A glance at my phone shows it’s just past dawn. Catriona's probably still sleeping, exhausted from a night that upended her entire worldview.
I move quietly despite knowing she can't hear me through the thick stone walls, years of paranoia making stealth automatic. The bathroom first, cold water washing away sleep and the lingering dreams I refuse to examine too closely.
Then the kitchen, assembling breakfast from supplies I keep stocked in case I need to disappear for extended periods.
Coffee. Bacon. Bread for toast. Simple food, but it's what I have, and she'll need fuel for whatever comes next.
I'm plating the food when a presence registers that doesn't belong. Movement where there should be stillness. A disturbance in the careful web of awareness I maintain around the cottage.
My tiger surges forward, aggressive and territorial, demanding I investigate the threat.
Setting the plate down, I move to the door, opening it to step onto the porch. Cold morning air hits my face, carrying scents of pine and salt and something else.
Something that makes my hackles rise and predatory instincts sharpen to a killing edge.
There. Near the tree line. A massive striped form padding through morning mist, every movement speaking of power and hunger and purpose.
Another tiger. Male. Not from Skara. As far as I know, I'm the only tiger on the island. And he's not from any clan I recognize, but his scent tells me everything I need to know.
Syndicate. A chemical tang clings to his fur beneath the musk and testosterone. They didn't send him to scout or test boundaries. They sent him to kill.
Both of us. Me first, then Catriona while she's still human and vulnerable.
His presence here, less than twelve hours after I brought her to my sanctuary, proves the syndicate's reach extends further than any of us suspected. Someone tracked us. Someone gave orders. This isn't a territorial challenge.
This is an execution.
I shift before conscious thought completes, silvery mist and thunder announcing the transformation as my human form explodes into the predator it was always meant to be. Muscle and sinew, killing claws and rending teeth, the apex predator that's kept me alive through exile and war and the consequences of choices I can't undo.
The other tiger doesn't back down. Instead, he advances, massive paws eating distance, preparing to defend himself through violence as old as the species itself.
This is going to end in blood, his or mine, but it won't be Catriona's. Not while I'm still breathing.
I charge forward, a roar splitting the morning air. The fury that's been building since the moment she walked into my life, since she shattered every carefully constructed wall I'd built against caring, drives me forward to meet the challenge.
Behind me, through the cottage's thick walls, her startled cry pierces the dawn. I hear her moving inside, the familiar click of her weapon being drawn. She's coming to investigate the sound of predators clashing in the territory I swore to keep safe.
The other tiger strikes, claws raking across my shoulder in four parallel lines that burn like fire. Blood wells hot and immediate, matting my fur, the scent of it sharp in the cold morning air. Pain explodes through me, but it clarifies rather than weakens. I counter with brutal efficiency, jaws snapping for his throat. He barely twists away in time, my teeth scoring his neck instead, tearing through fur and flesh. He roars, stumbling back, and I press the advantage, driving him away from the cottage with savage precision.
This is what she needs to remember—what I am when the veneer strips away and only my tiger remains.
Not the exile who negotiates and compromises. Not the smuggler who plays at civilization while moving contraband through the shadows. This. Violence without hesitation. Killing without remorse. The absolute certainty that I will destroy anyone who threatens what's mine, and I'll sleep soundly afterward because protecting my own is the only morality that matters in my bones.
This is what claiming her would mean. This darkness she'd inherit through the bite. This savage instinct she'd carry for therest of her mortal life. Every protective impulse I feel, she'd feel tenfold once the transformation completed. Every violent urge, every predatory drive, every ruthless calculation that lets me kill without guilt.
She thinks she understands what shifters are. She has no idea what we become when someone threatens our mates. The beast doesn't care about her horror or her fear or the way her pulse hammers inside the cottage. My tiger only cares about defending our territory, protecting our mate, and eliminating any threat with ruthless efficiency.
This is the heritage I'd give her. Blood-soaked and unrepentant. Forever.
We circle each other through the frost-covered clearing, two apex predators testing for weakness. His breathing comes harder now, blood dripping from the wounds along his neck and shoulder. Mine burns across my back, but adrenaline drowns the pain. We're both calculating, seeking advantage, preparing for the killing blow that will end this challenge permanently.
He lunges first, a mistake born of overconfidence. I sidestep, claws finding purchase along his ribs, tearing deep. He screams, the sound halfway between human and animal, and tries to recover. Too slow. I'm already moving, driving him back toward the tree line, away from the cottage, away from her.
The fight’s tempo tilts in my direction. He's fast, but I'm faster. He's strong, but I'm fighting for more than territory. Every strike I land is fueled by the knowledge that she's inside, that he came here to take her, that his presence threatens everything the beast in me has claimed as ours.
I catch his throat in my jaws. The taste of blood fills my mouth as I bite down, not quite crushing but applying enough pressure to make my point clear. He goes still beneath me, submission radiating from every line of his body. The fight drains out of him as he recognizes defeat.
But submission isn't enough. Not for this. Not when he came here hunting my mate.
