Chapter 9
CATRIONA
Blood pools in the grass at my feet, still warm enough to steam in the cold air.
The dead tiger lies twisted on its side, throat torn open, the white of its fur matted red.
Kian steps over the corpse like it's nothing more than driftwood on a beach, headed for the cottage door with gore dripping from his hands.
I should be horrified. The rational part of my brain—the police chief, the woman who's spent years enforcing order—screams that I just watched a man kill someone with his bare hands, tear out a throat with teeth that weren't even his own anymore.
Heat pools low in my belly, sharp and urgent.
My pulse pounds in my throat. My skin feels too tight. Every breath pulls the scent of blood and violence and Kian deeper into my lungs, and some dark, primal thing inside me responds with hunger that has nothing to do with food.
What is wrong with me?
Kian stops at the door. He doesn't turn around, but his shoulder muscles bunch beneath skin still streaked with blood. When he speaks, his voice carries the rough edge of his tiger still too close to the surface. "You should be inside."
The words aren't an invitation. They're a command wrapped in concern, like proximity to the body might contaminate me somehow, like I'm fragile and need protection from the reality of what he is.
Anger cuts through the fog of arousal, sharp enough to make me move. "Don't treat me like I'm delicate."
"I'm treating you like someone who just watched me kill a man.
" He turns then, and the sight of him steals what's left of my composure.
Naked. Blood streaked across his face, his throat, his chest. His eyes hold that amber glow, not quite human, the tiger riding too close.
He should look vulnerable—stripped bare, covered in evidence of violence—but there's nothing vulnerable about the predator staring back at me.
"You were both tigers," I point out. "And I know he was here to kill us both. Law of the jungle."
"This is an island."
"Same difference." I meet his stare without flinching. "He came for both of us. You saved my life. Again. That should be the end of it."
"Should it?" His voice drops lower. "Because you're looking at me like it's not."
"It is." The words come out steadier than I feel. "Just not the way you think."
His nostrils flare. He's catching my scent, I realize. He can smell the arousal I'm trying to hide, the way my body betrays every thought I don't want to acknowledge. My face burns, but I don't look away.
"Catriona." My name sounds like gravel in his throat, carrying a warning or maybe a question.
I cross the distance between us in three strides. The predator focus narrows his gaze, tracking my movement. I'm near enough now to see the pulse hammering in his throat, to confirm what I already know—this reaction isn't shock or delayed trauma or any other lie I could tell myself.
I want him. I want him because of what he just did, not despite it. I want the danger and the violence and the control barely leashed beneath his skin.
His jaw works. "Before this goes any further, we need to talk about—"
"Safe sex?" I make it clinical before it gets awkward. "I'm on the pill. Have been for years. Clean bill of health from my last checkup, and I'm guessing shifter healing takes care of most human diseases anyway."
Surprise flickers across his face. Maybe he expected me to run, to put distance between myself and the blood still cooling on his skin. "Shifters don't carry or transmit human diseases. Different biology."
"Then we're clear." I meet his eyes, refusing to soften this into something it isn't. "Unless you have objections."
His laugh comes out harsh. "Christ, woman. You watched me tear out a man's throat five minutes ago, and you're standing here ready to—" He cuts himself off, every muscle coiling tight. "You should be running."
"I don't run." The words taste like truth, like I'm acknowledging a fundamental part of myself I've finally stopped denying. "And you need to stop pretending you want me to."
The control fractures. I see it in the way his pupils blow wide, the tiger rising to swallow whatever humanity he's clinging to. He moves fast, reaching out to grab my arm, spinning me around and pressing me against the cottage wall with a hand braced beside my head.
"You don't know what you're asking for." His voice drops to a growl, rough enough to raise goosebumps along my skin. "I'm barely holding on here."
I reach up, cup his jaw despite the blood cooling there, feel the muscle jumping beneath his skin. "Then let go."
The sound he makes isn't quite human. His mouth crashes against mine, hard enough to bruise, tasting like copper and violence. The kiss carries raw, urgent need that matches the fire burning through my veins—hard, demanding, nothing gentle about it.
His hands fist in my jacket, dragging me closer.
The wall bites into my shoulders, cold stone against heated skin, but the contrast only sharpens everything else.
I feel the scrape of stubble against my jaw, the growl vibrating in his chest, the press of his body pinning me in place with hard, demanding weight.
I bite his lower lip, not gently, and he groans against my mouth. The sound sends heat spiraling through me, liquid and fierce. I want more of that, more of him losing control, the careful distance he maintains crumbling into raw honesty.
His hands leave my jacket, sliding down to grip my hips, thumbs pressing hard enough to leave marks. The pressure thrills me more than it should—evidence that this is happening, that I'm not the only one drowning in this madness.
"Inside." The word comes out ragged against my throat, his teeth scraping the pulse point there.
He doesn't wait for agreement. He hauls me away from the wall and through the door, kicking it shut behind us. We don't make it past the entryway. My back hits the interior wall, and his mouth finds mine again, swallowing whatever protest I might have made.
I'm not protesting.
My hands find bare skin, mapping the hard muscle of his chest and shoulders, the solid heat of him. Blood smears beneath my palms, tacky and cooling, but I can't care about anything except the desperate need clawing through my chest.
He makes quick work of my jacket, my shirt, baring skin to the cool air and his burning gaze. His hands map my ribs, my waist, claiming territory with a possessiveness that should alarm me. Instead, I arch into the touch, greedy for more.
"Christ, you're perfect." The words sound torn from him, reluctant admission mixed with awe. His mouth follows his hands, teeth and tongue and heat that makes coherent thought impossible.
His hands help me strip away the last of my clothes, the vulnerable moment fracturing the urgency for a heartbeat, tenderness bleeding through, but then we're both working to remove the final barriers between us.
Our bodies find each other in the small space, desperate need seeking relief from the tension that's been building since the moment we met.
He lifts me like I weigh nothing, and I wrap my legs around his waist, using the wall for leverage. The first thrust punches the air from my lungs, sharp pleasure-pain that has me gasping against his shoulder. Too much, too fast, but also exactly what I need.
"Okay?" His voice sounds wrecked, the question barely coherent.
I dig my nails into his shoulders. "Move."
Whatever restraint he's been maintaining shatters completely, and there's nothing careful about the way he takes me. The rhythm turns hard and fast, driven by the primal thing that matches the wildness clawing through me. The wall provides a steady counterpoint to the chaos consuming us.
I can't think. I can't process anything beyond the feel of him, the stretch and burn and mounting pressure building at the base of my spine. His mouth finds my throat, teeth scraping but not biting, and the restraint in that gesture somehow makes it more intense.
My nails leave crescents in his skin, drawing blood to match the gore already staining us both. He groans, low and rough, and the vibration travels through me like lightning. I'm close, so close the edges of the world blur into nothing but sensation and need.
His teeth scrape my throat, a rough growl vibrating against my pulse. "That's it."
The permission breaks what's left of my control. Pleasure crashes through me in waves, stealing breath and sense and leaving nothing but white-hot sensation in its wake. I hear myself cry out, distant and disconnected, as he drives deeper, chasing his own release.
He follows moments later, my name torn from his throat like a prayer or a curse. His forehead presses to mine, breathing ragged, body shuddering with the force of it.
The silence afterward feels deafening.
The cool air raises goosebumps on overheated skin. My muscles ache, pushed past their limits. Blood and other fluids cool, sticky reminders of what we've done. The wall still digs into my shoulders where he has me pinned.
Kian pulls back, carefully, and I try not to wince at the loss. My legs feel shaky when my feet touch the floor again, and his hand shoots out to steady me. The gesture feels too careful, too concerned, and the vulnerability in it makes my chest ache.
Neither of us speaks. What would I even say? Thanks for the shag after watching you commit murder? Hysterical laughter threatens to bubble up my throat, but I force it down.
Kian steps back, running a hand through his hair and leaving red streaks in the dark strands. He looks wrecked, marked with evidence of violence and passion in equal measure, and Christ, I must look the same.
"I should—" He gestures vaguely toward the bathroom. "Clean up."
"Right." I start to grab my discarded clothes, hyper-aware of his eyes tracking the movement. "Me too."