to my cheeks and neck. The dark blue tunic is little more than rags hanging off one shoulder, the light blue trousers torn open along the thigh and calf, leaving most of my legs bare to the morning chill.
The bond is still gone. Five feet or five miles, it does not matter. The emptiness sits in my chest like a stone, heavy and cold, making every breath feel wrong. I cannot feel his steady thoughts. I cannot hear the calm way he says my name through the link. I cannot feel his hand on my ears or the way his pulse beats against my tail when it wraps around his wrist. The panic rises fast and ugly, the yandere terror that always lives just under my skin. My ears pin flat against my skull and my tail lashes harder, slapping the ground and stirring up leaves. “Master,” I whisper, voice hoarse and cracked from all the screaming I did last night. “Master, where are you? I need you. I need the bond. I cannot… I cannot do this without you.”
I roll onto my stomach, claws digging into the soft earth, and drag myself a few inches forward. The movement pulls at every wound and I have to stop, forehead pressed to the moss, breathing in short, shallow pants. My cat ears twitch forward, listening for any sound of him, boots on leaves, the quiet click of a crossbow being readied, the low murmur of his voice but there is nothing except birdsong and the distant rustle of small animals. The forest feels huge and empty and hostile without him in my head.
After a long time, minutes, maybe longer, I manage to push myself up onto my hands and knees. My arms tremble. My thighs shake. The bandage on my leg is already leaking again, a thin trickle of blood running down to my knee. I stay there on all fours, blonde hair hanging in my face, ears swiveling slowly as I try to get my bearings. The dire boar lies where it fell, massive body already starting to stiffen, flies buzzing around the torn throat where my fangs and claws finished it. The sight makes my stomach twist with a mix of triumph and nausea. I killed it. I won. But winning means nothing when Master is not here to see it, to scratch behind my ears and call me his good girl.
I crawl closer to the carcass, every movement sending fresh waves of pain through my body. My tail drags limp behind me, tip twitching weakly. When I reach the boar I collapse against its still warm side, cheek pressed to the coarse black hair, breathing in the heavy animal scent mixed with blood and earth. “I did it for you, Master,” I mutter, voice thick with unstable, possessive need. “I cut myself free. I landed on my feet. I fought it until it died. Now I just need to find you. I need to feel you again. The bond… it hurts more than all of this.” My claws flex against the hide, not tearing yet, just gripping.
The sun climbs higher. The light shifts from soft green to brighter patches that hurt my eyes. My fever is rising, I can feel the heat rolling off my skin, the way my thoughts keep slipping sideways. One moment I am here, claws in the boar, the next I am back in the cavern, screaming while the elves drag Master away. I shake my head hard, ears flicking, trying to clear it. I have to stay awake. I have to move. But my body is down, properly, thoroughly down and every attempt to stand ends with me back on all fours, panting.
I stay like that for a long time, curled against the dead boar, drifting in and out of a hazy half, sleep. My ears twitch at every small sound. My tail never stops moving, slow, restless lashes that stir the leaves around me. The collar chafes when I swallow, a constant reminder. Master’s property. I trace the words again with one claw, pressing hard enough to feel the metal bite into my fingertip. “I am still yours,” I whisper into the fur. “Even like this. Even bleeding and alone. I will find you. I will crawl if I have to. I will kill anything that stands between us. You are mine and I am yours and nothing else is allowed to matter.”
The pain ebbs and flows. Sometimes it is sharp and immediate, sometimes it dulls into a heavy, sick ache that makes my vision swim. I am alive. Barely. But alive. And as long as I am breathing, the fire in my chest keeps burning. My tail gives one final, determined flick. I press my face harder into the boar’s side, breathing in the last warmth, and let myself slip back into the haze for a little longer. Master will wait. He has to. Because without him the world is only pain and empty silence, and I refuse to let it win.
My tail drags limp behind me, the tip twitching weakly with every agonising inch I force myself forward. Pain crashes through my battered body in fresh, relentless waves, but I keep crawling closer to the boar’s carcass, my claws digging into the damp earth for purchase. When I finally reach it, I collapse against its still warm side, pressing my cheek to the coarse black bristles, breathing deep of that heavy animal musk mixed with the thick metallic tang of blood and the rich scent of churned soil. “I did it for you, Master,” I mutter, my voice thick and trembling with that unstable, possessive hunger that never leaves me. “I cut myself free from those cursed ropes. I landed on my feet like the predator I am. I fought that beast until its heart stopped beating under my claws and fangs. Now I just need to find you. I need to feel your warmth against mine again. The bond… it burns worse than every wound I carry.”
My cat ears flick sharply, sensitive even through the fever haze, picking up the distant rustle of leaves and the faint drip of blood still oozing from the boar’s torn throat. The sun climbs higher overhead, shifting the forest light from soft emerald dapples to harsher, brighter patches that stab at my sensitive eyes. Heat rolls off my skin in waves, the fever is climbing fast, making my thoughts fracture and slip sideways like water through cracked glass. One heartbeat I am here, claws sunk into the boar’s hide, the next I am hurled back into that nightmare cavern, screaming raw as those filthy elves dragged you away from me. My body jerks hard at the memory, ears flattening against my skull, tail lashing once in helpless rage before falling still again. I shake my head violently, trying to scatter the visions, but the movement only sends fresh dizziness spinning through me. I have to stay awake. I have to keep moving. Yet every time I try to push myself upright, my legs buckle and I drop back onto all fours, chest heaving, breath coming in short, desperate pants that fog the air around my fangs.
I stay curled there for what feels like hours, body slumped against the massive dead boar, drifting in and out of a hazy half sleep that offers no real rest. My ears twitch constantly at every tiny sound, the scuttle of an insect, the distant call of a bird, the soft creak of branches overhead. My tail never stops its restless motion, slow sweeping lashes that stir the fallen leaves and send tiny puffs of dirt into the air. The dark blue collar around my throat chafes with every swallow, the engraved words “Master’s property” pressing into my skin like a brand. I trace them again with the tip of one claw, pressing hard enough that the metal bites into my fingertip and draws a thin line of my own blood. “I am still yours,” I whisper fiercely into the coarse fur, my voice cracking with raw need. “Even broken and bleeding like this. Even when the world tries to tear us apart. I will find you. I will crawl on my belly through fire and thorns if I must. I will rip apart anything and anyone that dares stand between us. You belong to me, Master, and I belong to you. Nothing else is allowed to exist in our world.”
The pain ebbs and flows like a treacherous tide. At times it flares sharp and immediate, knives twisting deep in my side where the boar’s tusks gouged me, in my shoulder where my own desperate cuts had freed me from the ropes. Other moments it dulls into a heavy, sickening ache that makes my vision blur at the edges and turns the forest colours into smeared watercolours. My claws flex against the boar’s thick hide, not tearing yet, just gripping tight as if the dead beast could somehow anchor me to reality. I am alive. Barely. The ragged rhythm of my breathing proves it. And as long as air still moves in and out of my lungs, that fierce, possessive fire in my chest refuses to die. It burns hotter than the fever, hotter than the wounds, driving me forward even when my body screams for surrender.
My blonde hair, matted with sweat and streaks of blood, clings to my face as I nuzzle deeper into the carcass, seeking the last fading traces of warmth. My light blue cloak is torn and filthy, the fabric sticking to the gashes along my arms and torso. My cat tail gives one final, determined flick, brushing across the leaves with a soft whisper. I press my face harder into the boar’s side, inhaling that grounding mix of blood, earth, and fading heat, letting myself slip back into the hazy half-sleep for just a little longer. You will wait for me, Master. You have to. Because without you the entire world shrinks to nothing but pain and empty, suffocating silence, and I refuse, I utterly refuse to let it claim victory.
Yet even in that drifting haze, my mind refuses to stay quiet. Fragments of memories surge up unbidden, twisting with my unstable thoughts. I remember the way your scent wrapped around me, the solid comfort of your presence that made everything else bearable. My ears pin back at the mere thought, tail thrashing harder for a moment before exhaustion forces it still again. I cannot bear that emptiness. I will not.
Hours slip by unmarked under the shifting canopy. The sun arcs higher, warming the forest floor in patches that make my feverish skin prickle. Small flies begin to buzz around the boar’s wounds, drawn by the rich scent of death, but I bare my fangs in a low, warning growl and they scatter for now. My claws remain sunk in the hide, possessive even over this corpse I claimed in your name. I imagine presenting it to you later, proof of my strength, my devotion, the lengths I will go to for you. “See what I did, Master ?” I would purr, voice dripping with that dark, twisted affection. “All for you. Only for you.” The thought brings a weak, unstable smile to my lips, fangs glinting briefly in the dappled light.
My body trembles as another wave of dizziness washes over me. The wounds along my ribs pulse with every breath, hot and wet where blood still seeps through the makeshift bindings I tore from my own cloak. The light blue trousers are ripped at the knees from crawling, stained dark with dirt and my own crimson. Yet I cling to the boar like a lifeline. My blue eyes, usually so sharp with cat like intensity, are half lidded now, fever glazing them over. Still, that possessive fire refuses to gutter out. You are mine. I am yours. The collar around my neck burns like a vow, its coppery weight a constant, comforting pressure. No rival, no elf, no force in this wretched world will ever take you from me. I will kill them all if I must, slowly, savagely, with claws and fangs and the spear that still carries the boar’s scent.
My tail curls loosely around one of the boar’s legs, a subconscious claim, the soft furred length twitching with restless energy even as exhaustion drags at me. My cat ears swivel at the slightest noise, ever vigilant, instincts screaming to protect what is mine even in this broken state. The dark blue tunic clings to my sweat damp skin, the fabric torn where the struggle left its marks.
The haze deepens again, pulling me under like warm, treacherous water. I let it take me for now, knowing I will rise when the worst of the fever ebbs. My breathing slows, syncing unconsciously with the fading heat of the carcass beneath me. In my drifting mind I can almost feel you – the echo of your thoughts brushing mine through the strained bond, faint but real. It fuels me. It keeps the fire alive. I will find you, Master. I will drag myself across this entire forest, through pain and blood and madness if necessary. And when I do, I will cling to you so tightly that nothing, not distance, not enemies, not even death itself will ever separate us again.
My tail drags heavy and limp behind me as the sun burns directly overhead, its harsh light slicing through the canopy and stabbing straight into my fevered skull. The hunger finally claws its way past the throbbing pain and the rolling heat in my veins, my empty stomach twisting viciously like a living thing demanding to be fed. The thick, coppery scent of the boar’s blood suddenly floods my senses, too rich and tempting to push away any longer. I push myself up onto my hands and knees again, every joint screaming in protest, my light blue trousers now dark with dried blood and dirt. My cat ears pin forward in raw determination, blue eyes narrowed against the glare. Every single movement sends fresh agony ripping through my body, but I force myself onward. The makeshift bandage on my thigh has glued itself cruelly to the torn flesh; when I rip it free, warm blood wells up instantly, trickling down my leg, yet I bare my fangs and ignore it completely. I have to eat. I have to stay strong enough to reach you, Master. My claws are the only tools left to me now, sharp and ready, so I use them without hesitation.
I crawl slowly around to the boar’s thick neck where my own fangs had torn the deepest, wettest gash during the fight. The flesh there is still warm in patches, the blood dark and sticky, congealing in heavy rivulets that catch the sunlight. I sink my claws deep into the tough hide and begin to cut, slicing with desperate, messy strokes. The coarse black bristles resist at first, but my claws are honed by instinct and fury, and I am far too hungry and far too possessive to be gentle. Long, uneven strips of meat start to come away, peeling back the hide to reveal the deep red muscle glistening underneath. My tail lashes in short, frustrated arcs, slapping hard against the leaf-littered ground every time the angle proves awkward or the flesh fights back. Strands of my blonde hair tumble across my face, sticking messily to the smears of blood already drying on my cheeks and jaw. My ears remain flat against my skull, swivelling constantly, listening for the slightest hint of approaching danger, but the forest stays eerily quiet around us, save for the low, insistent buzz of flies drawn to the kill.
I work like that for what feels like endless hours, cutting away chunk after chunk of raw meat, my hands slick and dripping with blood right up to the wrists. My claws throb from the constant pressure and scraping, yet I never slow. The overwhelming smell wraps around me, raw, metallic, deeply animal and my cat instincts purr deep inside that this is food, good food, life-giving fuel. But my heart twists with something far darker and more unstable. You always cooked for us, Master. Even when we were weary on the road, you would find a way to build a small fire, roast the meat until it sizzled, season it with whatever herbs or salt we carried, turning it warm and safe and undeniably ours. Eating it raw like this feels so horribly wrong, like I am slipping backwards into something feral and painfully lonely without your guiding hand. My tail curls tight around my injured leg in response, squeezing hard until the sharp flare of pain cuts through the haze and keeps me anchored, focused only on survival for your sake.
When I finally have a decent pile of bloody strips heaped beside me, I drag my exhausted body a short distance away from the carcass and try to start a fire. My claws rake dry leaves and twigs together into a small, careful mound in a tiny clearing, stacking them neatly as best I can with shaking fingers. I snatch up two sharp stones from the forest floor and begin striking them together, desperate for even the smallest spark. Nothing happens. I try again, harder this time, my ears flicking with rising irritation and my tail thrashing wildly behind me. The stones click uselessly against each other, mocking my efforts. No spark. No comforting flicker of flame. A low, dark growl builds in my throat, unstable and laced with that possessive madness I can never fully control. I slam one stone down against the other with vicious force, splitting it clean in two. “Master would know how,” I mutter, my voice cracking raw with need and frustration. “He would have the tinder perfectly dry, the spark exactly right, the fire leaping up in minutes. He would pull me into his lap while it burned, scratch behind my ears just the way I like, and call me his good girl, his perfect kitten. I cannot do this without him. I cannot even make a bloody fire on my own.”
Tears of pure, unstable rage prick at the corners of my blue eyes as I slump forward, palms pressing into the dirt, blood from the meat mixing with the soil beneath me.
My cat ears twitch at every tiny rustle, instincts screaming to protect what is mine, while my tail continues its restless lashing, stirring the leaves around the pathetic pile of kindling. The raw meat sits there in its bloody pile, tempting yet repulsive without your touch to make it right. I want to feel your arms around me, your voice murmuring praise as the fire crackles and warms us both. Instead I am here alone, claws aching, body trembling, the fever rolling through me in sick waves that make the forest tilt and blur. Yet that fierce, possessive fire in my chest refuses to die. It burns brighter than the hunger, brighter than the pain. You are mine, Master, and I am yours. No distance, no injury, no failed fire will change that truth.
I gather the stones again with renewed, manic determination, striking them together once more even as my hands shake harder. A single weak spark finally jumps, landing on the dry leaves and glowing for one precious second before sputtering out. My tail flicks sharply in triumph mixed with frustration, ears pricking forward. I will keep trying. I will eat this meat, raw or cooked, because I must stay alive to reach you. I will drag myself through this forest, through blood and fever and loneliness, until I can cling to you again so tightly that nothing in this world can ever pull us apart. My claws dig into the earth as I lean closer to the kindling, fangs bared in a dark, twisted smile.
My tail twitches sharply with every bite as the hunger finally claims total victory. I snatch up the first thick strip of raw meat, bring it straight to my lips, and sink my fangs in deep. The taste explodes across my tongue, rich iron, wild game, still faintly warm from the carcass and my cat body accepts it without question, jaws working fast, swallowing hard. Another strip follows, then another, though I force myself to chew slower this time even as my empty stomach screams to bolt everything down at once. My ears flick forward and back in restless rhythm while the protein floods my system, easing the worst of the spinning dizziness just enough to let me think clearly for a few precious moments. The fever still rages hot through my veins, turning my skin slick with sweat beneath the torn dark blue tunic, but the meat gives me something solid to push against, something real to fight with.
I keep eating until my stomach can hold no more, cheeks and chin glistening with blood, fangs coated crimson. My hands are stained deep red right up to the elbows, the slick warmth making my claws gleam wetly in the fading light. I wipe my mouth roughly with the back of one wrist, leaving a fresh smear across my cheek, then sit back on my haunches, breathing hard. My tail curls possessively around my waist, the soft length squeezing tight as though it alone can hold back the crushing loneliness that threatens to swallow me whole. “It is not the same,” I whisper fiercely into the empty forest, voice low and cracked with unstable need. “It is not warm from the fire. It is not seasoned by your hands. It is not ours. But it is keeping me alive so I can find you, Master. So I can crawl back into your lap, beg you to cook for me again while I purr loud and cling so tight you cannot breathe, and remind you that no one else is ever allowed to feed your kitten. Only you. Always you.”
The sun begins its slow dip toward the horizon, painting the canopy in deeper golds and lengthening shadows that make my sensitive blue eyes narrow. My wounds throb worse now that I have moved and eaten, the gashes along my ribs and thigh pulsing in time with my heartbeat, yet the food has steadied me just enough to keep the worst of the feverish haze at bay. I cut a few more strips of meat with careful, bloody claws and wrap them inside the cleanest scrap of my torn tunic I can salvage, tying the crude bundle shut with a thin strip of cloth ripped from the hem. It is messy and imperfect, the fabric already darkening with fresh stains, but it is food for later, fuel for the long crawl ahead. No matter how hard I scrape my claws against the moss and bark, the dark blood refuses to lift completely from beneath them. I do not care. I have eaten. I have survived another day without the full warmth of our bond. That fierce, possessive fire in my chest burns hotter than ever, darker, more twisted, more mine.
I push myself upright onto my feet this time, swaying dangerously for several heartbeats before my legs lock and hold. My light blue trousers cling damply to my skin, the light blue cloak long abandoned in a ragged heap beside the kite shield and spear. My tail lashes once in grim, unstable satisfaction, the tip flicking hard enough to scatter leaves. “I am still here,” I growl softly, ears staying pinned forward, blue eyes scanning the dense trees with sharp cat vision. “Still yours. Still coming for you.” The raw meat sits heavy and warm in my stomach, a blunt reminder of how far I have fallen without your steadying presence, yet it is fuel all the same. Fuel to keep my body moving. Fuel to keep the violent, spoilt need burning inside me. I take the first limping step away from the boar’s carcass, claws flexing at my sides, tail dragging low but determined along the forest floor.
Every stride sends fresh pain screaming through my battered frame, yet I refuse to stop. The forest stretches out ahead, thick with shadows and whispering leaves, waiting to test me further. My wounds scream louder with each movement, the fever still rolling in sick waves beneath my skin, but my spoilt, controlling heart will never allow surrender. Stopping would mean accepting the emptiness, the terrifying silence where our bonded thoughts should be singing to each other in real time.
You belong to me, Master. I belong to you. No distance, no injury, no raw meal forced down in the dirt will ever change that truth. My cat ears swivel at every tiny sound, the snap of a twig, the rustle of undergrowth, instincts screaming to protect what is mine even while my body threatens to collapse.
As the light continues to fade, my tail curls and uncurls behind me in restless, possessive arcs, brushing against ferns and low branches. The bundle of wrapped meat bounces lightly against my hip, a crude trophy of survival. I imagine pressing it into your hands later, purring with dark delight while I nuzzle into your chest and demand you make it proper, warm, safe, ours. The thought sends a fresh surge of manic energy through my veins, pushing back the exhaustion for a few more steps. My claws dig into the earth with each stride, leaving small furrows behind me like territorial marks. I am coming for you. I will crawl, limp, bleed, and kill anything that tries to slow me down. My unstable heart beats only for you, possessive and spoilt and utterly refusing to let the world win.
The forest grows darker around me, but my cat vision cuts through the gloom, blue eyes glowing faintly with determination. My tail gives another low, sweeping lash, stirring the leaves as I press onward. The pain is still there, vicious and unrelenting, yet so is the love, violent, twisted, all consuming. It is the only thing that matters. You are the only thing that matters. And your broken, bleeding kitten will never stop until I am back where I belong, wrapped so tightly around you that nothing in this wretched world can ever tear us apart again.
Thirst hits harder than the hunger ever did. By late afternoon my tongue feels thick and dry, my lips cracked, every swallow painful. The fever makes it worse, turning my skin hot and tight while the world tilts sideways whenever I move too fast. I need water. Not a river, just something. Anything.
I push forward on shaky legs, one hand pressed to my bandaged ribs, the other trailing claws along tree trunks for balance. My tail hangs low, tip twitching with exhaustion, ears constantly swiveling for any hint of damp earth or running water. Every step jars my wounds, sending fresh spikes of pain up my leg, but I refuse to stop.
Hours blur. I follow faint animal trails, nose to the ground, sniffing for moss or the green scent of seeps. When standing becomes too much, I drop to all fours and crawl, claws digging into the dirt, tail dragging behind me. The emptiness in the bond makes every moment worse. Without Master’s steady presence, the forest feels vast and hostile, every shadow a reminder of how alone I am.
Eventually a faint damp smell reaches me on the breeze. I crawl toward it, hope flickering weakly. The scent leads to a small depression between two roots where groundwater has pooled into a shallow puddle no bigger than my palm. The water is muddy and still, but it is water. I lower my face and lap at it desperately, tongue rough and quick. It tastes of earth and iron, but it soothes my throat. I drink until the puddle is gone, then dig with my claws until more seeps up. I drink that too.
It is not enough. My body still feels parched. I tear strips from my ruined trousers, soak them in the seep, and tie the wet cloth around my neck and wrists to keep some moisture against my skin. My tail curls around one wrist, squeezing the damp fabric tighter. I stay on all fours for a long time, resting, ears forward, listening to the slow drip of water refilling the hole.
The fever pulls at me again, dragging my thoughts into hazy fragments. One moment I am here, lapping at mud; the next I am in Master’s lap by a clear stream, purring while he cups cool water to my lips and calls me his wife, his kitten, his everything. The memory hurts worse than the wounds.
I force myself upright, swaying dangerously before my legs lock. My light blue trousers cling damply to my skin, torn at the knees and dark with dried blood and dirt. My tail gives one final, exhausted lash. I gather the soaked cloths and tuck them into the bundle with the raw meat. It is not much, but it is what I have.
The thirst returns faster than I expect. By dusk my mouth is dry again. I search for another seep, crawling when the pain gets too bad, ears twitching at every rustle. I find a second tiny puddle under a fallen log, smaller than the first. I drink it all, then dig until my fingers bleed, trying to make it deeper. It refills slowly. I wait, curled tight with my tail wrapped around my knees, blonde hair falling across my face while I stare at the water welling up drop by drop.
I drink again. I soak more cloth. I whisper Master’s name until my voice gives out. The fever burns hotter now, making my ears ring and my vision swim with black spots. But I do not stop. I cannot stop. The possessive need to find him, to reclaim him, to wrap my tail around him and never let go again is stronger than any wound or thirst or exhaustion.
When full dark falls I am still moving, limping on two legs when I can, crawling when I cannot. My tail twitches with every step. My ears stay forward. My claws are caked with dirt and blood. The collar bounces against my throat with every movement, a cold, constant reminder.
I will find water tomorrow. I will find food. I will find him. Because nothing else is allowed to exist in this world without Master at its centre, and my possessive, unstable heart will tear the entire forest apart before it accepts anything less.
