"How did you know about that?" She moves closer, footsteps silent on the weathered planks. Close enough now that I can hear her heartbeat accelerate. "The break-in wasn't reported."
"Small island. News travels." I hoist the dive tank onto the boat, using the movement to put distance between us because her nearness does things to my control that aren't safe. For either of us. "Maybe you should take it as a hint. Stormhaven doesn't want mainland cops poking around where they're not welcome."
"Or maybe someone's scared of what I'll find." She stops at the edge of the pier, close enough that her scent wraps around me like a physical thing. "Where are you diving?"
"North reef. Private salvage work. Perfectly legal." It's mostly legal, anyway. The artifacts I'm recovering technically belongto whoever owned them before their ship went down, but possession laws get murky when dealing with centuries-old wrecks. "Not that it's any of your business."
"Any criminal activity on this island is my business." Her gaze tracks over my boat, cataloguing details with the thoroughness of someone trained in evidence collection. "And you, Mr. O'Donnell, are involved in criminal activity up to your neck."
"Prove it." I meet her stare directly, letting her see the challenge, letting her see the predator watching from behind my eyes. "Arrest me, Chief. Bring your evidence, make your case, haul me before a judge. Or admit you're fishing because you don't actually have anything solid."
The tension crackles between us, thick enough to taste. Her hands clench at her sides, jaw tight with frustration and something else. Something darker. She wants to arrest me, wants it badly enough that I can smell the desire sharpening her anger, mixing with the arousal she's trying to suppress. But she's too good a cop to move without evidence, too smart to overplay her hand when she's still building her case.
Too disciplined to act on the attraction burning between us even though we both feel it.
"I will prove it." Her voice drops lower, edges going sharp. Dangerous. The cop disappearing behind something fiercer, something that meets my challenge with one of her own. "Whatever you're involved in, whoever you're working with, I will find evidence and I will bring charges. That's a promise."
"Looking forward to it." I gun the engine, the rumble breaking the moment before I do something stupid like closing the distance between us. "Now unless you plan to swim after me, I've got work to do."
I expect her to leave. Any sensible person would recognize dismissal when it's delivered with a running motor and pointedindifference. Any smart cop would understand the warning underneath the threat, would know when they're outmatched and outgunned.
But Catriona MacLeod isn't sensible, isn't easily discouraged, and apparently mistakes dedication for survival instinct.
She pulls out her tablet and starts documenting my boat, my equipment, my body language. She captures every detail with the thoroughness of someone who knows exactly what evidence looks like, who understands that cases are built from accumulation, that even criminals make mistakes if you watch them long enough.
My tiger snarls approval despite the threat she represents. She's fearless and relentless, absolutely unwilling to bend even when smart money says retreat. She'd stand beside her partner against any threat, fight with everything she had to protect what's hers, die before she'd compromise her principles.
She's everything I used to be, everything exile burned out of me.
She's everything the predator in me wants to claim and corrupt and keep.
I pull away from the pier before I do something stupid like admitting she's right about me. I cut through the morning waves, heading toward the coordinates my client provided. North reef, deep water, tricky currents that make diving dangerous for anyone without supernatural advantages. Good. Maybe the challenge will clear my head of stubborn cops with determined eyes and a death wish masquerading as investigation.
The dive site sits in open water, rocky outcroppings rising from the seabed like jagged teeth. I anchor carefully, checking the currents and mapping the underwater terrain before suiting up. The work is familiar, a routine I've performed hundreds of times. I descend into the cold water, navigating through themurk in order to recover the artifact my client wants pulled from the deep.
Today it's religious items from a merchant vessel that went down during a storm generations ago. Silver crosses, holy relics, objects that command good prices from collectors who don't ask questions about provenance. Gray-market salvage that pays the bills while I work for the Russians doing things that leave blood on my hands.
I slip beneath the surface, letting the water close over my head with relief that borders on reverence. Down here, the world narrows to simple things. The task and its execution. No impossible choices, just the work itself.
Except that's a lie. Even underwater, the tightrope I'm walking stretches taut beneath my feet.
Tomorrow night I'm using the Russians' own smuggling operation against them. They've arranged the logistics, cleared the route, set up the cover story—all for what they think is an artifact transport to Aberdeen. High-value medieval relics for a private collector. They have no idea I'll be moving three selkies the brotherhood liberated from their holding facility, using their own smuggling infrastructure to return captives to freedom.
If they discover what's really in the shipment, the operation fails. If they realize I'm the leak that's been bleeding them dry, everyone dies. They'll execute everyone involved, making examples that are brutal enough to ensure no one else tries betraying the syndicate from within.
Catriona could become leverage if they discovered her connection to me. A weakness they could exploit. Someone to hurt when they want me to talk, to break, to betray everyone counting on me to hold the line.
My enhanced senses make diving easier than it should be. Tiger sight cuts through the gloom, tracking movement and detail that would escape human eyes. Accelerated healing meansI can push depths and durations that would kill normal divers. My tiger's awareness warns me of sharks and other dangers before they become threats.
I find the wreck quickly, hull broken and scattered across the reef like bones picked clean by scavengers. The crosses shine dully in the filtered light, silver tarnished but intact. I collect them carefully, placing each piece in the collection bag with the reverence objects of faith deserve even when they're being stolen from their resting place.
The work calms the beast prowling beneath my skin. Down here, I'm just a diver doing a job, just a man alone in the deep, taking what he needs to survive.
I'm securing the last cross when awareness prickles across my senses. Something is wrong. The instinct that kept me alive through Ireland's clan wars, through exile, through years of dancing with criminals and worse, screams danger.
I surface carefully, scanning the cliffs above my anchored position. There, outlined against the morning sky, a figure watches. The distance makes identification impossible, but the posture is professional and patient, the stance of a Russian operative conducting surveillance.
They're watching me, which means they're tracking my movements, which means they're planning something. The search of Catriona's cottage wasn't just a warning. It was reconnaissance, preparation for whatever they're planning next.
