My tiger paces beneath my skin, snarling fury at me for denying the claiming. He doesn't understand protection or consequences. He only knows that our mate offered herself and I refused.
The rational part of me knows I made the right choice. She doesn't understand how the first kill is the hardest and they get easier with each one until taking a life requires no more thought than breathing. How the line between necessary forceand excessive brutality can blur until you can't remember where one ends and the other begins.
The syndicate's text glows in my memory. They want updates. They want control. They want proof that the police chief investigating their operations is being handled.
Tomorrow might end with both of us dead if we can't convince them she's cooperative rather than compromised.
I open my eyes and stare at the ceiling again. The bedroom door stays closed. The space between us might as well be miles instead of a few feet of hallway and wall.
The tiger snarls again, demanding I go back in that bedroom and finish what I started.
I stay on the couch. Her fury can burn without my explanations or apologies.
Tomorrow at ten, Zharkov walks into her office expecting a cooperative police chief. The syndicate expects me to keep her in line. They're both going to be disappointed.
CHAPTER 15
CATRIONA
Blood crusts on my shoulder when I wake alone in the safe house bedroom. The sheets still smell like him, like leather and whiskey and the wild thing that lives under his skin. I remember the ghost of his bite, the promise that he was finally going to claim me. It burned through every nerve ending, my body arching into his, ready for the transformation that would bind us completely.
He moved at the last second, biting into my shoulder instead.
The bite mark throbs when I move. I see teeth marks when I turn and look into the mirror, pressed deep into muscle, bruising already dark across my skin in shades of purple and black. The indentations are precise, unmistakably his. He branded me without transforming me, broke his promise at the last second because he decided I couldn't handle the truth of what he is.
The shower runs hot enough to sting. Steam fills the small bathroom until I can barely see the tiles. I scrub away the blood and the scent of sex and the lingering ghost of his hands on my skin, but the water can't touch the bite mark. The water can't wash away the fact that he chose for me, decided what I could handle or not.
There's a text from Kian waiting on my phone—sent after I kicked him out:
I'll be close by during the meeting.
I delete it without responding.
The professional clothes I brought fit loosely, hiding the mark. I button my shirt to the collar and check the mirror. I look professional, controlled, ready.
Kian drives me to the station, the fifteen-minute ride silent except for the rumble of his truck. He parks where he can watch the building. I slide out without a word and head inside.
I unlock the door at nine-thirty and brew a fresh pot. My office smells like stale coffee and old paperwork. The bite mark aches when I roll my shoulder, and I remember how my body responded to him, how I knew he was going to complete the bond.
Bastard.
My phone buzzes. Kian again:
Brotherhood is positioned around the building. You're not alone.
I text back:
Your truck's visible from my window.
His response comes fast:
Good. Keep your office door open during the meeting.
So you can hear if I scream?
The three dots appear and disappear twice before his reply arrives:
So I can get there in time.
