Page 106 of Eat. Prey. Love.
EmoBatman: C’est vrai, Fitzgerald, except we do not know what will come to pass once they regroup.
LustyLibrarian: Something that should have been considered BEFORE you did that shit.
BabyGirl: They meant well, big guy. And if it gets them to back off so I can finish these damn big projects before the end of April, I’ll deal with it. I have so much to do to be ready for the final presentations. I don’t need the extra stress of people dogging me.
TigerKing: She’s got a point, dragon. If we can keep the adults from fucking with her, she can handle the dumbass kids.
BabyGirl: Fuck, yeah, I can.
TigerWoody: That’s my mate. Use their spines for a toothpick. It’s hot AF, Baby Girl.
Smiling at his enthusiasm for murder, I pocket my phone and quicken my pace toward the Shirdal building, the hub of creativity where my studio nestles among others. Forty-five minutes of undisturbed work awaits me—a precious slice of time before the grueling voice class begins.
The air shifts around me as I dodge clusters of students, my senses heightened—not just by my bunny instincts but also by the whispers that flutter through the halls like insidious moths. Asani, Rockland, Midori—they’ve been weaving their web of words, and it’s sticking to the walls, to the minds of the Council-friendly staff. The thought sends a ripple of anger down my spine, but I press it down, focusing on the projects that need my attention.
“Voice teacher’s got claws out this week,” I remind myself, rolling my eyes at the prospect of facing the music, quite literally. Not that I can’t handle it—I’m Delores Fucking Drew, after all—but when your passion becomes a battlefield, even the strongest warriors feel the strain.
I bound up the steps two at a time, my heart thumping in sync with each jump. Creativity pulses through my veins, pushing out those pesky rumors, filling the void with vibrant colors and bold strokes of imagination. That’s where I’ll find my sanctuary—the notes that will soar from my throat—no matter how harsh the teacher or how tangled the lies.
The momentmy hand touches the cold metal of the studio door, a shiver skitters up my spine — not from chill, but intuition.Something’s off.The door doesn’t greet me with its usual silent compliance; it whines, just barely, a sound as subtle as a whisper but loud enough for a bunny shifter’s sharp ears. I push it open and peek inside. Shadows cling to my space, unfamiliar, wrong.
I don’t like this one fucking bit.
“Someone’s been here,” I mutter under my breath, fishing my phone out of my pocket with nimble fingers. My thumbs dance over the screen, firing off a text to Fitz.
BabyGirl: Studio door’s weird. I think someone broke in.
His response flashes up almost immediately, the ping slicing through the quiet.
TigerWoody: Leave now. Go to voice where there will be people around. I’ll run diagnostics on all security measures and cams, then send Ren’s tiny friends along to gather shit for me. Someone’s going to regret violating your domain, Baby Girl. I promise.
“Always so protective,” I whisper, though a thread of warmth weaves through me at his concern. Fitz’s text bubbles keep coming, a rapid-fire of frustration and worry. He hates that I’m alone after Rockland’s no-show—there’s no one here to see if someone might be lurking in the shadows.
BabyGirl: I’m fine, Fitzy. You can watch me through the cameras as I head there if it makes you feel better.
TigerWoody: It’s cute that you think I need permission.
BabyGirl: It’s cute you think I don’t assume you’re always watching anyways.
My smirk deepens as we banter and I head for the elevator to go down to the vocal student level. I actually think I’ll be fine, but I love that he worries so much. Lucille barely cared if I was alive most of my youth unless I was useful as a prop. My men are invested in keeping me safe, happy, and secure, but not so much that I don’t get to spread my wings—soto speak.
Unfortunately, my momentary joy is short-lived when the elevator doors open and I hear an ear-grating shriek.
“Oh, look, it’s thethief.” The snarl comes from Felicia O’ Leary, my Pred Games harasser. Her voice is as grating as gravel underfoot, especially at this pitch. I turn and face the wolf shifter head-on. She stands with an overly smug posture, all arrogance and sharp teeth as she spews lies obviously seeded by Asani’s venomous tongue.
“You’re full of shit, O’Leary,” I snap, moving closer until we’re inches apart. Our eyes lock, two predators in a standoff that has nothing to do with claws or fangs. “Whoever fed you that story is setting you up to get your flea bitten fur skinned off for a mop.”
“That won’t matter when it hits Prednet,” she retorts, her smirk as cutting as a blade. “You’ll be out on your ass, or better yet, vanished.”
“Try spreading that trash, and my lawyer will have your package expressed delivered. And not just yours.” My words are icy, aimed at making her wonder just what my gangster lawyer can do. “Your whole family will wish they’d never heard your name when my guys unleash on them. Remember: Fitzy already took off your alpha’s head and pissed down the neck hole in public. We weren’t even sleeping together then. Now? Oh, dear, I simply can’t imagine how much fun he’ll have hunting them all down.”
She huffs, a mix of defiance and disbelief, hair flipping like a scorned queen. But before she can throw another barb, Professor Alexandre’s voice cuts through the tension. “Dolly, let’s begin.”
“Oh, darn. Time for me to go.Bye, Felicia,” I say with a smug grin.With a final glare that promises retribution, I pivot away from her, striding past Alexandré into the sanctuary of music, leaving the growls and threats behind.
I strideinto the voice lesson, my anger from Felicia’s confrontation smoldering like hot coals within me. Professor Alexandre gives me a sharp nod, and I force my focus onto the scales and arpeggios, my voice rising and falling with controlled precision. Each note serves as an outlet, channeling my frustration into the melody.
My focus cannot be split by all the bullshit; I started the semester behind as it is.