"Watch her." Rafe's amber eyes reflect in the cave's dim light. "Keep her from discovering too much. Redirect her focus if she gets close to anything supernatural. And if the syndicate makes a move, make sure she survives it."
Rage snarls at the implication that I'd need orders to protect someone in my territory. But the Brotherhood isn't asking me to guard a random human. They're asking me to engage with the surface world again, to spend time around someone who represents what I walked away from years ago when exile seemed safer than facing what I'd lost.
"Fine." I grab my jacket from the storage container. "Where?"
"The police station." Declan checks his watch. " Catriona says she's still there working"
Salt and an approaching storm ride the evening air. I leave the cave through the land entrance, a narrow passage that opens onto the cliffs above the waterline.
The village lights glow in the darkness as I approach. The wind changes, carrying scents of peat fires, cooking fish, rain-wet stone. And underneath it all, something that makes my dragon surge against my skin with recognition so violent it nearly forces the shift.
Female and human, traced with laboratory chemicals and ocean water, intelligence sharp enough to taste on the air. But there's more. Jasmine and something citrus, clean and bright against the salt-heavy wind. The combination hits my olfactory system like a physical blow, bypassing conscious thought and slamming directly into hindbrain instinct. My dragon roars to the surface, scales rippling under human skin, demanding shift and claim and protect all at once.
The bond tries to snap into place. I feel it like a hook sinking into my chest, invisible threads spinning out toward the village, toward her. The sensation burns, pleasant agony that promises completion if I just give in, if I just follow the pull to its source and claim what instinct insists already belongs to us. My knees buckle. One hand slams into a wall, fingers digging into stone hard enough to crack it, anchoring me against the compulsion to run toward the village instead of away from it.
No. The denial comes from the human part of me that still remembers pain, that learned grief in blood and broken bodies. But my dragon doesn't care about human logic or painful lessons. It wants its mate, wants her with an intensity that makes my vision blur, wants her so badly my bones ache with the wrongness of standing here instead of going to her.
My heart pounds against my ribs, rhythm erratic and painful. Sweat breaks out across my skin despite the cold wind, my body responding to recognition the way it would respond to mortal threat. Because this is a threat. The worst kind. The kind that ends with me holding another woman's cooling body while rage burns too late to save her.
Denial rises from the human part of me that remembers finding Saoirse's body after Mikhail's betrayal, already cold on the cliffs, no visible wounds to mark how the phoenix had stolen her from me. I failed once. That's all you get.
I cannot survive losing another mate. I cannot find another woman's body already cold, cannot hold broken flesh while rage screams too late to matter.
My dragon doesn't care about survival or grief or reasonable objections. It wants to find her, claim her, protect her from every threat including the syndicate and Mikhail's promised vengeance. The compulsion drags me toward the village, to the station where her scent grows stronger with each step. My feet move without conscious permission, following instinct older than civilization, more powerful than fear.
I should turn around. Walk back to my cave, dive into the ocean, let the Brotherhood handle this situation without my involvement. Put distance between myself and the woman whose scent rewrites reality.
Instead, I follow the pull like prey responding to predator calls, helpless against instinct older than reason.
The station appears through the darkness, windows glowing warm against the night. I circle around back, staying in shadows that feel deeper with my presence, following her scent to the back window where light still burns.
She's there, bent over a microscope, hair pulled back from her face, expression focused with intensity that makes my chest ache.
Dr. Lila Mercer. The scientist asking dangerous questions. The woman whose arrival awakened recognition I thought impossible after Saoirse.
She adjusts the microscope, leaning closer to examine whatever she's seeing on the slide. Her hands move with careful precision, gentle despite frustration written in her posture. Longfingers, elegant even in latex gloves, steady despite whatever she's struggling with. She's pushing at something that won't submit to scientific explanation, testing mysteries that could get her killed.
I catalogue every detail instinct demands I memorize. The way she tucks a strand of copper hair behind her ear when it escapes the messy bun sitting on top of her head. The small furrow between her brows that appears when she's concentrating. The pen she taps against her notebook, rhythm irregular, impatient. The curve of her neck when she tilts her head, studying the slide from a different angle. Vulnerable. Every predator instinct I possess screams at how exposed she is, how unaware of threats that circle closer every day.
Approval purrs through me, already mapping protective strategies, already calculating how to keep her safe while she investigates patterns that lead straight into syndicate territory. Watch the approaches. Monitor everyone who gets close. Eliminate threats before they reach her. The planning happens automatically, centuries of solitary hunting combining with mate-drive to create comprehensive security protocols.
My human side knows exactly what losing her will cost. The way she bites her lip when concentrating will haunt me. The competence in her movements will replay in dreams. The intelligence burning bright enough to see even from this distance will fade to blood-soaked memories. She's everything dangerous wrapped in mortal fragility, what I can't afford to want.
Mikhail is still out there somewhere, healing from wounds the Brotherhood inflicted, planning revenge that will target everyone I care about. If he discovers Finn Rowan has found another mate, history will repeat itself. The phoenix has already proven he'll destroy anything I love, burn it to ash just to watch me break.
Saoirse died because I failed to see what my best friend had become until too late. This woman will die if I let myself claim what my dragon insists belongs to us.
The only way to keep her alive is to drive her off this island before Mikhail realizes she exists. Before the bond can fully form. Before she becomes a weapon my oldest enemy can use to destroy what's left of my soul.
She straightens from the microscope, rubbing her eyes, reaching for notes spread across the table—organized, barely. Papers overlap in ways that suggest a mind moving faster than filing systems can track. The motion reveals the curve of her neck, the line of her spine, vulnerability that sends my dragon's protective instincts roaring.
I force myself to turn away, to walk back toward the cliffs and the cave and the depths where I belong. But even as distance grows between us, her scent follows, branded into my senses like a mark I'll never escape.
Every step tears at something fundamental. The bond pulls tighter with distance, creating actual physical pain that radiates through my chest. Instinct fights me with every meter, snarling fury that echoes through my skull, demanding I turn around, go back, claim what belongs to us. My muscles cramp with the effort of moving forward instead of giving in.
Sweat drips down my spine despite the cold wind. My hands shake.
Tomorrow I'll figure out how to make her leave. Tonight, I'll plan strategies that protect her by pushing her away, that save her life by breaking whatever connection pulls us together.
