(epiloge)

Six months later you gave birth to twin cubs, a boy and a girl. Peter wasn't a bad father, far from it, but when it came to your relationship with him, he made sure you knew your place, that you didn't stray. He domesticated you, collaring you, making you stay around the house looking after your cubs. Your first litter was almost two years old when your heat came upon you again. You crawled into bed, dutifully spreading your thighs for your mate. You already spread for him almost every night, but in heat you were driven to seek it out, to pursue him, beg him for a litter, get bred.

Your belly would swell again, this time one cub, but the routine of weaning kittens, crawling in bed in heat, and breeding became your life, your routine. Your dreams of becoming a scientist and a teacher had been shattered and now your energy was spent raising small balls of fur that your mate kept you filled with. It was while weaning your third litter you understood your mother's remark when you were a cub about staying away from toms. You hadn't, and this was your life.