Chapter 13
CATRIONA
Morning light spills through the east-facing windows in shades that feel too bright for what happened last night. I stand at the kitchen counter nursing cold tea while exhaustion drags at my bones and adrenaline crash leaves my hands shaking against ceramic.
I watched Kian kill six men, watched him transform into a tiger in silver mist and thunder, watched him tear through Russian mob enforcers like they were nothing more than prey.
The brotherhood executed a rescue operation that saved three selkies while I documented everything with my police-issue camera.
Now I'm lying to protect them.
The safe house smells like old stone and sea air, situated on the northern coast where cliffs drop away into water that crashes against rock with rhythmic violence.
Declan left hours ago after confirming the perimeter was secure.
Jax remains somewhere in the house, silent and watchful, giving me space while staying close enough to intervene if the syndicate tries something.
My phone buzzes against the counter. The caller ID shows a mainland number. It's the chief superintendent calling to check on the "reports of gunfire" that came through dispatch last night.
I answer on the third ring, forcing my voice steady despite the exhaustion. "MacLeod."
"Catriona." Chief Superintendent Lansing's voice carries the weight of authority and concern.
"Tell me about last night. We received multiple emergency calls about automatic weapons fire near the harbor district warehouse complex.
Mainland operations routed them to me when they couldn't reach your station directly. "
The lie comes easier than it should. I spent the hours before dawn crafting this narrative, building the story I need him to believe. "I responded immediately and conducted a thorough sweep of the warehouse district and surrounding areas."
"And?"
"Nothing. No bodies, no blood, no evidence of weapons discharge." The lie comes out smooth despite how wrong it feels. "We found scattered shell casings that might have been planted, but no corresponding damage to structures or vehicles. No witnesses beyond the initial calls."
Lansing stays quiet for several seconds. "You're saying someone called in automatic weapons fire as a prank?"
"Or to waste our resources investigating nothing while they conducted actual criminal activity elsewhere.
" The suggestion fits with patterns I've seen before, gives Lansing a reasonable explanation that doesn't require questioning my competence.
"I've requested security footage from businesses in the area, but most of the warehouse district lacks proper surveillance. "
"The harbor authority should have cameras."
"Already checked. Their system experienced technical difficulties last night. Convenient timing." I let frustration bleed into my tone, the exasperation of a cop chasing leads that evaporate before they solidify into evidence. "Someone knew exactly when and where to create this distraction."
Lansing sighs, the sound of a man who's dealt with too many dead ends and not enough budget to pursue them properly.
"File the complete report by end of business today.
Include witness statements and the search parameters.
If this is connected to the trafficking investigation you've been pursuing, I want documentation. "
"Understood."
"And Catriona?" His voice softens slightly. "Be careful. If you're getting close to something, they might escalate. Make sure you're not working alone."
The irony cuts deep. I'm not working alone anymore.
I'm working with supernatural predators who kill efficiently and operate outside the law, who are the only ones actually fighting the syndicate.
I've already crossed into bed with one of them, already let Kian claim parts of me I swore I'd keep separate from this investigation.
"I'll be careful," I promise, knowing the lie is becoming a habit.
The call ends. I set my phone on the counter and stare at the screen, waiting for the guilt to hit properly. Instead, I feel hollow and exhausted, aware that I just lied to the chief superintendent about a massacre because the truth would expose the only people capable of fighting the syndicate.
The screen lights up with a new message. Unknown number. A text message.
You did well last night, Chief MacLeod.
My blood goes cold. I stare at the message, cataloging every detail. The number shows an international code I don't recognize. The phrasing is polite, almost professional. The implication is crystal clear.
They know. They know I was at the warehouse. They know I'm investigating them. They know exactly who I am and what I did.
Another message arrives before I can process the first.
Such dedication to your investigation. Pursuing leads even during dangerous situations. Admirable.
Then comes another message.
Your morning routine is quite predictable. Heather shampoo at seven fifteen. Tea by seven thirty. Always Earl Grey, no sugar.
Nausea hits sharp and immediate. They've been watching me in my home, through my windows, documenting my daily life with the kind of detail that suggests they've been tracking me since I arrived.
The heather shampoo isn't something anyone would know unless they'd been in my bathroom or watching through cameras I haven't found.
I force myself to breathe through the rising panic, to focus on tactical concerns instead of fear. They want me frightened, want me to make mistakes while adrenaline overrides judgment. I won't give them the satisfaction.
But my hands shake when I set the phone down.
Jax appears in the doorway, his massive frame filling the space with stillness that suggests he heard something wrong. "Problem?"
"It's the syndicate." I show him the messages, watch his expression harden as he reads. "They've been watching me. They know my routines."
"They're establishing dominance. Proving they can reach you whenever they want." Jax's voice stays calm, but something dangerous shifts in his gaze. "Kian needs to see these."
"He's at the warehouse dealing with cleanup."
"Then you stay here until he returns." Jax moves to the window, scanning the landscape with focus that misses nothing. "We’re relatively protected up here, but the moment you leave, you're vulnerable."
I'm trapped. The syndicate has turned my own island into a cage where every movement is monitored, every action documented, every moment of vulnerability cataloged for future exploitation.
My phone vibrates again with another message.
We should discuss your investigation. I think we can reach an understanding that benefits everyone involved.
I don't respond. Engaging gives them power, gives them leverage to manipulate. I silence the phone and shove it into my pocket, but the messages burn in my mind like brands.
An hour later, I hear the truck before I see it. The engine cuts, and then Kian's filling the doorway with presence that makes the air feel charged. Blood still stains his clothes despite obvious attempts to clean up, and violence clings to him like cologne.
His gaze finds mine across the room, and something in his expression makes my pulse kick up. Not fear. Recognition. The same awareness that's been crackling between us since we fucked against his cottage wall while covered in another shifter's blood.
"Show me." The command comes out rough, more growl than words.
I pull out my phone and hand it over. He scrolls through the messages, and I watch his body change.
Muscles bunch beneath blood-stained fabric.
His breathing becomes measured and controlled in the way of predators holding themselves back from violence.
When he looks up, the intensity in his gaze makes my stomach clench.
"They're escalating." His voice carries an edge that makes my skin prickle. "This isn't local crew tactics. This is someone higher up the chain."
"I have to go to the station." I force my voice steady despite the way he's looking at me. "Lansing expects that report by end of business. If I don't show up, if I hide, it raises questions I can't afford to answer."
His jaw clenches until tendons stand out in his neck. A muscle jumps beneath the skin, the only outward sign of the struggle happening inside him.
"Then I'm driving you." The words come out clipped. "And Jax will be watching the station."
"Fine." I grab my jacket and laptop, hyperaware of how close he's standing, of the heat radiating from his body, of the scent of copper and violence and something underneath that's uniquely him. "But you can't come inside. Rhona's already suspicious enough."
The drive to Stormhaven feels different than last night's desperate flight to the safe house.
Sunlight streams through the windows, painting everything in ordinary colors that don't match the tension crackling between us in the truck's cabin.
Kian drives in silence, his entire body rigid with the effort of maintaining control.
When he pulls the truck to a stop two blocks from the station, he turns to look at me. The intensity in his gaze makes my breath catch.
"Call me if anything feels wrong." His hand moves before he can stop it, fingers catching my chin and turning my face toward him.
The touch sends heat racing down my spine despite every logical reason I should pull away.
"Anything, Catriona. I don't care if it's paranoia or instinct or just a feeling. You call me."
The contact reminds me of how those same hands felt on my body, how his fingers dug into my hips while he took me against stone wall with desperate urgency. The memory makes my pulse spike.
"I will." The promise comes out breathier than intended.