I feel nauseous.
The stone floor is tilting under my knees, slick with a red that shouldn't be there.
And the thing dying in front of me—the thing I'm touching—is a death sentence.
The room doesn't just feel hot; it feels compressed. Like the air is being sucked out through the keyhole. I grip the edge of the mahogany table, my fingers sliding because the wood is wet. Red. Too much of it. It smells sharp and metallic, like a copper coin held too long in a sweaty palm.
"Okay. Okay, don't die," I mutter. My voice sounds like sandpaper. God, I sound pathetic.
The cat is small. Filthy. Its fur is matted into dark, stiff peaks along its side. Its chest jerks in shallow, uneven pulls, fighting for air and losing the round. One eye is half-open, glazed like a marble.
My stomach flips. Hell, this is wrong. This is so incredibly wrong.
I shouldn't be here. I shouldn't have a floor like this—cold, gray stone carved with symbols that look like they're crawling. I definitely shouldn't be crouched in a room lit by flickering tallow candles, wearing someone else's skin, staring at a forbidden animal like I'm its mother.
But here I am.
"Shit," I whisper. My ears are ringing—a high, thin whine that makes my teeth ache. Panic is buzzing under my skin, electric and nasty. "Don't you dare bleed out on me. Not now."
The cat twitches. A low, vibrating sound crawls out of its throat. It's not a hiss. It's a warning, ancient and heavy.
"Hey." I freeze. My heart slams once, hard, against my ribs. "Easy. I'm not—I'm not the enemy."
That's when I see the wound. It's not a cut. It's burned. The edges are blackened, charred deep into the muscle as if something scorched it from the inside out. Whatever did this didn't just slash; it tried to erase the creature's existence.
My breath stutters. Memory hits me—not mine, but hers. The girl who owned this body before I woke up in this mess. The rules are carved into the brain like a brand:
Wild beasts are dangerous. Sealed beasts are forbidden. Anything that breaks a seal must be turned to ash by order of the Emperor.
My hands are shaking so hard I have to sit on my heels. This cat shouldn't be breathing. It shouldn't even be visible.
"Yeah," I mutter, wiping sweat from my forehead with a bloody sleeve. "So that's great. Just perfect."
The cat tries to crawl away, claws scraping weakly against the stone. It moves two inches and collapses, its body sagging. I reach for it. It's a stupid, impulsive move. The kind of choice that ruins lives.
The second my fingers touch its matted fur, pain spikes up my arm.
I gasp, sucking in a sharp breath. It's not an electric shock; it's pressure. Like invisible iron fingers clamping down on my wrist, weighing my soul. Testing the intruder.
The cat goes still.
For a heartbeat, the world stops. No candle flicker. No wind outside. Just me and a dying monster.
Then, the pressure vanishes. The cat relaxes against my palm, its tiny heart thumping like a drum.
"Okay," I whisper, my voice cracking. "Okay. We're doing this. God help me."
I move fast. I rip a strip of silk from my hem, ignoring the expensive sound of tearing fabric. I clean the wound, my vision swimming. The blood keeps coming—warm, sticky, and far too much for something this small.
If someone walks in, I'm dead. Literally dead. Executed. Game over.
The thought lands heavy in my gut. I glance at the heavy oak door. Nothing. Just shadows. But my skin is prickling—that instinctive itch between the shoulder blades that says someone is watching the show.
I crush the dried leaves I found in the drawer, pressing them into the burn. The cat jerks, its claws digging weakly into my skin.
"Don't," I hiss softly. "I need you to stay alive, you little bastard."
The cat's breathing evens out. Just a bit.
Hope flickers in my chest, and that's the most dangerous thing of all. Because that's when the air in the room shifts. It's not a draft. It's like the room just inhaled and forgot to let it back out. The candle flames don't flicker—they lean. They lean toward the door as if pulled by a magnet.
"No," I whisper. "No, no, no—"
The pressure hits my chest again, sudden and crushing. I stagger back, my lungs seizing up. The cat lets out a sharp, jagged cry.
The door doesn't bang open. It creaks. Slow. Deliberate.
I spin around, heart hammering against my teeth.
He's standing there. Tall. Impossibly still. Framed by the darkness of the hallway like he owns the night—and everything in this room. His presence slams into me, cold and precise, like the flat of a blade pressed against my throat.
Black robes. Crimson silk. Gold embroidery that looks like it's dripping down his shoulders. His face is calm—that terrifying, smooth calm that only belongs to the man who rules this entire empire.
My knees go weak. I know that face.
The Emperor. Charmant Xuánréi.
My breath comes in shallow, stupid hitches. I look like a wreck—covered in blood, holding a forbidden beast, kneeling on his floor.
He doesn't look at me first. His gaze drops to the floor. To the cat.
Something flickers across his eyes. It's not shock. It's recognition.
"That creature," he says. His voice is low, smooth, and utterly lethal. "Should be a pile of ash by now. My orders were clear."
I open my mouth, but my throat is a desert. My hands curl instinctively around the cat, pulling it against my chest. It's a possessive move. Defensive. Purely suicidal.
"Release it," he says, stepping into the room. The door shuts behind him with a soft click that sounds like a guillotine dropping.
Every step he takes makes the room feel smaller. He's the Emperor; he doesn't need to shout to be the loudest thing in the room.
"No," I say.
The word is out before I can stop it. My heart is screaming at me to shut up, to grovel, to run. But I don't move.
His gaze snaps to mine. Up close, he's worse. Too sharp. His eyes are dark, assessing, stripping me down to my nerves. I feel it everywhere—under my skin, in the marrow of my bones.
"You disobey your Emperor," he says. It's a statement, not a question.
I swallow hard. "It's hurt. It's just a cat."
"It is a breach," he counters, stopping an arm's length away.
He's too close. I can smell him—sandalwood, cold rain, and something sharp like ozone. Power. It radiates off him in waves, making my hair stand on end.
"And if I let it live," he murmurs, leaning down slightly, his eyes locking onto mine, "the seal breaks further. Do you understand the price of that, little thief?"
My throat tightens. My pulse is a frantic animal in my neck. "Then punish me. But don't kill it."
The words land between us, reckless and heavy. Silence stretches.
His gaze drops—slowly, painfully—to where my hands are buried in the cat's fur. When he looks back up, his eyes are darker. Intense.
"You would take responsibility for a monster?"
"I'm already holding it, aren't I?" I snap.
The corner of his mouth lifts. It's not a smile. It's the look a predator gives you right before the bite.
He reaches out. I flinch, squeezing my eyes shut, expecting a strike.
But he doesn't hit me. I feel a strange hum in the air. A vibration that makes my skin tingle. I open one eye.
His fingers are hovering just inches above the cat's head. A faint, golden light—thin as a spiderweb—pulses between his skin and the fur.
The cat shudders. It goes stiff, its eyes rolling back.
"What are you doing?" I gasp, trying to pull away.
He grabs my wrist. His grip is like iron—hot and terrifyingly strong. He doesn't pull, he just holds me there.
"Be still," he commands.
The pressure in the room peaks. My ears pop. Then, he withdraws his hand.
The pressure vanishes so fast I almost fall forward. The cat breathes out a long, ragged sigh and goes limp in my arms. Alive.
I stare at him, stunned. My wrist is still burning where he touched it, but it's not just a burn—it's a tug. Deep in my gut, I feel a thread tighten, connecting me to the cat, and through the cat… to him. It's an oily, heavy sensation that makes me want to scrub my skin raw, yet I can't look away. I'm terrified of him, but there's this sick, magnetic pull that tells me I'm no longer an independent person. I'm an extension of his will.
He straightens up, adjusting his sleeves as if he hadn't just done something impossible.
"From this moment," he says, his voice dropping to a whisper that vibrates in my chest, "that creature is bound."
My heart skips a beat. "Bound?"
"To your life force," he says, a dark glint in his eyes. "If it dies, you bleed. If you stray, it hunts. And I? I hold the leash to both of you."
The room feels like it's spinning. I'm screwed. Completely and utterly screwed.
"I didn't agree to that," I whisper.
He leans in, his face inches from mine, his breath warm against my ear.
"You did the moment you touched it."
The cat stirs in my arms. Slowly—unnaturally—it opens its eyes. They aren't green anymore. They're glowing gold, exactly like his.