Chapter 4 #3
"Public waters can't be licensed." She kills her engine, letting the boats drift together. Her voice stays steady but her eyes betray her, tracking water droplets sliding down my chest. "And I'm investigating suspicious maritime activity. My jurisdiction."
"Suspicious activity." I lean against the rail, watching her pupils dilate. The spike of arousal in her scent makes my tiger rumble approval. "I'm salvaging with proper permits. Nothing illegal about recovering historical artifacts."
"Unless those artifacts belong to heritage sites protected by law.
" She lifts the tablet, documenting my equipment, my haul.
Playing the cop even while her body responds to mine in ways that have nothing to do with law enforcement.
"Which they do. I looked up the registry. This wreck is on the protected list."
Damn. She's thorough, I'll give her that.
Thorough and smart and absolutely unwilling to be intimidated even when she should be.
Most cops wouldn't have checked maritime heritage databases, wouldn't have connected salvage work with illegal trafficking.
But Catriona MacLeod built her career on organized crime investigation, which means she knows exactly how criminals operate and what to look for.
Which makes her dangerous to me, to the mission, to herself.
"Protected site or not, you're still out here alone with no backup and no witness.
" I let the words hang, let her feel the threat in them.
Let her remember that we're miles from shore, that the water is cold and deep, that accidents happen all the time to people who don't understand how dangerous the sea can be.
"Not the smartest move for a cop investigating dangerous criminals. "
Her jaw works. She's processing the threat, calculating odds, trying to decide if I'm warning her or threatening her. The answer is both.
"Are you threatening me again, Mr. O'Donnell?" Her hand drifts toward her hip where her service weapon sits. The movement is instinctive, defensive, and utterly useless against what I am. "Because I'm starting to think you enjoy it."
"I'm stating facts." I push off the rail, moving closer to where our boats almost touch.
The motion brings us within reach, close enough that I can smell the salt spray mixing with her scent, feel the heat radiating from her despite the cool morning air.
Close enough that she can see the predator looking out through my eyes.
"You're in over your head, Chief. These waters are dangerous.
The people you're investigating are worse. Smart cops know when to back off."
"Good thing I've never been accused of being smart." She doesn't retreat despite the way her breath catches when I invade her space, despite the way her pulse hammers in her throat. "Just stubborn. And really, really good at my job."
The boats rock with the current, bringing us so close I could reach across and touch her.
Close enough that my tiger wants to haul her into my boat and show her exactly what happens to prey that chases predators into deep water.
Close enough that I can see she's fighting it too—the pull between us that makes no sense but burns hot enough to override survival instinct.
"You should leave this island." The words come out rougher than intended, edged with warning and something darker. "Pack your things tonight. Request a transfer tomorrow. Find somewhere safer to play cop. Stormhaven isn't worth dying for."
"Are you worried about me?" Something is different in her expression, surprise softening the professional mask. "That almost sounded like genuine concern."
"I'm worried about logistics." I force steel into my voice even as the lie tastes bitter.
"Dead cops bring attention. Major investigations.
Media coverage. The kind of scrutiny that's bad for business and worse for the people who like their privacy.
You want to die for your principles, do it somewhere that doesn't fuck up my operations. "
I watch her flinch, watch the softness in her expression harden back into professional distance.
"Noted. I'll try not to get murdered in a way that inconveniences your smuggling operation." She reaches for the ignition, her jaw tight with anger. "Thanks for the warning. It's touching how much you care about administrative efficiency."
She guns the motor before I can respond, her boat pulling away with a spray of salt water that catches me across the chest. I watch her go, my tiger snarling fury at letting her leave.
The beast wants to chase her down, wants to stop playing these games, wants to claim what's ours and damn the consequences.
But there's another part of me, the part that remembers what honor used to feel like, that recognizes what she represents even if I can't be it anymore.
She still believes the system works. Still thinks evidence and law will triumph over violence and corruption. Still believes being right means you'll win.
I believed that once. Right up until my own clan exiled me for what I did to the traitor who sold out our safe houses.
A traitor whose information led to massacres.
Women, children, elders slaughtered in coordinated attacks because someone thought thirty pieces of silver was worth more than innocent lives.
I found him. Tracked him for months. And when I had him, I didn't give him the swift death clan law demanded. I tortured him for three days. Extracted every name, every detail, every piece of intelligence about the conspiracy. The information I got saved other clans from similar attacks.
But torture violated our laws. Justice was supposed to be swift, clean, honorable.
What I did was justice of another sort—not swift or clean, but honorable in its own pure and brutal way.
The clan exiled me despite the lives my intelligence saved.
Politics helped—some of the co-conspirators I exposed were relatives of clan elders.
Easier to exile the monster who'd crossed the line than admit corruption at the top.
Exile taught me that honor without power is just pretty words.
That mercy gets people killed. That sometimes you have to become exactly what you're fighting against, have to dirty your hands and compromise your soul and live with the blood because the alternative is standing by while worse monsters win.
I can't let her die. She's still fighting genuine evil with nothing but conviction and a badge. And somewhere buried under all the violence and compromise and calculated cruelty, I still remember what it felt like to believe the way she does.
I still want to protect that kind of faith even if I can't possess it anymore. Even if protecting it means she'll hate me for what I am.
Movement on the cliffs catches my eye. The watcher is still there, joined now by others. They've been observing this entire encounter, cataloguing the interaction, reporting back to whoever runs the Russian operations on Skara.
They saw her confront me. Saw her refuse to back down. Saw her photograph evidence and challenge my activities with the fearlessness of someone who doesn't understand the stakes. They saw everything.
Which means the timeline just collapsed.
They'll move on her tonight, maybe sooner.
The Russians don't wait when they've decided someone is a threat, and Catriona just proved she won't be scared off.
They'll make it look like an accident—a fall from the cliffs, a drowning in the treacherous currents, a tragic case of a mainlander who didn't understand how dangerous Skara can be.
I have hours, not days. Hours to figure out how to scare her off this island or bring her under my protection before the Russians decide permanent solutions are simpler than warnings. Hours to choose between letting her hate me and keeping her alive.
Hours before tomorrow night's shipment, which means whatever I do about Catriona can't jeopardize the mission.
Three selkies are counting on me to stay focused, to maintain cover, to execute the plan without deviation.
They've been captive for months, endured torture and starvation and violations that would break most people.
They've survived because they believed rescue would come.
I can't fail them.
But I can't let Catriona die either.
The tiger prowls, agitated and violent, wanting to hunt down the Russians watching from the cliffs, wanting to chase Catriona down and drag her somewhere safe, wanting to claim and protect and kill anyone who threatens what's ours.
The beast doesn't understand complexity, doesn't care about missions or cover or consequences.
It knows what it wants and it wants blood.
I gather my gear, secure the artifacts, and head back toward harbor. The crossing takes longer than usual, my mind working through scenarios that all end in blood.
By the time I reach the dock, I've made my decision. I need to tell the brotherhood. We need to bring her in, reveal the truth, offer protection whether she wants it or not. Better her terror and hatred than finding pieces of her washed up on the rocks because I was too selfish to let her go.
The timing is catastrophically bad. Tomorrow night I'm moving the selkies, executing a mission that requires absolute focus and perfect cover.
Bringing Catriona into brotherhood protection means questions, complications, and potential exposure that could compromise everything.
It means trusting her with secrets that could destroy us if she decides duty to human law matters more than supernatural lives.
But leaving her exposed means she dies. And I've done enough evil. I've compromised enough. I've watched enough people suffer and die because maintaining cover mattered more than one life.
Not her. Not this time.
My tiger roars inside me, demanding I save her now, claim her now, protect what's ours. The beast doesn't understand operational security or strategic risk. It only knows she's in danger and we have the power to stop it.
For once, the man agrees with the beast. But ignorance won't protect her from bullets or blades or the kind of violence the syndicate employs when patience runs out.
She needs to know what she's really up against. Even if knowing costs me whatever tenuous connection exists between us. Even if it costs me everything.
I tie off my boat and step onto the dock. The sun climbs higher, burning off morning mist, illuminating Stormhaven in harsh light that shows every flaw and shadow.
My phone buzzes—a text from Dimitri with coordinates for tomorrow's artifact pickup. The Russians' smuggling run that I'm going to use as cover.
The selkie mission. Hidden inside their operation.
I delete the message and pull up Declan's contact. My thumb hovers over the call button.
One choice saves Catriona. The other saves three selkies who've already survived months of hell.
Except that's a lie. Both choices save Catriona.
One just costs more than the other. One risks the mission, risks exposure, risks everything I've built to fight the syndicate from the inside.
The other leaves her vulnerable for hours longer while I execute tomorrow's operation first, hope the Russians wait, gamble with her life to protect the mission.
My tiger roars inside me, demanding I save her now, claim her now, protect what's ours. The beast doesn't care about operational security or strategic risk. It only knows she's in danger and we have the power to stop it.
For once, the beast and I agree.
I press call.