Story of my life.
I hate the self-pity, but at this moment, I have no idea how to break out of it. The weight of it all just keeps bearing down on me, squeezing tighter and tighter until I can barely breathe. I’ve just started hyperventilating when I hear a tiny mewl.
The sound breaks me out of the building panic as I turn my head and listen for one more mewl.
And there it is again, small and raspy, coming from the rose bushes.
On my hands and knees, I crawl toward them. The mewling sharpens as I approach. Stopping in front of the thicket, I peer through the thorny, tangled twigs. I can’t see anything in there, so I carefully push some branches aside, trying to push deeper, toward the sound, which now comes at steady intervals.
“Ouch,” I murmur when a thorn snags the edge of my cardigan and scrapes against my wrist. But I stay put when I see it. A small black kitten, no bigger than my hand, with a splash of white under its chin and around its nose. It’s caught between the twigs, paws scraping against the ground as it tries to pull free. Its tiny body wobbles with exhaustion, and each cry sounds more desperate than the last.
“Oh no.” My heart clenches. I reach in farther, wincing as more thorns rake across my forearm.
Glancing behind me, I scan for something to help pry the branches apart. A stick, a broom, a tool. But the garden is pristine. No stray tools or broken-off branches. The gardening equipment must be locked away in the shed. I hesitate. I could run inside and ask Ian for help, but I’m afraid the kitten will be gone by the time I return, or worse, hurt itself more while trying to escape.
“I’ll get you out of there,” I promise, crawling closer. The kitten stills, its meowing louder now, almost panicked.
I reach both arms all the way in, carefully parting the thicket, whispering soft reassurances as I go. The thorns bite into my skin, but I barely notice. All I see is the tiny creature staring at me with wide, glassy eyes.
“You’re okay,” I murmur, as much to soothe myself as the kitten. “I’m right here.”
Pulling my sleeve over my hand, I manage to pry the thorny branches out of its fur and lift it.
“I’ve got you,” I say as I cradle the kitten in my hands.
Backing out is a hassle, and I scratch my hands and arms further as I focus on protecting the little creature that’s trembling in my hands.
By the time I make it into the house, my cardigan is full of thorns, my hands are covered in scratches and crusted blood, but the kitten is safe—shivering, but safe. I close the patio door behind me with my foot and hurry into the kitchen, trying to be quiet.
Keeping the kitten cradled in my hand, I pour milk into a small bowl and sink to the floor. Gently, I set the kitten down beside the bowl, trying to get it to drink, but it barely even moves when I try to guide its nose toward the milk.
I lift the kitten again, nestling it close to my body to provide some warmth. Then I reach for a teaspoon in the top drawer, scoop up a little milk, and hold it to the kitten. Still, nothing.
My heart clenches. “Come on,” I whisper, setting the spoon down and dipping a finger into the milk. I lift it to the kitten’s mouth, and finally, it licks. Just a little, but it’s something. I dip again and bring my finger back up. The kitten licks again. Relief washes over me as I repeat several times.
“You’ll be okay,” I whisper.
When the clicking of hard soles announces Killian—he’s the only one wearing shoes inside—I pull my cardigan over the kitten and gently wrap my other arm over it to make it look like I’m simply crossing my arms.
Every muscle in my body tenses when Killian appears, rounding the kitchen island.
Instead of ignoring me as has become his new custom, he scoffs at the sight of me, pausing to take in the whole mess. “What the fuck are you doing? You look like you’ve been digging for worms.” His eyes trail down to my scratched-up hand. “Or tried to wrestle one from an angry bird.”
I’m not sure where the courage comes from; I’m just so sick of him. Feeling recklessly bold—or maybe protective—I blurt, “Fuck off.”
Cocking a brow, he saunters over to me and glances between the milk and the bulge under my cardigan. “What the hell are you up to?”
“None of your business.” I pull the fabric tighter and turn away when he leans down. But Killian grabs the hem and pulls the fabric out of my hand.
“A kitten?” he says with incredulity. “Where the hell did you get a kitten?”
“Go away,” I tell him, covering the kitten with my free hand, protecting it from him.
Instead of leaving, he crouches in front of me. Grabbing my wrist, he lifts my hand to get a better look. I try to pull free, but he tightens his grip. For a moment, he just stares at the huddling creature, almost curious. But then his face hardens. He lifts his gaze to me and releases my hand. “You’d better get that thing out of here. Dad’s gonna be pissed when he finds out.”
At that same moment, Ian walks in. “Why would I be pissed?”
Killian gets up, crosses his arms over his chest, and aims a castigating look at me.