Chapter 2
KIAN
My tiger prowls beneath my skin, restless and agitated in ways I haven't felt since I left Ireland. Since I crossed a line the clan couldn't forgive.
The warehouse door closes behind me with a hollow thud that echoes through the cavernous space.
Dim lighting casts long shadows across crates and salvaged cargo—the legitimate business that keeps authorities from looking too closely at what else moves through this building.
My footsteps echo on concrete as I head toward the small office tucked in the back corner, the only truly private space in a structure designed for storage and secrecy.
She's still out there. The cop who watched me take the payment from Dimitri. The woman whose scent cut through salt air and diesel fumes to lodge itself in my brain like a splinter I can't dig out.
My tiger snarls, pushing against my control.
Wanting out. Wanting to hunt. Wanting to find her and determine if she's predator or prey, threat or something else entirely.
The smart move is eliminating the problem before it grows.
I've done it before—made people disappear when they threatened what I was building.
Dublin had a detective once, got too close to an operation I was running through the docks.
He left in pieces scattered across three different harbors.
No body, no case, no problem. The Russians expect that kind of solution.
They respect it. And part of me, the part that crossed lines the clan couldn't forgive, knows it's the cleanest option.
I force the beast down, though it takes more effort than usual. I focus on what matters. Facts, not instinct. Strategy, not reaction.
She was at the harbor entrance. Hidden in shadow, watching with the patient stillness of someone trained in surveillance.
Close enough to see the transaction, far enough to maintain operational distance.
Professional positioning. Calculated execution.
Everything about her screamed law enforcement despite the darkness concealing her features.
Everything except her scent. My tiger caught it again, that trace of heather and determination, of Scottish strength wrapped in mainland sophistication.
Female. Human. Authority. But underneath those surface notes, something that makes my tiger recognize her as important in ways I don't have words to explain.
I shake my head, dismissing the distraction. Scent means nothing. Getting out of this alive means everything. And a cop watching my smuggling operations represents a threat I need to neutralize before she becomes a problem I can't solve.
My laptop boots up with a soft hum, screen glowing blue in the dim office.
The internet connection is clean, routed through enough proxies to make tracking difficult, monitored by software that will alert me if anyone tries to trace my searches.
Paranoia keeps criminals alive. Carelessness gets them caught.
I pull up search engines and access the police databases through backdoor credentials I'd rather not explain, fingers moving across keys with practiced efficiency. New chief of police, Stormhaven. Recent appointment. Mainland transfer.
The results load, and I lean back in my chair, studying the face that fills my screen.
Catriona MacLeod. Young enough to still have fire in her eyes, experienced enough to be dangerous.
The official photo shows someone who could pass for younger if she smiled more.
She doesn't smile in the picture. Instead, she stares at the camera with the kind of direct challenge that makes suspects confess and criminals reconsider their life choices.
Strong features. Practical beauty she clearly doesn't bother enhancing. Hair pulled back severely, no makeup softening the angles of her face. Eyes that miss nothing, judging everything, offering no mercy for those who cross the line she's sworn to protect.
The predator within rumbles approval, which makes no sense whatsoever.
This woman represents everything threatening to my continued freedom.
Admiring her is idiotic. Wanting to see those eyes up close, to test whether they hold the same intensity in person as they do in this sterile photograph, is worse than idiotic. It's suicidal.
I scan the text beneath her photo. Decorated officer. Glasgow Police Force. Specialized in organized crime investigation. Successfully dismantled operations across Scotland, leading to convictions of major players in trafficking, smuggling, and racketeering operations.
Absolutely perfect. Stormhaven gets assigned exactly the kind of cop who built her career on taking down people like me.
Further research reveals more unwelcome details. No disciplinary actions on her record. No complaints from suspects about misconduct or aggressive tactics. No whispers of corruption or willingness to accept bribes. Multiple commendations for integrity and dedication to duty.
She's squeaky clean. Incorruptible. The exact opposite of the kind of law enforcement I've learned to navigate through careful bribery and manipulation.
I've bought cops, blackmailed prosecutors, and when those options failed, I've made problems vanish in ways that keep me awake some nights.
Not many nights—I sleep fine with most of what I've done—but some.
The ones where I had to choose between my survival and someone else's breathing.
I always choose myself. The clan exiled me for it, but at least I'm still alive.
And she's human.
The realization settles in my gut like a stone. Human.
Which means even if I wanted to explore whatever the hell my tiger recognizes in her, it's impossible.
Even if I could get past the fact that she's a cop who could destroy everything I've built.
Even if by some miracle she didn't run screaming when she learned what I am.
Claiming her would require turning her. Making her like me.
And that requires consent, trust, a willingness to abandon her humanity that no law-abiding cop would ever give to a criminal smuggler she just watched break the law.
I sit back, processing what this means. No leverage.
No pressure points. No way to make her look the other way or accept that island business operates differently than mainland law.
And no possibility of the one solution my tiger keeps pushing toward.
She'd have to choose this life, choose me, and everything about her screams that she never would.
My phone buzzes against the desk, screen lighting with an incoming message. Dimitri's name appears on screen. The Russian has eyes everywhere and nerves that make him respond to the first hint of trouble.
Cop at docks tonight. Watching. We have problem.
I type back quickly.
Identified. New chief. Will handle.
His response comes immediately.
Syndicate noticed. She has evidence that could expose Cork operation. Records from her predecessor's files. They want her gone. Permanent solution.
My fingers freeze over the keyboard. Cork.
The shipment I've been tracking for months.
The one that makes my stomach turn every time I think about the manifest details.
Twelve units of livestock with ventilation holes and restraint systems. No refrigeration.
Twelve children disappeared from Cork over six months, all from poor families where missing persons reports wouldn't raise alarms.
She must have found Murdoch's hidden files. The previous chief was building a case before his convenient "accident." If she's smart enough to locate what he hid, she's already connected dots that took me months to piece together.
The syndicate thinks I'm moving artifacts and cursed objects.
They don't know I've been intercepting their shipments, liberating the living cargo, gathering intelligence on their operations.
They don't know the brotherhood uses my information to rescue victims and destroy the supernatural weapons that fund this whole nightmare.
My first thought isn't protective—it's tactical.
Dead cops bring heat, but live cops with evidence bring prison.
I've killed for less than my freedom. Three men in Dublin who threatened to expose what I am.
A woman in Cork who didn't just see me shift—she tried to dose me with tranquilizers, calling someone on her phone about ‘securing the specimen.’ Each time I told myself it was necessary, survival, the law of predators in a world that would dissect me in a laboratory if it knew I existed.
But my tiger surges forward with a snarl that nearly chokes me, rejecting the thought with a violence that makes my hands shake. Not her. Never her. The possessiveness doesn't make sense—I've never hesitated before when survival required blood—but my tiger won't be reasoned with.
But the thought of syndicate enforcers eliminating her makes the beast within me want to tear through my skin and hunt down anyone who might harm her.
I breathe slowly, wrestling the tiger back under control. This reaction is wrong. Unprecedented in all my years of exile. Women have come and gone from my life without my animal giving a damn about their safety. What makes this one different?
No. I'll handle this. Give me time to assess.
Dimitri's reply carries warning.
Boss won't wait long. She's liability. You fix or we fix.
Understood.
I set the phone down and scrub my hands across my face, feeling stubble rasp against my palms. Exhaustion pulls at me, but sleep isn't an option. Not with my tiger pacing like this. Not with a cop who could destroy everything and the Russians ready to kill her if I don't find another solution.
The smart play is letting them handle it. One dead mainlander, tragic accident, investigation goes nowhere because islanders protect their own. My hands stay clean. My position remains secure. Business continues as usual.
My tiger rejects that option with a snarl that reverberates through my bones.