"You were both tigers," I point out. "And I know he was here to kill us both. Law of the jungle."
"This is an island."
"Same difference." I meet his stare without flinching. "He came for both of us. You saved my life. Again. That should be the end of it."
"Should it?" His voice drops lower. "Because you're looking at me like it's not."
"It is." The words come out steadier than I feel. "Just not the way you think."
His nostrils flare. He's catching my scent, I realize. He can smell the arousal I'm trying to hide, the way my body betrays every thought I don't want to acknowledge. My face burns, but I don't look away.
"Catriona." My name sounds like gravel in his throat, carrying a warning or maybe a question.
I cross the distance between us in three strides. The predator focus narrows his gaze, tracking my movement. I'm near enough now to see the pulse hammering in his throat, to confirm what Ialready know—this reaction isn't shock or delayed trauma or any other lie I could tell myself.
I want him. I want himbecauseof what he just did, not despite it. I want the danger and the violence and the control barely leashed beneath his skin.
His jaw works. "Before this goes any further, we need to talk about?—"
"Safe sex?" I make it clinical before it gets awkward. "I'm on the pill. Have been for years. Clean bill of health from my last checkup, and I'm guessing shifter healing takes care of most human diseases anyway."
Surprise flickers across his face. Maybe he expected me to run, to put distance between myself and the blood still cooling on his skin. "Shifters don't carry or transmit human diseases. Different biology."
"Then we're clear." I meet his eyes, refusing to soften this into something it isn't. "Unless you have objections."
His laugh comes out harsh. "Christ, woman. You watched me tear out a man's throat five minutes ago, and you're standing here ready to—" He cuts himself off, every muscle coiling tight. "You should be running."
"I don't run." The words taste like truth, like I'm acknowledging a fundamental part of myself I've finally stopped denying. "And you need to stop pretending you want me to."
The control fractures. I see it in the way his pupils blow wide, the tiger rising to swallow whatever humanity he's clinging to. He moves fast, reaching out to grab my arm, spinning me around and pressing me against the cottage wall with a hand braced beside my head.
"You don't know what you're asking for." His voice drops to a growl, rough enough to raise goosebumps along my skin. "I'm barely holding on here."
I reach up, cup his jaw despite the blood cooling there, feel the muscle jumping beneath his skin. "Then let go."
The sound he makes isn't quite human. His mouth crashes against mine, hard enough to bruise, tasting like copper and violence. The kiss carries raw, urgent need that matches the fire burning through my veins—hard, demanding, nothing gentle about it.
His hands fist in my jacket, dragging me closer. The wall bites into my shoulders, cold stone against heated skin, but the contrast only sharpens everything else. I feel the scrape of stubble against my jaw, the growl vibrating in his chest, the press of his body pinning me in place with hard, demanding weight.
I bite his lower lip, not gently, and he groans against my mouth. The sound sends heat spiraling through me, liquid and fierce. I want more of that, more of him losing control, the careful distance he maintains crumbling into raw honesty.
His hands leave my jacket, sliding down to grip my hips, thumbs pressing hard enough to leave marks. The pressure thrills me more than it should—evidence that this is happening, that I'm not the only one drowning in this madness.
"Inside." The word comes out ragged against my throat, his teeth scraping the pulse point there.
He doesn't wait for agreement. He hauls me away from the wall and through the door, kicking it shut behind us. We don't make it past the entryway. My back hits the interior wall, and his mouth finds mine again, swallowing whatever protest I might have made.
I'm not protesting.
My hands find bare skin, mapping the hard muscle of his chest and shoulders, the solid heat of him. Blood smears beneath my palms, tacky and cooling, but I can't care about anything except the desperate need clawing through my chest.
He makes quick work of my jacket, my shirt, baring skin to the cool air and his burning gaze. His hands map my ribs, my waist, claiming territory with a possessiveness that should alarm me. Instead, I arch into the touch, greedy for more.
"Christ, you're perfect." The words sound torn from him, reluctant admission mixed with awe. His mouth follows his hands, teeth and tongue and heat that makes coherent thought impossible.
His hands help me strip away the last of my clothes, the vulnerable moment fracturing the urgency for a heartbeat, tenderness bleeding through, but then we're both working to remove the final barriers between us.
Our bodies find each other in the small space, desperate need seeking relief from the tension that's been building since the moment we met.
