I woke to the empty side of the bed, the sheets cool and undisturbed where Miko should have been curled up against me, her warmth a constant anchor in the quiet mornings we'd built together. The faint light of dawn seeped through the half-closed curtains, casting elongated shadows across the room and highlighting the rumpled pillows that still held the imprint of her head. No tail draped lazily over my leg, no soft purrs syncing with my breaths, no gentle rise and fall of her bump pressing into my side. I sat up slowly, rubbing the sleep from my eyes, a faint unease stirring in my chest like a whisper of wind before a storm. The clock on the nightstand glowed just after eight—early, but not unheard of for her to slip out if a pregnancy craving hit hard or she needed a moment alone. "Miko?" I called out softly, my voice echoing through the still house, carrying down the hallway. No response. The air felt unusually heavy, scented with the faint remnants of last night's stew and the underlying musk of the previous evening's tensions.
Slipping on a pair of sweats that hung over the chair, the fabric cool against my skin, I padded down the stairs, the wooden steps creaking faintly under my bare feet like reluctant confessions. The living room was bathed in soft morning light, the couch cushions plumped and untouched from where we'd fallen asleep tangled together the night before, but as I rounded the corner into the kitchen, there she was—Miko, sitting at the worn wooden table with a bowl of cereal in front of her, spoon paused mid-air, milk dripping back into the bowl with soft plops. Her bump was more pronounced under her loose nightshirt, the fabric stretching gently over the curve, and her tail swished lazily behind her chair, brushing the floor. She looked up with a small, tentative smile, but her golden eyes held a shadow, something unspoken and vulnerable lurking beneath the surface, like storm clouds gathering on a clear day.
"Morning," I said, leaning down to kiss her forehead, inhaling her familiar lavender scent mixed with the faint sweetness of her cereal. "You okay? Bed felt lonely without you. Everything alright after... last night?"
She set the spoon down with a soft clink, her ears twitching slightly as she fiddled with her ring, twisting the silver band on her finger as if gathering courage for what came next. "Akira went to the shop early—she said she'd grab some groceries and be back soon. Probably trying to make herself useful." She paused, her tail stilling, and looked up at me directly, her gaze steady but laced with a quiet resignation that twisted my gut. "And... I wanted to say, I understand if you decide to fuck her. There are things she can do that I can't right now—with the pregnancy, the bump getting bigger... I'm not as... flexible anymore. Or adventurous in bed. If you need that release, that kind of wildness, it's okay. Just... be honest with me. I don't want secrets between us."
Her words hit like a sudden gust of cold wind, laced with a painful selflessness that made my chest ache. I pulled out the chair beside her, sitting close enough that our knees brushed, taking both her hands in mine. Back in the US, if some younger, more reckless version of me had heard that—untethered, chasing fleeting thrills without a thought for tomorrow—I'd have said yes without a second's hesitation, diving headfirst into the temptation like it was just another conquest. But now? After all the miles we'd run together, the close calls that forged us, the nights wrapped in Miko's arms building this fragile, beautiful life? Hesitation flooded me, a fierce, unyielding loyalty pushing back against the idea like a tidal wave. "No," I said firmly, squeezing her hands, my thumbs rubbing over her knuckles. "Not for now. Not ever, if it means hurting you. You're all I need, kitten—we'll figure out the rest together. Akira's games don't change that."
She nodded, relief flickering in her eyes like sunlight breaking through clouds, though a hint of doubt lingered in the way her ears drooped slightly. We ate in companionable silence after that—me pouring myself a bowl of cereal from the box on the table, the flakes crunching as milk splashed in, the simple meal grounding us in the normalcy of the moment.
The front door clicked open moments later, the sound of rustling plastic bags announcing Akira's return. She strode in with arms laden, setting the groceries on the counter with a thud—fresh fruits tumbling out slightly, veggies in vibrant greens and reds, a loaf of bread peeking from one bag. She was dressed casually but eye-catching—tight jeans that hugged her curves like a second skin, accentuating the sway of her hips and the length of her legs; a top that dipped low in the front, teasing glimpses of cleavage with every movement. "Back," she announced breezily, unpacking with efficient motions—apples rolling into a bowl, milk stowed in the fridge. She made herself a quick sandwich—thick slices of ham layered with cheese, crisp lettuce, and tangy pickles between fresh bread, the knife slicing through with crisp, deliberate cuts—before joining us at the table, biting in with a satisfied hum that broke the quiet. Breakfast passed with light, surface-level chatter—Akira sharing snippets of market gossip about rising prices and local hybrid news, Miko updating on her store shifts—but the undercurrent of her "tests" hung like invisible smoke, tainting the air with unspoken tension.
We finished up, clearing the bowls with clinks into the sink, and as Miko and I headed out for work—her to the store with a quick, possessive kiss at the door, her hand lingering on my chest as if marking her territory; me to the bar with a backpack slung over my shoulder—the day's normalcy felt fragile, like glass ready to shatter. Akira waved from the doorway, her smile a touch too sharp. "I'll take care of the house today," she called, her voice carrying down the path. "Don't want to be a burden—cleaning, organizing, maybe some laundry. Earn my keep while I'm here."
Work dragged on in its usual rhythm—Miko at the store, stocking shelves and chatting with customers, her bump drawing curious but kind glances; me slinging drinks at the bar, the polished wooden counter sticky with spills, Viktor's gruff encouragement keeping me going amid the clink of glasses, the froth of beer pours, and the regulars' banter about everything from local festivals to the encroaching war rumors. But thoughts of wedding plans bubbled up persistently in the lulls—venue ideas by the river, simple invites for Elena and Sylvia, all the little details to make it ours, to seal our future amid the uncertainty.
I returned home as the sun dipped low on the horizon, painting the sky in fiery oranges and purples, casting long, dramatic shadows across the driveway and the house's facade. The place smelled faintly of lemon cleaner and fresh linens—Akira had been true to her word, floors mopped to a shine, counters wiped down, a basket of folded laundry on the table. Miko wasn't home yet—normal for her; she often wrapped up later, strolling in just as dinner simmered on the stove, her laughter filling the space as she kicked off her shoes by the door, sharing stories from her day. I headed straight to the shower, stripping off my work clothes that reeked of spilled drinks and sweat, the hot water cascading over me in soothing, pounding streams, steam fogging the mirror and clouding the air as I scrubbed vigorously with soap, lathering into thick suds that rinsed away the day's grime and tension.
Dried off and in fresh clothes—a simple tee and jeans—I went to start dinner, the kitchen now spotless thanks to Akira's efforts. Chopping onions with rhythmic, sharp thuds of the knife against the wooden board, their pungent scent stinging my eyes; garlic mincing into fragrant, sticky piles that filled the room with savory promise; ground meat browning in the pan with a sizzle, fat popping as I stirred. The stew came together gradually—veggies tossed in, herbs sprinkled, the pot simmering with bubbles breaking the surface in lazy pops, the aroma wafting through the house like a warm embrace.
Akira appeared in the doorway midway through, leaning against the frame with a sly, knowing smile, her outfit from morning still on—top clinging to her curves, jeans low on her hips, accentuating every movement. "Need help?" she asked, sauntering in without waiting for an answer, her tail swishing behind her like a metronome of mischief.
She "helped" by brushing against me deliberately as she reached for spices on the high shelf, her breast grazing my arm with soft pressure, sending an unwelcome spark through me; her hand "accidentally" lingering on my thigh as she passed behind me to grab a spoon, fingers trailing just long enough to tease. "Oops," she purred, bending over dramatically to grab a pot from the lower cabinet, her ass on full display, the jeans riding up to reveal the curve of her cheeks. The teasing escalated—her body pressing close as she stirred the pot beside me, whispering in my ear, "You sure you passed those tests? I can make dinner... interesting. Imagine my mouth instead of that spoon." Her breath was hot on my neck, her scent—musky and inviting—mixing with the garlic and herbs.
I kept my focus on the stove, stirring the sauce with more force than needed, the spoon scraping the bottom. "Not happening, Akira. Drop it."
When dinner was ready—the pasta al dente, twirled in the rich, tomatoey sauce bubbling with flavors of basil and oregano, steam rising in curls, bread on the side warm and crusty for dipping—Miko still wasn't back. The table was set for three, bowls steaming invitingly, silverware gleaming under the kitchen light, but her chair remained empty, the absence growing louder with each tick of the clock. Worry gnawed at me like a persistent itch; she was usually home by now, her laughter filling the space as she kicked off her shoes by the door, sharing quirky customer stories from her day or complaining about swollen feet. Akira paced a bit by the window, her earlier teasing forgotten, ears twitching with growing concern, tail lashing. "She's late," she said, glancing at the clock again, her voice edged with the same unease twisting in my gut. "Too late."
An hour ticked by agonizingly slow—me checking my phone every few minutes, the screen lighting up with no notifications, pacing the living room with heavy steps on the creaking floorboards, the stew now cold on the table. Akira joined me in the vigil, her confidence cracking as she peered out the window into the darkening street. "Something's wrong," she muttered, crossing her arms tightly. "This isn't like her."
Then my phone rang sharply, shattering the tension—an unknown number flashing on the screen. I answered fast, heart leaping into my throat. "Hello?"
A voice came through, rough and accented, dripping with malice—Dimitar. "You and that cat bitch are the reason my brother's dead," he snarled, the words laced with venom. In the background, Miko's voice pierced through—terrified, desperate, begging: "Please, let me go! I didn't do anything! Help—"
My blood ran cold, freezing in my veins as rage boiled up like lava. "What the fuck? Where is she? If you touch her—"
Dimitar laughed coldly, a chilling sound that echoed through the line. "Kidnapped. Safe—for now. But if you don't pay for what happened to Trent, I'll rape her slow, make her scream, then kill her even slower. Meet me in Romania, Bucharest. Call this number back when you get there." The line went dead with a click, leaving only silence and the pounding of my heart.
I stared at the phone in my hand, knuckles white, rage and fear warring inside me like a storm. Akira's eyes widened, her ears pinning back. "What? Who was that?"
I met her gaze, voice steel. "Dimitar—Trent's brother. He has Miko. Kidnapped. Threatening to... hurt her if I don't go to Bucharest." The words tasted like ash. "We're going there. Right now. But first—to Viktor. My boss at the bar. I need something from him—supplies, maybe a contact. He's got connections from his Romania days."
Akira nodded sharply, grabbing her jacket. "Let's move."
We bolted to the car, the door slamming behind us, engine roaring to life as I peeled out of the driveway, tires screeching on the gravel. The house shrank in the rearview mirror, Bucharest a dark, ominous promise ahead, the road stretching into uncertainty.