"Do it quickly." Declan's command settles over the room with alpha weight. "The Russians won't wait long. If they decide to act, we'll all pay the price when the mainland authorities descend on Stormhaven investigating a murdered police chief."
The meeting breaks up shortly after, brotherhood members dispersing to their own concerns and territories. I leave the abbey feeling more unsettled than when I arrived, my tiger pacing beneath my skin with restless energy that demands action.
Rain starts falling as I walk back toward the warehouse, cold drops that should clear my head but only remind me of standing on that dock, catching her scent on the wind, sensing her presence like a hunter recognizing worthy prey.
Except she's not prey. She's authority. She's law enforcement. She's human. She's also still breathing when the Russians want her dead, and my tiger will tear apart anyone who tries to harm her.
I pull out my phone and send a message to my most reliable contact in Glasgow.
Need full background on Catriona MacLeod. Everything. Personal history, weaknesses, pressure points. Money's not an issue.
The response comes quickly.
Will take a few days. She's clean, O'Donnell. Probably won't find much.
That's the problem. If she's as clean as everyone says, the Russians won't find leverage either. And if they can't leverage her, they'll kill her. Which means I need to get to her first. I need to assess the threat. I need to determine if there's any way to manage this situation that doesn't end with her blood spilled or my secrets exposed to authorities who'll hunt me down.
My tiger prowls, agitated and demanding in ways I can't ignore. Wanting to find her. Wanting to protect her. Wanting her, period.
The tightrope I walk gets narrower with every step. One mistake and the syndicate realizes I've been playing them for two years. One mistake and children die in cages meant for supernatural creatures. One mistake and the cop with heather in her scent becomes another casualty in a war she doesn't even know she's fighting.
But walking through rain-soaked streets toward the small police station where she's probably still working, my tiger within prowls with restless need that has nothing to do with staying alive and everything to do with claiming what it already recognizes as ours.
The Russians think I'm one of them—someone who solves problems with violence and doesn't lose sleep over collateral damage. They're not entirely wrong. I've earned my reputation through blood and ruthlessness. The exile from my clan, thebodies I've left behind, the operations I've destroyed along with everyone involved—all of it built the criminal the syndicate trusts.
But if they knew that in my mind, I’ve already claimed a cop I can't have, they'd put me down like the liability I'm becoming.
I'm fucked.
CHAPTER 3
CATRIONA
Morning light filters through the grimy windows of the Stormhaven Police Station, illuminating dust motes that dance above stacks of case files piled across my desk. My second day as chief, and already the weight of what I saw last night presses against my chest like a physical thing. The impossible speed. The way he vanished into a mist that had no business existing.
The thoughts get pushed aside as I focus on what I can prove. Facts, not feelings. Evidence, not instinct.
Rhona sits at her desk across the cramped office, watching me with the same wary skepticism she showed yesterday. Grey hair pulled back in a severe bun, eyes that have seen too much to trust easily, particularly mainland cops who arrive with ambition and attitude. She's made her opinion of my presence abundantly clear through pointed silence and minimal cooperation.
"I need to interview the dock master," I tell her, keeping my tone professional despite the tension crackling between us. "Last night's shipping activity requires follow-up."
Her fingers pause on the keyboard. "Angus MacKinnon doesn't take kindly to questions about dock business."
"Tough. He'll just have to get used to it." I stand and grab my jacket from the back of the chair. "I'm the chief of police. Questioning witnesses about suspicious activity falls well within my job description."
She doesn't respond, but something flickers across her face. Concern, maybe, or warning. Hard to tell with a woman who communicates primarily through disapproving silence.
The walk to the harbor takes less time than I'd like. Stormhaven isn't large enough for lengthy commutes, which means everyone knows everyone's business. Small towns breed loyalty that looks like obstruction when you're trying to enforce the law.
Glasgow taught me that rigid adherence to procedure wins respect eventually, even from those who resent authority. Consistency and competence break down walls that charm never could, which is good because charm has never been my strong suit.
The sea breeze hits my face as I round the corner toward the docks. Seagulls wheel overhead, their cries sharp against the steady crash of waves. Fishing boats bob in their moorings, paint peeling and wood weathered from years of hard use. Everything about this harbor screams working-class struggle, people scraping by through legitimate means and probably some that aren't.
The dock master's office sits at the end of a weathered pier, a structure that looks like it's held together by barnacles and stubborn island pride. I knock once, then enter without waiting for invitation.
A man looks up from his desk with the expression of someone interrupted during something important. He's built like the boats he manages—solid, weathered, designed to withstand storms. His face could be carved from the same granite that forms Stormhaven's cliffs.
"Angus MacKinnon?" I ask.
