She lifted her head long enough to nod one more time.

“Good. Do you want—” A knock on the door preceded the aroma of fried chicken, and my mouth watered instantly. The tabby wasn’t the only hungry girl in the room. “That’s your food,” I said, already headed for the door.

As I let Lucas in, I kept one hand on the doorknob, prepared to shut it quickly if the tabby freaked out at the sight of another tom. But she made no sound as the door creaked open and didn’t even growl when Lucas stepped past me into the room, a huge plateful of chicken pieces in one hand. Evidently hunger superseded any residual fear and misgivings.

“She still hasn’t Shifted?” A frown marred Lucas’s curiosity as he brushed a red ringlet from his forehead. He’d probably been hoping for the first glimpse of our guest in human form.

I followed his gaze to the tabby, who sat watching us alertly, her eyes on the food in his hands. “Yeah, there seems to be a bit of confusion on that point. I don’t think she understands what I want her to do.”

He handed me the plate. “Like, she doesn’t know how to Shift? How is that possible?”

“It’s not. She can’t possibly—” I froze, the plate hot in my hand. “Son of a bitch!”

The problem wasn’t that she didn’t know what I wanted her to do, but that she didn’t know how to do what I wanted.

Somehow, as impossible as the concept seemed to me, the tabby didn’t know how to Shift.

Fifteen

Eager to explore my new theory, I ushered Lucas from the room much more quickly than he wanted to go, without updating Marc or the doc. I closed the door on them all and turned back to the tabby, the platter of chicken cradled in both hands. “Do you mind if I join you?”

She made no response, which I took as consent. Honestly, though, by that point, I would have taken anything short of an outright attack as consent.

I made my way to the tabby slowly, giving her time to warn me if she got cold paws. But her eyes didn’t leave the plate until I set it on the bare floor between us.

The tabby glanced from the chicken to me, asking permission to eat. In a hunt, the highest-ranking werecat eats first, like the male in a pride of lions. But something told me that wasn’t what she had in mind. She was using plain old human manners, taught by someone who cared about not only her physical well-being but her upbringing.

How had she gone from that to this? From loving parents who taught her manners, to eating leftover fried chicken in cat form on the floor of a rented lodge with a perfect stranger?