Chapter 4
FINN
My dragon refuses to let me sleep.
I've been awake since she walked out of my cave, pacing the stone floors that should feel like home but cut at me like a cage, diving to depths that should break me into unconsciousness, fighting the pull that drags me toward the village like a hooked fish bleeding in the current.
The mate-bond tightens with each hour. Go to her. Claim her. Mark her as mine before something else does.
I let the shift take me instead. Silver mist swirls around my body, cool against overheated skin, and the dragon rises through it like smoke given form.
The change is seamless. Instant. One breath I'm standing on two legs, the next I'm coiled muscle and crimson scales that catch the dim cave light like fresh blood.
Wings unfold from my spine with a whisper of leather, claws click against stone, and the relief that floods through me is almost sexual in its intensity.
The dragon doesn't fight the need. Doesn't rationalize or strategize. It simply is.
I dive, seeking the crushing pressure of the eastern trenches where thought becomes instinct and higher reasoning drowns. Down here, the cold should numb everything. The darkness should swallow the bond's pull.
It should... but once again it doesn't.
Even at depths where pressure could crush her, her presence burns on the island like a beacon I can't ignore. I can still smell jasmine and citrus and sense that sharp intelligence cutting through the black water.
Algae blooms coat the trench walls in patches that pulse with bioluminescence, exactly like the samples she's been collecting.
I follow the concentrations deeper, tracking them to thermal vents along the ocean floor.
The water tastes wrong here. I taste chemical traces that don't belong, synthetic compounds mixed with the organic bloom.
Then I see it.
Harvesting equipment lies scattered across the sea floor like discarded prey.
Professional grade collection gear designed for extreme depths.
Reinforced containers, sampling tools, industrial-strength scrapers for collecting algae from rock surfaces.
The kind of equipment that requires hands to operate, but not the kind humans would need to survive down here.
Supernatural workers. The syndicate has been using them down here, creatures who can survive the crushing pressure without life support but need tools for the actual harvesting work.
I circle the wreckage, rage building in my chest. My dragon knows what I'm looking at. The collection containers still hold traces of concentrated algae at levels that would burn human tissue on contact, levels I've seen in the ritual deaths.
The syndicate isn't just trafficking supernaturals. They're enslaving them, forcing them to harvest the very toxins that will be used to murder humans in ritual sacrifices. Then discarding the workers when they're no longer useful.
I surface slowly, processing what I found. The pattern I've watched play out before slots into place. Concentrated toxins are delivered through contact. Ocean chemistry is introduced to the body without water present. The deaths look like drowning but follow different rules.
And now I know how they're getting the algae. Enslaved supernaturals harvesting at depths humans couldn't survive, collecting toxins that will be used in ritual murders—human sacrifices for Mikhail's blood magic.
Lila would understand the science. Her microscope and analysis could confirm what I'm guessing at based on lifetimes of watching blood magic kill.
The ritual symbols near the death sites tell me the rest. Someone is using their victims for a secondary purpose.
I've noted the positioning, the lunar timing, the concentration of algae around specific contact points.
These are blood magic patterns I haven't seen practiced openly since before the Clearances.
I haul myself onto the rocks and shift, needing hands for what comes next.
Phoenix ash coats the stone.
Heat hits me first, faint but unmistakable even in the ocean's cold. Phoenix fire never fully dies. It just waits for the flame to rise again. This ash is fresh, hours old at most, with warmth still clinging to the particles.
And the scent beneath tells me everything.
Mikhail.
His fire has always carried amber and old smoke, distinct from any other immortal I've hunted or been hunted by. He's back. The drownings aren't random. They're sacrifices, feeding something larger, building toward a working that requires death and magic in equal measure.
I dress quickly in the clothes I keep cached in waterproof containers. The sun sits low with afternoon bleeding into evening. Lila will be finishing soon, heading back to the inn to review data, planning tomorrow's collection, building the case that will get her killed.
My dragon fights every step of the walk back to Stormhaven, wanting to go directly to her. Screw secrecy. Screw strategy. Screw the danger that comes with claiming a mate when enemies like Mikhail are circling.
But I need information first. Moira Flynn keeps her ear to the ground and her opinions sharper.
The inn sits quiet in the late afternoon lull, the lunch crowd gone and the evening fishermen not yet arrived.
She's behind the bar when I enter, her dark hair pulled back in a practical braid, her green eyes assessing me like she assesses everyone who crosses her threshold.
The main room smells like whiskey and wool, peat smoke and the lingering scent of whatever she served for lunch.
Comfort I can't feel through the restlessness crawling under my skin.
"Finn." No surprise colors her voice despite the fact that I usually avoid the village during daylight. "The mainland scientist was asking questions this afternoon."
My dragon goes very still. "What kind of questions?"
"Local legends. Old stories." Moira wipes down the counter with precision that doesn't match her careful tone. "Whether we have any tales about dragons living in the deep waters around Skara."
Dragons.
Lila is asking about dragons.
She saw something in that cave, details her scientific mind can't dismiss. And instead of walking away from impossible data, she's digging deeper. She won't let it go.
"Who else did she talk to?"
"Angus at the harbor. Old Dougal at the pub." Moira sets down her cloth and meets my eyes directly. "She spent the whole afternoon at it. She's smart, Finn. Too smart for half-answers and local color. And she's asking the kind of questions that make people nervous."
The word will spread. The Brotherhood will hear. Declan will demand I handle the mainlander poking at secrets we've protected for generations.
"She's been asking about you specifically." Moira's expression changes to something that might be concern or might be calculation. Hard to tell with her. "How long you've lived here. Whether you've always been isolated. What you do that lets you avoid the village completely."
Heat surges through my chest with possessive intensity. Lila is thinking about me, asking about me, trying to fit me into whatever theory she's building.
My dragon preens despite knowing it's dangerous.
"What did you tell her?"
"That you value privacy and that islanders respect that.
" Moira arranges pastries in the display case with the kind of focus that means she's choosing her next words carefully.
"But Finn, you should know that Catriona is backing her investigation.
The police chief is giving her access, resources, introductions.
She's treating this like a legitimate environmental study instead of shutting it down. "
If Catriona is supporting Lila's investigation instead of redirecting it, she's either missed how close the scientist is getting to the truth, or she's made a calculated decision to let her uncover enough to understand the real danger.
Mikhail. Blood rituals that kill humans to fuel supernatural workings.
Either way, Lila's in danger.
I turn for the door, thanking Moira as I leave. My mind is already tracking the path to the cliffs. The Brotherhood needs to know what I found, what Mikhail is doing, what's coming.
The walk gives me time to think. The sun drops lower, painting the sky in shades of amber and rust. Fishing boats return to harbor. Islanders head home for dinner. The mundane world keeps turning, oblivious to what's circling.
Declan is already waiting at the old standing stones when I arrive. His senses probably picked up my approach long before I crested the ridge. Kian and Rafe flank him. We form the Brotherhood's core on Skara. Grayson will arrive if this meeting runs long enough.
"Finn." Declan wastes no time on pleasantries. "We need to talk about Dr. Mercer."
"There's nothing to talk about." I lean against one of the standing stones, affecting a casualness I don't feel. "She's investigating the drownings. She'll finish her study, file her report, and leave."
"She's asking about dragons." Kian's eyes hold the same predator focus his tiger brings to a hunt. "About legends and old stories. People are starting to ask why she cares about folklore."
"People wonder about lots of things. Doesn't mean we need to confirm their suspicions."
"She saw something in your cave." Rafe moves with panther grace despite his human form, circling to cut off the easiest exit from the stone circle. "Something that made her ask questions. What did you show her?"
"I gave her coordinates for the algae concentrations. I answered her questions about the deep-water ecosystems. Nothing she couldn't learn from a dozen other sources."
"Then why is she asking about dragons specifically?" The weight of pack authority bleeds through Declan's voice despite the fact that I don't answer to wolf hierarchy. "What did she see that night?"
Protective fury rises in my chest, but I keep my expression neutral and my tone controlled.