"Talk," she says flatly, demanding answers from someone who just killed multiple men without breaking a sweat. "Explain what I just saw. Explain what you are. Explain why professional killers came after a police chief on her first week in a quiet fishing village. Explain everything."
"What do you know about shifters?" I ask instead of answering directly.
"Nothing. Because they're folklore. Stories. Legends that don't exist in reality. Heroes in paranormal romances, not walking the streets of Scottish fishing villages." An edge of hysteria bleeds through her voice. "Except I just watched you transform from tiger to human in silver mist and thunder. So apparently folklore is real, and every certainty I built my understanding of the world on is cockeyed."
I've seen humans deny this before—construct elaborate explanations, cling to anything but the truth standing in frontof them. She's not doing that. She's accepting impossible reality and adapting quickly.
"Shifters are real," I confirm, keeping my voice level. "We've existed alongside humans for longer than recorded history. We transform between human and animal forms. That's what we are. What I am."
"How?" She demands. "What biological process allows that?"
"Magic. Blood legacy. Something woven into our DNA that scientists can't explain because we don't let them study us long enough before we kill them."
Her throat works on a swallow. She should be afraid.
"The mist. The thunder. That's part of it?"
"Every shifter transforms differently. Mine involves silver mist and sound. Others have different tells. But the result is the same: human becomes animal, animal becomes human."
"Prove it." The demand slices through the air between us. "Prove you're not a hallucination from trauma."
My tiger surges forward, wanting blood and submission and the primal satisfaction of watching fear bloom in her eyes. I shove it back.
"I can shift again. Show you the beast up close." I meet her gaze, letting her see the predator watching from behind my eyes. "But understand—once you accept this is real, there's no comfortable ignorance to crawl back into. You'll know what walks among humans. What hunts in the dark. And that knowledge will mark you for the rest of your life."
"I already carry it." Her voice holds steel beneath the fear. "You killed them to save my life. I watched you do it with your claws and teeth. I watched bodies hit the ground. Whatever happens next, I already know what you are. There's no unknowing that."
She's right. The damage is done. All that's left is managing the aftermath.
"Then watch closely. And try not to run. My tiger's already on edge—I'd rather not have to chase you down and risk scaring you more than necessary."
I strip off my shirt, dropping it on the leather sofa. My boots and jeans follow. Clothes don't survive the transformation—they vanish in the mist along with human form. Better to remove them first than lose another set. The practicality of stripping naked in front of a woman who's already seen me kill doesn't escape me, but modesty takes a distant second to necessity.
Catriona's gaze tracks the movement, color rising in her cheeks even as fear tightens her jaw. She doesn't look away or flinch. She just watches with that same tactical assessment—calculating threats, measuring weaknesses, looking for advantages she won't find.
I let the beast rise. Silver mist erupts around my body, swirling in patterns that defy physics. Thunder rolls across the warehouse space, vibrating through metal and brick. Lightning flashes in the depths of the mist, brief and brilliant.
Between heartbeats, human becomes beast. Mist clears to reveal the tiger—muscle and fury wrapped in striped fur, claws that could disembowel with one swipe, eyes that hold the same intelligence and calculation they did in human form.
Her breath catches. Fear and fascination war across her features as she stares at what I really am beneath the civilized veneer.
I hold the form, letting her see the danger she's standing so close to. Her hand rises slowly, trembling but determined. She reaches toward me, and I stay perfectly still as her fingers touch striped fur. Her breath catches at the contact—warm, solid, real. I rumble low in my throat, not a threat but acknowledgment, and press my massive head against her palm. She runs her hand along my jaw, her touch growing steadier as reality settles into her bones through tactile proof.
Then I shift back in thunder, mist, and lightning, human form emerging with the copper taste of transformation on my tongue. I stand before her again, naked, watching her process monsters walking among ordinary people.
"It's real," she whispers, acceptance and terror and wonder all bleeding together in her voice. "You're real. This is all real."
"Yes."
She stares at me, her gaze drops, then jerks back up to my face, color deepening in her cheeks. "You're the same," she whispers. "The tiger and the man. The same being."
The realization seems to hit her harder than the transformation itself. She already knows I'm real from touching the tiger, but understanding that we're the same being carries different weight.
"That's why you move like that," she says quietly, her gaze locked on my face despite my nudity. "Why everyone's afraid of you. You're not just dangerous. You're deadly."
There's no judgment in the observation, just tactical assessment.
I step back, reaching for my jeans. The moment has served its purpose with proof offered and reality confirmed. There's no need to prolong standing naked in my own loft while discussing syndicate operations.
