The air shimmered, and where a battered tomcat had crouched moments ago now stood a man—if “man” was the right word. Broad-shouldered, muscles rippling under leather gleaming like wet fur, his every movement flowed with the predatory ease of a hunting cat. A single dangerous eye caught the light, glittering with lazy menace, while a pale scar traced across the other. His grin came slow and knowing, like a stretch before a pounce.

“Greebo,”

he said matter of factually, voice rough as velvet.

“Don’t look so scared, darlin’. I’m house-trained—mostly.”

The scent of musk and danger hung in the air, the kind that made even the bravest witch check her heartbeat twice.

“Don’t look so nervous, darlin’. I only bite if you run—though, mind you, I do enjoy a bit of a chase.”