Chapter 6: Ally - Purrfect Valentine

“You’re the worst,” I told the kitten. Prepping the syringe, I raised an eyebrow at the fluff ball on my examination table. “You know that? You and your dramatic little imprinting situation. I know you like him. But tell me why I can’t stop thinking about your grumpy human.”

She watched me, those huge blue eyes tracking my every movement. After last night when he’d made the decision to save her, she’d been different. Quieter. Like she was waiting for something.

Or someone.

“He’s not coming today,” I said, drawing the GS-441 into the syringe. The medication was clear, innocuous-looking. It didn’t look like something that burned going in. Then again, neither did the best kinds of alcohol. “It’s you and me, baby girl. We’re going to do this together.”

She blinked at me, and I chose to interpret it as agreement.

The first injection was always the worst. Not because the drug worked any differently—it burned the same on day one as it would on day eighty-four—but because they didn’t know yet. They didn’t understand that the pain was temporary, that the person hurting them was trying to help. All they knew was that one moment they were safe, and the next, fire was spreading under their skin.

“I know this is going to suck. I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry. But it’s going to save your life, okay? That’s the deal.”

She let me lift her. That was something—she’d hissed at me for ten minutes straight after the fluid drain. But now she was limp in my hands, exhausted and trusting. That was about to go up in flames.

I held her against my shoulder, found the subcutaneous space at the scruff of her neck, and slid the needle in.

She screamed.

Not a meow—a scream. Raw and betrayed and absolutely heartbreaking. She twisted in my grip, claws catching my forearm, and the moment I withdrew the needle, she scrambled away from me as if I’d set her on fire.

“I know, baby. I know⁠—”

She hit the table and then the floor, bolting for the corner. She pressed herself against the wall with her fur standing on end. When I took a step toward her, she hissed—full-on, ears-flat, “I will end you” hissing.

My heart cracked.

“It’s okay,” I said, even though it wasn’t. “It’s okay. I’m not going to hurt you again. Not today.”

She didn’t believe me. Why would she?

I backed off and gave her space, dimming the lights, checking that the pheromone diffuser was working. The room was warm and quiet, exactly the environment that should have helped. But she was shaking so hard I could see it from across the room—not from cold, but from pure, undiluted terror. And anger.

“Come on,” I whispered. “It’s me. Remember? I’m one of the good guys.”

She hissed again.

I tried everything. Soft voice, no voice, leaving the room entirely. I came back with treats—the fishy paste that cats would commit actual crimes for—and she wouldn’t even look at them. I tried lying on the floor, making myself small, letting her come to me on her own terms.

She didn’t.

An hour later, I was sitting cross-legged on the treatment room floor, back against the wall, watching a kitten who wouldn’t stop trembling. My throat felt tight. I’d done this a hundred times. I’d given painful injections to scared animals and watched them forgive me within minutes, because that’s what animals did. They didn’t hold grudges.

But this kitten looked at me like I was the enemy.

My phone buzzed in my pocket. I fished it out without getting up and felt something loosen in my chest when I saw the name.

Jamie.

“Hey,” I answered, voice rough.

“Bad day?” My brother’s voice was warm, concerned. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing. Everything.” I rubbed my face with my free hand. “There’s a sick kitten⁠—”

“Aw, that’s always the worst. What’s wrong with it?”

“It has FIP. It’s like HIV/AIDS for cats. I gave her the first treatment, and she hates me now.”

“Sorry Al, that sucks. Is this the same kitten you texted me about last night?”

“Yeah.” I’d texted him after Corbin had left. After I’d spent way too long thinking about the way the grumpy ass had looked at me when he’d said I’m not going to let her die because it’s easier. “The injection was... rough.”

“Rough how?”

“She hisses whenever I breathe, let alone move. Won’t let me near her. I’ve tried everything—pheromones, warmth, treats, the whole routine—and she’s still in the corner shaking like I’m going to murder her.”

“Shit.” A pause. “Isn’t stress bad for recovery?”

“Yes, Jamie, thank you for the medical insight.” I let my head thunk back against the wall. “Stress compromises the immune system. It can literally interfere with how well the drug works. Which is why I’m sitting on the floor having a crisis.”

“Okay, okay, don’t bite my head off.” He was moving around—probably in his apartment, probably making that terrible instant coffee he insisted was “fine.” “What about the guy?”

I frowned. “What guy?”

“The guy who found her. You mentioned him last night. Said she imprinted on him or whatever.”

I opened my mouth to argue—and then closed it.

Because he was right. The kitten had been calm with Corbin. More than calm—she’d been desperate for him. She’d clawed her way up my body to get to him, had purred against his throat and marked him.

“Huh.”

“See? I’m a genius.” Jamie’s grin was audible. “Wait, is he hot? Is that why you’re being weird about this?”

“I’m not being weird⁠—”

“You mentioned him like four times in one text. That’s weird for you. You rarely mention people at all unless they’re animals or they pissed you off.”

“He did piss me off.”

“But you said he chose to save the kitten.”

“He did,” I murmured.

“Uh-huh. So he’s hot, and he pissed you off. That’s basically your type.”

“I don’t have a type.”

“Your type is grumpy assholes with hidden hearts of gold. Remember Mike from your undergrad? Or Danny? Or⁠—”

“Jamie.”

“Ew. No. That’s incest. Not into that. But I’m right and you know it.” He was definitely laughing at me now. “Call the hot, grumpy guy. Tell him his kitten needs him.”

“She’s not his kitten. He made that very clear.”

“So change his mind.”

I stared at the ceiling. He had a point. I hated he had a point.

“Fine,” I muttered. “I’ll text him.”

“That’s my sister. Love you. Let me know how it goes—and whether he’s as hot as your text made him sound.”

“I didn’t say he was hot!”

“You said he had nice hands. And that he looked like Clark Kent. That’s the same thing.”

“Ass.”

“You love me.”

“I do,” I said with a smile. “How’d the interview go?”

“Great! I think I got it, even without your stupid finger-gun suggestion.”

“That’s awesome! Keep me updated.”

“Only if you tell me when you tap that hot superhero.”

I hung up on his cackling, but I didn’t put my phone away. Instead, I tapped it against my thigh a couple times as I watched the kitten watch me.

“You want me to get your cat dad here, don’t you?”

I got a hiss in response.

“Fine. But let the record show that I think you should forgive me and leave the grumpy ass out of this.”

It took a couple minutes, sitting there on the treatment room floor before I came up with a text that was carefully professional.

I wasn’t asking for a favor. I wasn’t begging. With a glance at the fluffy fluff ball, though, I knew I would beg. For her.

His response came back in under a minute.

A longer pause. Then:

I pocketed my phone and looked at the kitten. She still pressed against the wall, still shaking, still watching me like I might attack at any moment.

“Help is coming,” I told her. “I hope.”

Nineteen minutes later—not that I was counting—Margot poked her head into the treatment room.

“The attractive man is here to see you.”

I didn’t look up from where I was attempting to coax the kitten out of her corner with a feather toy. “Which attractive man? Be specific.”

“Tall. Grumpy. Glasses. Clark Kent vibes according to the cat café duo. He showed up on Wim’s bike. Guess they approve of him.” She grinned. “He really is hot, isn’t he?”

“No,” I lied. “And don’t objectify one of our clients. It’s unprofessional.”

The mental image of Corbin—all six-foot-something of grumpy intensity—pedaling through town on a rusty blue bicycle with a wire basket should not have made me smile.

It did anyway.

“Put him in my office,” I said. “I need to finish with this, and then the dog next door waiting for stitches first.”

“Power move. I respect it.”

I wasn’t making him wait on purpose. I actually did have a patient—a golden retriever named Donnie who’d cut his paw on something during a hike. His owner, Mr. Vixionni, had brought him in ten minutes ago, and I’d made them wait as I tried to make the kitten not hate me. I was unsuccessful with her, but I’d certainly be more successful with Donnie.

After I managed to get the kitten back into her little kennel, I entered the exam room and started to work on the overly trusting, and drooling, golden.

“Good boy,” I murmured, finishing the last wrap of gauze. “Best boy.”

Donnie wagged his tail and tried to lick my face. I let him.

After sending him on his way with care instructions and a follow-up appointment, I detoured back to the kitten.

“Don’t look at me like that.” I approached slowly. “I brought reinforcements.”

Picking her up was a battle. She went rigid in my hands, every muscle locked, and made a sound that was half-hiss, half-spit. I held her against my chest and tried to project calm through sheer force of will.

It didn’t work.

By the time I reached my office, she was full-on hissing again.

Corbin stood by the bookshelf, arms crossed, examining the medical textbooks lined there. He turned when I came in, and his gaze went straight to the kitten.

“What’s wrong with her?”

“Hello to you too.” I shut the door with my hip. The room felt smaller with him in it. I’d forgotten how much space he took up—not just physically, though that was part of it, but the weight of his presence. Like the air got heavier when he was around. “She’s stressed. The injection was painful, and she’s not coping well.”

His jaw tightened. “When did you give her the injection?”

“Over an hour and a half ago.” I moved toward my desk but didn’t set her down. Not yet. “She’s been like this since. Won’t let me near her without hissing and scratching; won’t eat, won’t calm down. And stress is bad for her recovery. Really bad.”

“Define really bad.”

“Stress compromises the immune system. It can literally reduce how well the drug works.” I met his gaze—those dark eyes behind those Clark Kent glasses. “If she stays this terrified, it could kill her.”

Something shifted in his expression. Fear, maybe. Or guilt.

“What do you need me to do?”

“Hold still.”

I crossed toward him—close enough to catch the scent of coffee and fresh soap—and set the kitten on the desk between us.

She bolted.

One second she was a rigid ball of fury. The next, she was launching herself off the desk and scrambling up Corbin like her life depended on it. She scaled his shirt until she’d wedged herself into the hollow of his throat.

And stopped shaking.

Corbin’s hands hovered just below her bottom to catch her. “Geez⁠—”

“Don’t move.” I held up a hand. “Let her settle.”

We stood there in silence. The kitten—who had been trembling with terror for over an hour—was now purring. That same desperate, rumbling purr from last night, vibrating against his neck as if she wanted to melt into his skin.

“This is insane,” he said.

“This is biology.” I stepped closer, watching the kitten’s face. Her eyes were half-closed now. Content. Safe. “She chose you. And right now, you’re the only thing in the world that makes her feel okay.”

“I didn’t ask for that.”

“No. But here we are.”

He looked down at her—this tiny, sick creature who had chosen him. His hands were still hovering awkwardly. He clearly didn’t know what to do with them.

“Here’s the problem,” I said, leaning against my desk. I hated having to say it, because it meant admitting I couldn’t fix this on my own. “She needs daily injections for eighty-three more days. If she stays this stressed between treatments, it’s going to compromise her recovery. The only thing that’s calmed her down is you.”

His eyes met mine. “What are you saying?”

“I’m saying you might need to take her home between treatments until you leave town. Keep her calm. Bring her back each day for her shot, then take her somewhere she feels safe.” I paused. “With you. After you’re gone,” I said with a sigh, my attention on the kitten. “Well, I’ll have to figure something else out.”

“I’m staying at an inn.” His voice had an edge to it. “They probably don’t allow cats.”

“She’s tiny. Keep her in your room. Don’t make a big deal of it. I’ll give you everything you need—food, litter, medication schedule.”

“Like you said, though, I’m leaving.” He said it like he thought I was trying to trap him. “I’m not staying in this town. I have a life somewhere else.”

“I know. I’m not asking for permanent.” I kept my voice steady. “I’m asking you to do this while you’re here. It’s not like you have anything else to do, right?”

“I—”

The kitten made a small chirping sound and burrowed deeper into his neck. He exhaled slowly. I watched his shoulders drop—just a fraction—and knew the fluff ball and I had him.

“Fine.”

“Fine?”

“Fine, I’ll take her.” He was still hardly touching her. Still holding himself rigid. But he’d stopped fighting. “But I’m going to need supplies. And directions. And probably a manual on how to keep something alive when I can barely manage a houseplant.”

Something warm flickered in my chest. I told it to shut up.

“I get off at five. I can walk you through town. Show you where to get what you need.”

His eyebrow rose. “Walk me through town?”

“You don’t know where anything is. And she—” I gestured at the kitten “—should stay with you. Keep her calm.”

He studied me for a long moment. I couldn’t read his expression. Those glasses that made him look like a sexy accountant were distracting. But I could feel his attention. Weighing something. Deciding.

“Fine,” he said finally.

“Great. I’ll meet you near the gazebo in the center of town.”

He left with the kitten still attached to his neck, looking deeply uncomfortable.

I sank into my chair and pressed my palms against my eyes.

Well shit. I’d invited a man I barely knew to walk through town with me. The news would spread through Cupid Corner in no time. I had no idea how I let it happen. Somewhere between “grumpy asshole” and “I’m not going to let her die because it’s easier,” Corbin had gotten under my skin.

This was a problem.

I dropped my head onto my desk and groaned.

I was a grown woman. A medical professional. I did not develop inconvenient attractions to emotionally unavailable men. Not one who would be gone the second Lynx fixed his car.

The kitten’s purr echoed in my memory. The way Corbin had looked at her—like she was terrifying and precious and too much, all at once.

I was so screwed.