"Probably." I meet his stare without flinching. "You going to be able to handle it?"
His eyes flash amber in the darkness. Tiger rising close to the surface. "We're about to find out."
Then he pulls onto the coast road, and we drive toward whatever waits for us in the isolated cottage on the north coast. Toward being alone together. Toward a mate bond neither of usasked for but both of us seem unable to resist. Toward a fight against criminals who traffic supernatural beings like cargo.
I don't know what happens next. Don't know if I can trust this brotherhood of exiles and killers. Don't know if Kian's tiger will try to claim me or if I'll have the strength to resist if he does.
But I know I'm done pretending the law is enough. Done watching monsters walk free because they're too smart or too connected to touch. Done being the good cop who plays by rules that criminals ignore.
If the brotherhood wants to see what a police chief can do when she stops playing nice, they're about to get a demonstration. And if Kian's tiger thinks recognizing a mate bond means I'll just submit and follow orders, he's got another think coming.
The coast road stretches ahead of us, leaving the lights of Stormhaven behind. The ocean stretches dark and restless to our right. Ahead, somewhere in the darkness, waits a cottage where I'll face whatever comes next with a shifter who claims I'm his mate. Where I'll discover if I'm strong enough to survive in a world I didn't know existed until tonight.
I should be scared. Part of me is. But another part—the part that put a bullet in a trafficker's head and never regretted it—feels something else entirely.
Anticipation.
CHAPTER 8
KIAN
The cottage sits on the island's wild northern coast, accessible only by a narrow track that winds through dense forest and ends at sheer cliffs overlooking the Atlantic. I found this place during the first year of exile, an old ruin that gave rage and grief an outlet that wouldn't end in bloodshed. I restored every stone, replaced every beam, installed every window while my predator prowled beneath my skin, demanding violence I refused to give it.
Now I'm bringing Catriona here, the first person outside the brotherhood who knows the location of this sanctuary.
Catriona sits in the passenger seat of my truck, silent since we left her cottage where she packed essentials with the efficiency of someone used to emergency relocations. Her bag at her feet holds clothing, toiletries, her laptop, and the service weapon the cleanup crew retrieved from the alley and returned to her.
She watches the forest pass outside her window, absorbing everything that happened tonight with the same tactical focus she probably applies to crime scenes.
Headlights catch movement in the underbrush. A deer freezes mid-step. A fox darts between the trees.
Nothing dangerous, though danger saturates these woods in forms she can't see yet. I sense territorial markers left by passing shifters, scent trails that tell stories of hunts and patrols, the constant presence of predators who call this island home.
My tiger stirs, satisfied she's in my vehicle, surrounded by my scent, heading toward my territory. It doesn't understand complications like mate bonds or human resistance or the fact that claiming her would destroy whatever fragile trust we're building.
My beast only knows she belongs with us, and proximity feels like progress.
"How far?" Her voice cuts through the engine's rumble, the first words she's spoken since we stopped at her place.
"Not much further. The track gets rough." I downshift as the road narrows, branches scraping against the truck's sides. "No one comes out here without invitation. That's the point."
She nods, still watching the darkness beyond the windows. The forest presses close on both sides, ancient pines and twisted oaks that have stood for generations, their roots deep in soil that remembers older times.
It's sacred ground, though not in the way the standing stones are sacred. This is wild country, where human rules matter less than survival.
The trees open suddenly, revealing the cottage bathed in moonlight. The structure has stone walls two feet thick, a slate roof designed to withstand Atlantic storms, and windows positioned to provide clear sightlines out while making it difficult for anyone to approach unseen. It's small, solid, built to endure.
A single light burns on the porch, motion-activated, illuminating weathered wood and the narrow path leading to the door.
The engine dies. Neither of us moves immediately.
The predator in me wants to carry her inside, claim this moment, make her presence here permanent. Logic knows she needs space to process, boundaries to maintain, the illusion of control even though we both understand she's completely at my mercy out here.
"It's isolated." The statement isn't a question. She's assessing, categorizing, determining escape routes and defensive positions without realizing she's doing it.
"That's the idea. The Russians won't find you here." Cold air floods the cab as I push open my door. "No one knows about this place except Declan and now you."
She follows me out, grabbing her bag before I can offer to carry it. She's independent to the point of stubbornness, this woman.
