My cheek burned, a sharp, stinging heat where something wet and rotten had just slapped against my skin.
I tasted metal. Blood. Great. Someone had just launched a piece of literal garbage at my face, and judging by the aim, it wasn't an accident. It was a statement. My vision blurred for a second, my pulse drumming a frantic rhythm against my eardrums.
"See?" a man's voice boomed, cutting through the humid air of the stall. "Even the cats steal for her. She's rotting the neighborhood from the inside out!"
I froze, one hand death-gripped on the scarred wooden counter, the other half-lifted like a kid caught with her hand in the cookie jar. The bowl of soup in front of me was still steaming—cheap broth, mostly water and wilted greens, the very last pot of the day. And there was Oyen. My orange shadow, my constant problem, with his head buried deep in the bowl, lapping away like he owned the place.
"Oyen, stop—"
The whisper died in my throat. Too late. The crowd surged closer, a wall of angry eyes and judgmental breath. My chest tightened, that familiar, suffocating itch of too many people, too close crawling up my spine. This is bad. This is "I-should-have-stayed-in-bed" bad.
"She feeds them first," a woman hissed, her face twisted in a mask of disgust. "Then they infest the whole street. Bringing fleas, bringing bad luck."
"I heard she talks to them," another voice chimed in, dripping with enough venom to kill a horse. "Whispering in the dark. Asking for favors."
"Of course she does. Look at her."
Witch.
The word landed heavier than the trash. It wasn't just a slur anymore; it was an accusation, a death sentence in a town looking for a scapegoat. I wiped my cheek with my sleeve, my hand shaking so hard I couldn't hide it. The movement tipped the soup bowl. Clatter. Hot liquid splashed onto the floor, steaming in the dirt. Oyen jumped back, hissing a warning, before darting behind my legs.
A rock hit the wooden wall of my eatery. Crack.
My ears rang. God, why didn't I listen to my gut? I knew I shouldn't have opened today. I knew it when the rats didn't show up for their usual crumbs this morning. I knew it when the cats crowded the back door like a fluffy, silent militia guarding a tomb. My stomach had been doing somersaults for hours, and I'd just ignored it.
I stepped back, my heels hitting the back shelf.
"Please," I started, but my voice sounded like a pathetic squeak. I hated it. I hated feeling small. "It's just food. I'll clean it. I'll pay for the—"
"Shut it down."
The voice wasn't a yell. It didn't need to be. It was cold, sharp, and cut through the mob's frenzy like a blade through silk.
The crowd split instantly.
A man stepped forward. Tall. Way too tall. He wore clean boots and a dark coat dusted with sand, looking like he'd just crossed a desert only to find me—his newest annoyance. He held a folded document in one hand, while the other rested casually near his belt. He moved with a terrifying kind of control. This wasn't a neighbor with a grudge; this was Authority.
My breath caught. It wasn't because he was handsome—though he was, in that annoying, sharp-jawed way that made you want to punch him—it was because his eyes weren't on the angry mob.
They were locked on me. Piercing. Calculating.
"You're operating without proper approval," he said. Flat. No emotion. Just facts. "Animal feeding in public zones is strictly prohibited under local ordinance."
"That's not—this is my kitchen," I snapped, the words jumping out before my brain could put a leash on them. Shut up, shut up, shut up. "It's a business. Not a sanctuary."
"A kitchen?" His gaze flicked downward. Three cats had materialized from the shadows behind me. Oyen was crouching, ready to spring. The gray one sat perfectly still, unblinking. The black one had vanished into the darkness of the pantry.
Smart cats. I wish I was that smart.
"You've been warned before," he continued, stepping into the light of my stall.
I stared him down, my heart hammering against my ribs. "I haven't. I've never seen you before in my life."
A corner of his mouth twitched. Not a smile—more like he'd found a particularly interesting bug under a rock. "Then consider today your first warning," he said. "And your last, if you don't comply immediately."
The crowd murmured. I could feel their satisfaction, a oily wave of relief that someone "official" was finally putting the local freak in her place. If he shuts me down, I'm dead. No kitchen means no rent. No rent means I'm on the street with the cats, and once these rumors catch fire, no one will even let me sleep in a barn.
I looked at the cats. My only friends. They looked back with wide, knowing eyes. Help me out here, guys.
"You can fine me," I said, trying to steady my hands by gripping my apron. "I'll pay. Just—don't close the doors."
He studied me then. Really studied me. He saw the smear of blood on my cheek, the tremor in my fingers, and the way I instinctively shifted my weight to shield the cats.
"You're choosing a strange hill to die on," he said quietly, his voice dropping an octave. "For a few strays."
"They're not strays."
The words were out before I could catch them. Too fast. Too defensive.
His eyes sharpened. "Then what are they?"
I hesitated. The air felt heavy, like the seconds before a lightning strike. The gray cat moved then—just one deliberate step forward. It was enough.
"See?" someone screamed from the back. "She's signaling them! She's casting something!"
Witch! Witch!
My stomach dropped to my toes. The man exhaled slowly, the way a person does when they're trying not to lose their temper.
"This is escalating," he muttered, more to himself than me. He looked back up, his expression hardening into granite. "Close the shop. Now. Voluntarily. Before this gets physical."
If I say yes, I lose everything. If I say no, I'm a criminal.
Suddenly, Oyen decided he'd had enough of the tension. He bolted forward, snatched a stray piece of bread from the dirt, and collided head-first with the man's polished boot.
The crowd erupted.
"Control your beasts!"
"Burn the place!"
I moved without thinking. Pure, unadulterated desperation. I lunged forward and grabbed the man's sleeve, my fingers digging into the heavy fabric of his coat.
Mistake. The moment I touched him, I knew I'd crossed a line I couldn't uncross.
"Please," I said, and this time, the "small" girl was gone. I sounded feral. Cornered. "They didn't hurt anyone. They're just hungry. You don't have to do this. You don't have to ruin me."
His entire body went still. I mean, graveyard still.
The crowd's screaming died down into a thick, expectant silence. Slowly, with terrifying deliberation, he looked down at my hand on his arm. Then he looked back at my face, his eyes dark with something I couldn't read.
"You just made this official," he said, his voice a low growl.
He pulled his arm free with a sharp jerk.
"By authority of the village council," he announced, his voice carrying to the very edge of the square, "this establishment is under temporary closure pending a full investigation into occult practices and public safety violations."
The words hit me like a physical blow. My knees buckled, and I had to catch the counter to keep from collapsing.
I hated him. I hated the way he looked at me like I was a problem to be solved. But as he began to usher the shouting crowd away, some dark, twisted part of my gut whispered the truth.
I wasn't getting out of this alive without him.
"Lock it," he commanded, not looking back. "Now."