I haul myself onto the boat, water streaming from my wetsuit as I strip down to bare skin. The morning air hits cold, but the tiger warms me from within. I reach for a towel when movement catches my eye.
A boat appears on the horizon, and I recognize it immediately. The police patrol vessel cuts through the water with purposeful determination, heading straight for myposition. And standing at the helm, tablet raised and aimed directly at me, is the most stubborn cop in Scotland.
She followed me, tracked my coordinates, pursued me into open water in her patrol boat where there are no witnesses and no backup. Where anything could happen and no one would know until they found her vessel drifting empty.
My tiger surges forward with predatory interest that's entirely too pleased by her recklessness. She doesn't quit, doesn't back down. She sees danger and runs straight toward it, armed with nothing but her evidence tablet and a rigid belief that the law will protect her.
The law won't protect her out here, not from me.
Her boat pulls alongside mine, close enough that I can see the way her eyes widen slightly when she takes in my state of undress. Her gaze tracks over my bare chest with an appreciation she tries to hide behind professional detachment, but she fails to do so.
I don't reach for the towel. I let her look, let her pulse jump and her breath catch and her scent spike with arousal she doesn't want to feel. The predator in me enjoys watching her struggle, caught between duty and desire, between fear and fascination.
"You're trespassing in restricted waters, Chief." I don't move. Let her see exactly what she's dealing with, let the morning sun highlight every scar, every line of muscle, every inch of predator wearing human skin. "These dive coordinates are licensed privately."
"Public waters can't be licensed." She kills her engine, letting the boats drift together. Her voice stays steady but her eyes betray her, tracking water droplets sliding down my chest. "And I'm investigating suspicious maritime activity. My jurisdiction."
"Suspicious activity." I lean against the rail, watching her pupils dilate. The spike of arousal in her scent makes my tigerrumble approval. "I'm salvaging with proper permits. Nothing illegal about recovering historical artifacts."
"Unless those artifacts belong to heritage sites protected by law." She lifts the tablet, documenting my equipment, my haul. Playing the cop even while her body responds to mine in ways that have nothing to do with law enforcement. "Which they do. I looked up the registry. This wreck is on the protected list."
Damn. She's thorough, I'll give her that. Thorough and smart and absolutely unwilling to be intimidated even when she should be. Most cops wouldn't have checked maritime heritage databases, wouldn't have connected salvage work with illegal trafficking. But Catriona MacLeod built her career on organized crime investigation, which means she knows exactly how criminals operate and what to look for.
Which makes her dangerous to me, to the mission, to herself.
"Protected site or not, you're still out here alone with no backup and no witness." I let the words hang, let her feel the threat in them. Let her remember that we're miles from shore, that the water is cold and deep, that accidents happen all the time to people who don't understand how dangerous the sea can be. "Not the smartest move for a cop investigating dangerous criminals."
Her jaw works. She's processing the threat, calculating odds, trying to decide if I'm warning her or threatening her. The answer is both.
"Are you threatening me again, Mr. O'Donnell?" Her hand drifts toward her hip where her service weapon sits. The movement is instinctive, defensive, and utterly useless against what I am. "Because I'm starting to think you enjoy it."
"I'm stating facts." I push off the rail, moving closer to where our boats almost touch. The motion brings us within reach, close enough that I can smell the salt spray mixing with her scent, feel the heat radiating from her despite the cool morningair. Close enough that she can see the predator looking out through my eyes. "You're in over your head, Chief. These waters are dangerous. The people you're investigating are worse. Smart cops know when to back off."
"Good thing I've never been accused of being smart." She doesn't retreat despite the way her breath catches when I invade her space, despite the way her pulse hammers in her throat. "Just stubborn. And really, really good at my job."
The boats rock with the current, bringing us so close I could reach across and touch her. Close enough that my tiger wants to haul her into my boat and show her exactly what happens to prey that chases predators into deep water. Close enough that I can see she's fighting it too—the pull between us that makes no sense but burns hot enough to override survival instinct.
"You should leave this island." The words come out rougher than intended, edged with warning and something darker. "Pack your things tonight. Request a transfer tomorrow. Find somewhere safer to play cop. Stormhaven isn't worth dying for."
"Are you worried about me?" Something is different in her expression, surprise softening the professional mask. "That almost sounded like genuine concern."
"I'm worried about logistics." I force steel into my voice even as the lie tastes bitter. "Dead cops bring attention. Major investigations. Media coverage. The kind of scrutiny that's bad for business and worse for the people who like their privacy. You want to die for your principles, do it somewhere that doesn't fuck up my operations."
I watch her flinch, watch the softness in her expression harden back into professional distance.
"Noted. I'll try not to get murdered in a way that inconveniences your smuggling operation." She reaches for the ignition, her jaw tight with anger. "Thanks for the warning. It's touching how much you care about administrative efficiency."
She guns the motor before I can respond, her boat pulling away with a spray of salt water that catches me across the chest. I watch her go, my tiger snarling fury at letting her leave. The beast wants to chase her down, wants to stop playing these games, wants to claim what's ours and damn the consequences.
But there's another part of me, the part that remembers what honor used to feel like, that recognizes what she represents even if I can't be it anymore.
She still believes the system works. Still thinks evidence and law will triumph over violence and corruption. Still believes being right means you'll win.
I believed that once. Right up until my own clan exiled me for what I did to the traitor who sold out our safe houses. A traitor whose information led to massacres. Women, children, elders slaughtered in coordinated attacks because someone thought thirty pieces of silver was worth more than innocent lives.
I found him. Tracked him for months. And when I had him, I didn't give him the swift death clan law demanded. I tortured him for three days. Extracted every name, every detail, every piece of intelligence about the conspiracy. The information I got saved other clans from similar attacks.
But torture violated our laws. Justice was supposed to be swift, clean, honorable. What I did was justice of another sort—not swift or clean, but honorable in its own pure and brutal way. The clan exiled me despite the lives my intelligence saved. Politics helped—some of the co-conspirators I exposed were relatives of clan elders. Easier to exile the monster who'd crossed the line than admit corruption at the top.
