My blood goes cold. I stare at the message, cataloging every detail. The number shows an international code I don't recognize. The phrasing is polite, almost professional. The implication is crystal clear.
They know. They know I was at the warehouse. They know I'm investigating them. They know exactly who I am and what I did.
Another message arrives before I can process the first.
Such dedication to your investigation. Pursuing leads even during dangerous situations. Admirable.
Then comes another message.
Your morning routine is quite predictable. Heather shampoo at seven fifteen. Tea by seven thirty. Always Earl Grey, no sugar.
Nausea hits sharp and immediate. They've been watching me in my home, through my windows, documenting my daily life with the kind of detail that suggests they've been tracking me since I arrived. The heather shampoo isn't something anyone would know unless they'd been in my bathroom or watching through cameras I haven't found.
I force myself to breathe through the rising panic, to focus on tactical concerns instead of fear. They want me frightened, want me to make mistakes while adrenaline overrides judgment. I won't give them the satisfaction.
But my hands shake when I set the phone down.
Jax appears in the doorway, his massive frame filling the space with stillness that suggests he heard something wrong. "Problem?"
"It's the syndicate." I show him the messages, watch his expression harden as he reads. "They've been watching me. They know my routines."
"They're establishing dominance. Proving they can reach you whenever they want." Jax's voice stays calm, but something dangerous shifts in his gaze. "Kian needs to see these."
"He's at the warehouse dealing with cleanup."
"Then you stay here until he returns." Jax moves to the window, scanning the landscape with focus that misses nothing. "We’re relatively protected up here, but the moment you leave, you're vulnerable."
I'm trapped. The syndicate has turned my own island into a cage where every movement is monitored, every action documented, every moment of vulnerability cataloged for future exploitation.
My phone vibrates again with another message.
We should discuss your investigation. I think we can reach an understanding that benefits everyone involved.
I don't respond. Engaging gives them power, gives them leverage to manipulate. I silence the phone and shove it into my pocket, but the messages burn in my mind like brands.
An hour later, I hear the truck before I see it. The engine cuts, and then Kian's filling the doorway with presence that makes the air feel charged. Blood still stains his clothes despite obvious attempts to clean up, and violence clings to him like cologne.
His gaze finds mine across the room, and something in his expression makes my pulse kick up. Not fear. Recognition. The same awareness that's been crackling between us since we fucked against his cottage wall while covered in another shifter's blood.
"Show me." The command comes out rough, more growl than words.
I pull out my phone and hand it over. He scrolls through the messages, and I watch his body change. Muscles bunch beneath blood-stained fabric. His breathing becomes measured and controlled in the way of predators holding themselves back from violence. When he looks up, the intensity in his gaze makes my stomach clench.
"They're escalating." His voice carries an edge that makes my skin prickle. "This isn't local crew tactics. This is someone higher up the chain."
"I have to go to the station." I force my voice steady despite the way he's looking at me. "Lansing expects that report by end of business. If I don't show up, if I hide, it raises questions I can't afford to answer."
His jaw clenches until tendons stand out in his neck. A muscle jumps beneath the skin, the only outward sign of the struggle happening inside him.
"Then I'm driving you." The words come out clipped. "And Jax will be watching the station."
"Fine." I grab my jacket and laptop, hyperaware of how close he's standing, of the heat radiating from his body, of the scent of copper and violence and something underneath that's uniquely him. "But you can't come inside. Rhona's already suspicious enough."
The drive to Stormhaven feels different than last night's desperate flight to the safe house. Sunlight streams through the windows, painting everything in ordinary colors that don't match the tension crackling between us in the truck's cabin. Kian drives in silence, his entire body rigid with the effort of maintaining control.
When he pulls the truck to a stop two blocks from the station, he turns to look at me. The intensity in his gaze makes my breath catch.
"Call me if anything feels wrong." His hand moves before he can stop it, fingers catching my chin and turning my face toward him. The touch sends heat racing down my spine despite every logical reason I should pull away. "Anything, Catriona. I don't care if it's paranoia or instinct or just a feeling. You call me."
