The anger changes slightly. It's still there, still burning, but tangled now with something else.
I don't respond. I let him sit with the silence the same way I'm sitting with this bite mark.
At nine fifty-five, a black sedan pulls up outside. The car is expensive, European. Three men step out. Two are guards with thick necks and watchful eyes. Their hands drift toward concealed weapons when they scan the street. They look ex-military. They position themselves flanking the third man with the precision of close protection specialists.
The third man is different.
Mikhail Zharkov moves like he's never had to fight for space. He's not arrogant, not aggressive. He's just completely certain that the world will accommodate him because it always has. His tailored suit fits perfectly across shoulders that don't need bulk to convey power. He has silver-streaked hair swept back from a face that could be forty or sixty or anything in between. He'd fit in any boardroom or country club where money and influence gather.
The predator underneath doesn't need height to dominate. I've arrested men twice his size who were less dangerous. Size is just mechanics. What makes someone truly lethal is the willingness to do violence without hesitation, without remorse. Every controlled step Zharkov takes tells me he carries that willingness.
The station door opens. Footsteps approach down the short hallway.
I stand behind my desk and wait.
Zharkov appears in my doorway with both guards flanking him. He smiles, but his eyes stay cold.
"Chief MacLeod. Thank you for agreeing to meet with me on such short notice." His accent is cultured, educated—not Russian despite the name.
"Mr. Zharkov." I gesture to the chair across from my desk. "Please, sit."
He settles into the chair while his guards take positions flanking the door. They're positioned to intervene quickly but far enough back to maintain appearances. They move with the precision of close protection specialists.
The air around him carries an odd warmth. Heat radiates from Zharkov in waves. The temperature climbs degree by degree until sweat threatens at my hairline.
I keep my expression neutral and watch him. Zharkov sits perfectly still, hands folded in his lap, face pleasant and open. His eyes track every movement I make with the focus of a predator watching prey. Something ancient lurks beneath that pleasant surface.
"I understand there was an incident at Mr. O'Donnell's warehouse." He folds his hands in his lap, every gesture calculated to project concern. "Several men were killed. I wanted to address any misunderstandings before they become problematic."
"Misunderstandings." I keep my voice level. "Is that what we're calling a shootout that left men dead?"
"A tragedy." His expression doesn't change. "The men responsible for that fiasco have been dealt with. I assure you, my organization does not condone violence."
He's lying. Anyone with half a brain can see it. I lean back in my chair and study him. When he moves slightly, flames flicker beneath the surface of his eyes. I've seen Kian's eyes flash gold when his tiger surfaces. Similar flicker, but fire instead of gold.
"Your organization." I pull a notepad closer, pen poised like I'm taking official notes. "And what organization is that, exactly?"
"Import-export. Legitimate business interests throughout the Hebrides." He smiles again. "I'm sure you understand how complicated international shipping can be. Occasionally there are disputes over territory, over shipments that go missing. These things happen in any industry."
"Shipments that go missing." I write the words on my notepad, letting the silence stretch. "The kind of shipments that require armed guards?"
"The kind that attract unwanted attention from competitors." His tone stays pleasant, but something changes in his posture. The warmth around him intensifies slightly. "Which brings me to why I requested this meeting, Chief MacLeod. Your dedication to law enforcement is admirable. But Stormhaven is a small community with limited resources. Your talents deserve a larger jurisdiction."
I set my pen down. "Are you offering me a job, Mr. Zharkov?"
"I'm offering you an opportunity." He reaches into his jacket—both guards tense, hands moving toward weapons until they see it's just an envelope. He places it on my desk. "A generous relocation package. Enough to establish yourself comfortably on the mainland, pursue positions that would benefit from your investigative skills. Consider it a gesture of goodwill."
The envelope sits between us like a bribe wrapped in benevolence. I don't touch it.
"And if I prefer to stay in Stormhaven?"
"Then I would question your judgment." The pleasant mask slips. A subtle change in how he holds himself, in how his smile doesn't quite reach the calculation in his eyes. What looks out is patient and merciless. Ancient. "This is a one-time offer. I suggest you accept it."
The temperature in the room spikes. Heat slams into me like standing too close to an open flame. Sweat prickles at the back of my neck, slides down my spine beneath my shirt. The air around Zharkov shimmers, distorting slightly like heat rising from summer pavement. His guards don't react, don't even seem to notice the sudden spike in temperature. Either they're used to it or they're better at hiding discomfort than I am.
My pulse hammers but I keep my hands relaxed on the desk, my expression neutral. I've stared down armed suspects, walked into domestic violence calls where men twice my size were looking for an excuse to swing. Fear is information. It tells me when I'm in real danger, when the threat is credible. Right now every instinct I have is screaming that Mikhail Zharkov could kill me where I sit and walk out of this station without breaking stride.
I meet his eyes anyway. "I appreciate the offer, but I'm staying."
