“You want a chair or something?” Magnus said, clearly uncomfortable standing around. He had his arms crossed over his chest again.
“No, on the floor is good,” she said, her gaze on that huddled form behind the curtain. “It makes me less frightening. Where’s his litterbox?”
Magnus was silent.
She looked over at him again. “Well?”
“Uh, I haven’t gotten one yet.”
Seriously? What kind of cat owner was he? She looked around at the room again, and then her lips twitched. “That might explain why he took a shit on your bed, then.”
“What?” Magnus barked, striding toward his bed and the white coverlet with a brown stain on the end.
“Don’t raise your voice,” Edie said, keeping hers low and soothing. She set her hand on the floor and stretched her fingers between her scarf and the wall. “Dumbass.”
“He crapped on my bed,” Magnus whispered. “That’s disgusting!”
“He’s an animal,” she said, keeping her voice soft and sweet—kind of like Bianca’s fake tones. “That’s what he does when no outlet is provided for him.” The cat wasn’t moving, so she decided to keep waiting. She’d give him more time. Sometimes cats needed a lot of time, especially when the new environment was frightening. And hell, this one wasn’t even welcoming to people. “You might as well take a seat,” she murmured. “It might take him a bit to come out.”
A clattering sound made her grit her teeth, and she looked over to see Magnus removing his shoes and then taking a seat on the floor across the room, mimicking her pose as she leaned against the wall. He looked . . . annoyed. Not concerned for his cat like any good pet owner. Strange man.
Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the curtain move a little, saw a nose stick out to sniff her scarf. Well, that was promising. Daring greatly, she kept her movements slow and peeled the curtain back, revealing the hissing occupant.
The cat was utterly terrified, which broke Edie’s heart. Drool leaked from its mouth and it panted, a sure sign of anxiety and stress. The warning rumble continued in his throat, so Edie didn’t reach for him. She did, however, study the cat’s markings, the tufted ears, the size of him, and looked over at Magnus, frowning. “What made you pick this cat out of the shelter?”
He shrugged. “Felt like having a cat.”
Her brows drew together. “No, I mean, why this cat?”
He shrugged again. “Why?”
“Because it’s a Savannah cat.”
“I don’t know what that means.”
“You, sir, have picked out a breed that is half wildcat.” Her mouth curved into an amused smile. “Good luck with that.”
***
Magnus couldn’t stop watching Edie. When she wasn’t sniping at him or lashing out with that forked tongue of hers, she was . . . interesting. He wanted to know more about why she limped. It was natural curiosity, being an athlete himself once upon a time. He’d had dozens of injuries when he’d played football, from a torn ligament to a sprained ankle to whatever his opponents could dish out. A knee that injured . . . something bad had happened to it or she’d been born that way. Either way, it was a curiosity, and he wanted to know what had happened. Maybe it was why she was so damn cranky all the damn time.
That overarching crankiness was what made her so fascinating to watch right now. Her fingers were gentle as the cat reluctantly pushed its head out, and she extended them toward the cat. Not moving more than that. Just waiting. And he leaned back to watch her, because it was more riveting than anything he’d seen in a long time. Minutes passed as the cat sniffed her fingertips, sniffed her scarf again, and then moved forward a tiny bit. It crept forward, shoulders hunched, and kept slowly moving until it was near Edie’s leg. She gave it a cautious head skritch, and when the cat decided it liked that, it moved forward a bit more. Within the space of about twenty minutes, she had the cat resting on her lap and relaxing as she rubbed and petted it.
“I think this is a young cat,” she said in a slow, sweet voice that was like liquid honey on the senses. He knew the voice was for the cat’s benefit, but his dick still responded to it. “She’s frightened, but she also wants love and attention.”
“Isn’t that what we all want?” He joked back, and his voice must have been too loud, because the cat jolted, earning him an ugly look from Edie.
“This sort of thing takes time, you know,” she murmured again, her hands gently stroking the alert ears, smoothing over striped fur. “You’re free to leave at any time.”
“I’ll stick around,” he said, modulating his voice to match her sweetness. “It’s my cat, remember?” That, and he’d told Levi he’d keep Edie occupied for at least two hours so Levi could nail Bianca or at the very least, get her out of his system. “So what’s a Savannah cat?”
“They’re a cat that’s part serval and part house cat. Yours looks like it’s probably an F2.” She touched the large ears and the stripes crossing them, then gestured at the ones on the cat’s muzzle. “The markings aren’t as crisp.”
“And what’s an F2?”
“Second generation, basically. Your cat probably has a granddaddy wildcat somewhere.”
“Huh,” he said, since it all seemed a little technical for what looked like a stripey little cat to him. “So . . . do I feed her different things? Like gazelle?”