What The Cat Dragged In Ch. 07

The scent of terror on her and the way she wanted to run away from it had brought it all back and pissed him off, both because of the reminder and because he didn't know how to shelter her from it. He knew how to break shit and fuck her until she forgot her own name for a few minutes. Maybe that would be enough to get her through the worst of it.

He looked up at her again. Her eyes were still closed, but she was starting to shiver.

"What's the matter now?" He managed to sound annoyed.

"Cold. Someone took all my clothes away before the heat was even on."

A little snort. "Suppose you blame me for that." He stacked some logs in the fireplace and before long had a fire going. When he turned around again, she was using his flannel shirt as a blanket.

"You did it."

"Was driven to it." He grasped her arm as he walked by, pulling her to her feet and then down next to him when he laid down on the sofa. She curled up against his side and he shifted her body so that she was between him and the cushioned back. She sighed, but didn't say anything more for a few minutes.

"You have to stop doing that." She said finally.

He rolled his eyes. "What the fuck are you talking about?"

"Tearing my clothes like that. I'm not going to have any left."

"There's a goddamn mall half an hour away. Much as I'd like to keep you bare ass naked all the time you'd probably get frostbite or pneumonia or some shit like that. 'Sides, I happen to like that part." His hand was under the shirt, his claws traveling in slow circles over her back. It still amazed him that she was able to relax when he touched her that way. For the next few minutes that's exactly what she did. Finally she opened her eyes and started looking around the room.

The half he wasn't going to sit on was done in period pieces. All of the furniture that had to bear his weight was newly built, large enough to be comfortable and styled to blend in to the rest. He watched her eyes settle on the painting over the fireplace. She looked at him and back at the painting again.

"Who's that?" She asked finally.

"Guy who built the place the first time, Captain Phillip Howlett."

"Is that his wife with him?" Her eyes were still on the painting.

"Yeah." A little tremor went through her. He pulled her head down against his shoulder again. "Why?"

"She doesn't look very happy. She looks kind of scared of him."

He shrugged a little. "Was an arranged marriage, maybe she didn't like the arrangement. He built this place for her and went off to sea. First time he came back, second time he didn't. She figured he was dead and started fucking some guy from the village."

"But he wasn't?"

"Nah, just stranded somewhere for awhile. Anyway when he got back he killed her and the guy and just walked away from the house. Place was halfway falling down when I bought it."

She looked at him and back at the painting.

"What?"

"Maybe it's the mutton chops." She put her head down again. "There's just something that strikes me about the two of you."

"Think your frail imagination is in overdrive."

She closed her eyes again, her fingers drifted over his chest and stomach. He wasn't sure if she accepted that or not, but she seemed willing to let the subject drop. There was no blood between him and the fine, upstanding Howlett clan. There was no blood between Jimmy and them either, considering that Jimmy's whore of a mother had spread her legs for Creed's father the first chance she got. Still, the runt was treated like one of them. The whore saw to that, even trying to keep him away from his own brother. He didn't know when he made the promise to himself that he'd have more than they did. That he'd have better than they did.

Phillip was an uncle to John Howlett, the runt's supposed father. He'd heard whispers about the marriage and the way it ended, but never paid any attention to it. It was just shit that frails liked to whisper about. He forgot about it completely until he saw the painting in a gallery window. Finding the house was easy. He'd been half tempted to just tear the fucking thing down and start from scratch the place was in such bad shape.

The goddamn historical society had started some injunction bullshit though. He could have fought it but he didn't really give a shit. He'd held out though, let the old crones bluster and complain for close to three months. Just when they were talking about lawyers he 'relented'. They were so fucking glad he restoring most of it that his plan to rearrange the upstairs seemed like a small price to pay.

He'd finished it three years ago, and over that time had spent close to three months in it. Didn't matter. It was theirs, and now it was his. Just like the frail was his. She rested more heavily against him, and he could feel her nodding off. He moved her hair out of her face. A little smiled moved over her lips and she glanced up at him.

"C'mon."

"Where?"

He growled. "Well if you want a fucking itinerary, first, I'm going to get up and then I'll bring in the shit we brought with us. Then I figured you'd want to get cleaned up and changed so that we can get you something more to wear so you don't complain every goddamn time I shred something. That meet with your approval or did I fuck up something in the middle?"

She blushed and hid against him a little. "Do you want your shirt back?"

He sat up and shrugged. "Ain't that cold to me. Guess I can wait until you have something else to put on."

How this frail could piss him off one minute and make him feel like taking care of her the next was beyond him. He usually stopped at the pissed off part. She sat up and kissed his shoulder. "Thank you." Her small hand rested on his bicep. For just a heartbeat he let her linger there, then he pushed her away and got up.

"I never did find the broom." She was curled up, trying not to watch him get dressed.

"Kitchen is the second door on the left. Must be in there somewhere." He walked toward the door. "And don't go out there barefoot."