He had threatened to evict her, to throw her out along with the boy who brought her. That simply would not do.
Earlier, the larger boy had pleaded with the smaller to allow this intrusion. In exchange, she had felt honor bound to respect his wishes and be peaceable with the little, loud one. So her daggers were now sheathed, but ready to fly at a moment's notice. She was a deadly weapon, born and bred from a line of killers centuries old. It was in her blood, her nature, and yet that boy treated her like some piffling nuisance. She had held her tongue (and her claws) for the other's sake, but this last insult was too much; she would have to teach him a lesson in humility.
Creeping with the unnatural stealth of her kind, she approached the sofa where he lay, the soft of his stomach exposed as he pushed up his shirt in his sleep. Only an arrogant brat like this one would lay so vulnerable knowing she could come for him at any time.
She stalked her way to the edge of the seat, calculating her next move, waiting for the opportune moment. Suddenly, he shifted, stretching his arms over his head in a lazy arc as he slept.
She struck for his spleen, a fatal spot, howling a warrior's cry as her knives sank home.
He woke, desperately attempting to thwart her attack, but she held fast, striking over and over.
"Al! Get this psycho cat off me!"