She turns away while I dress, giving me privacy I don't particularly need but appreciate nonetheless. The gesture speaks to her character—practical, respectful, adapting to impossible circumstances with remarkable composure.
"The Russians sent those killers because your investigation was getting too close," I say, pulling on my shirt. "They'll come again now that you survived."
Her jaw tightens. "The syndicate. The smuggling operation I've been investigating. They're shifters too?"
"Some of them. Human criminal elements working with shifter enforcers. They traffic in supernatural artifacts, stolen relics, magical items that shouldn't exist in human hands. Human slaves. Anything that turns a profit regardless of cost."
"And you work for them." It's not a question but an accusation.
"I work for whoever pays." The words come out flat, brutal. "I'm exiled from my clan in Ireland. No clan protection. No territory. So I survive however I need to. The syndicate pays well for divers who keep their mouths shut and their questions to themselves. I dive. I salvage. I move their merchandise." I pause, letting the weight of that sink in. "The syndicate traffics in things like iron collars—binding magic woven into metal that burns shifter skin and breaks their connection to their animal forms. They sell them to wealthy collectors who want exotic pets that can't fight back."
Her face goes pale. Horror floods her features before she can mask it.
"And you move merchandise like that." The statement carries weight.
"I intercept it." The correction comes sharp. "I intercept shipments before they reach buyers. I document trafficking routes. I identify buyers and sellers. Then I redirect the cargo to the brotherhood so it can be destroyed and the victims freed." I meet her gaze without flinching. "My role isn't smuggling. It's intelligence gathering and rescue operations. The syndicate thinks I'm just another amoral bastard willing to move anything for money. That cover lets me save lives."
She processes this, jaw working as new information slots into place. "You break the law to save people."
"I break every law that matters." The words taste like acid and truth. "I forge documents. I steal evidence. I tamper with shipping manifests. I kill when necessary to protect innocents ormaintain my cover. The brotherhood doesn't operate inside legal boundaries because the law can't touch what we're fighting. So yes. I'm a criminal. But I'm a criminal who pulls victims out of cages and puts bullets in slavers' heads."
She's quiet for a long moment, studying me with that cop intensity I'm starting to recognize. "How do I know you're telling the truth? How do I know you're not just another criminal spinning a story to manipulate me?"
The question cuts straight to the heart of the problem. She's thinking like an investigator again, pushing past shock to demand evidence. Smart woman. Dangerous woman.
"You don't," I tell her honestly. "You have my word, which means nothing coming from someone who just admitted to being a smuggler and a killer. You could walk out that door right now, decide I'm lying, report everything to your superiors and end up dead within hours when the syndicate realizes you know too much."
"Or?" She prompts, clearly hearing the alternative I'm offering.
"Or you meet the brotherhood. Let them verify what I'm telling you. Make your own assessment of whether we're the good guys or just better liars than the Russians." I gesture toward the loft. "Your call. But make it fast, because the syndicate will know their hit failed soon enough."
"Why exile?" She pushes, interrogator instincts overriding fear. "What did you do?"
I see blood on my hands. I see bodies on the ground. I hear screams that still wake me when sleep comes. The question drags everything up—memories I've spent years trying to drown in whiskey and violence.
"Ireland's clans were at war. There were territory disputes and power struggles. Old blood feuds erupted into massacres.I was a guardian who was sworn to protect sacred sites and innocents. I took oaths that meant something once."
"Someone I trusted betrayed our clan to enemies. He leaked information about safe houses and evacuation routes. He got families slaughtered. Women, children, and elders were massacred because I failed to see the traitor standing beside me every day."
The words come out rough, scraping against old wounds.
"I found him. I took him to an abandoned farmhouse in the countryside where no one would hear the screaming." The memory tastes like copper and fury. "I tortured him for three days. I kept him alive and conscious through methods I'd learned hunting enemies of the clan. I made him confess every detail. Every name. Every payment. Every lie he'd told while families burned."
"On the third day, when I'd extracted everything he knew and documented every word, I let my tiger finish what I'd started. It was slow and brutal. The kind of death that makes other traitors think twice before selling out their own."
Her expression doesn't change. There's no horror or judgment in it, just steady assessment of the monster standing in front of her.
"But the clan leaders said I acted on vengeance instead of justice. They said I killed without trial or proof. They exiled me for murder while the real architects of the massacre went unpunished."
"You had proof?" She asks quietly.
"I had enough. I had correspondence and payments. I had evidence he destroyed after selling out our people. But without bodies or witnesses, the council chose politics over truth. It was easier to exile me than admit corruption existed at high levels."
Her eyes widen slightly as new context settles into place. "So you ended up here. Working for criminals while fighting them from the inside."
"I'm intelligence for the brotherhood. Five of us run shifter operations on this island - Declan, Rafe, Grayson, Finn, and myself. I gather intelligence on the syndicate from the inside. I identify threats and document trafficking operations. Then I steal the merchandise, free the victims, and make sure the perpetrators disappear in ways that look like business disputes or territorial violence."
She takes a step back, and I can see her mind working through the implications. "You're asking me to trust a lot on faith. A brotherhood I've never heard of. A double agent operation I can't verify. Your word that you're one of the good guys when everything I've seen suggests you're neck-deep in criminal activity."
