Chapter 13 #2
His thumb brushes my lower lip once, possessive and gentle at the same time, before he forces himself to let go. I slide out of the truck before either of us can do something stupid in broad daylight two blocks from my station, but I feel his gaze burning into my back as I walk away.
The station smells like stale coffee and old files when I enter. Rhona looks up from her desk, her expression carefully neutral.
"Morning, Chief. Heard there was excitement at the harbor last night."
"Unconfirmed reports that led nowhere." I keep my voice professional, detached. "I'm filing the incident report for the mainland now."
I settle at my desk and open my laptop, forcing myself to focus on the fabricated narrative I need to document instead of the memory of Kian's thumb against my lip, the amber heat in his eyes, the barely controlled violence that should terrify me but instead makes my body respond in ways that complicate everything.
My phone vibrates with another text.
Your morning routine is quite predictable. Office by nine. Always the same route from your cottage.
Except I didn't come from my cottage this morning. I came from the safe house. They're working from old intelligence, which means their surveillance isn't as comprehensive as they want me to believe.
The realization steadies me slightly. They're trying to make me panic, make me sloppy. I won't give them the satisfaction.
I spend the next hour documenting the "investigation" into last night's reports. Witness statements that don't exist. Search parameters that covered empty warehouses. The careful construction of a dead end that will satisfy Lansing without exposing the truth.
My phone buzzes again mid-morning, but this time it's not the syndicate. It's Kian.
Lunch. One hour. The warehouse.
I shouldn't smile at the command, at the presumption that I'll just obey because he says so. But my mouth curves anyway, body already anticipating seeing him again.
An hour later, I tell Rhona I'm following up on last night's reports and head out. The warehouse sits quiet when I arrive, all evidence of last night's violence erased. The brotherhood's cleanup was thorough.
Kian's truck is parked inside. He's waiting near the loading dock with takeaway containers from the pub, cleaned up now but still carrying that dangerous edge.
"You can't be here." The protest sounds weak even to my ears.
"I own the building." He gestures to the containers. "You need to eat. And I need to know you're still breathing."
"I've been breathing for the past three hours without your supervision."
"Three hours too long." He opens one container—fish and chips, the scent making my stomach remind me I haven't eaten since yesterday. "Sit. Eat. Let me pretend I'm not losing my mind keeping distance from you while the syndicate sends threats."
The raw honesty in his voice stops my next argument. I settle on a crate beside the loading dock. He takes another crate across from me, close enough that our knees almost touch, and watches me with focus that feels like a physical touch.
"You're staring." I pick up a chip, hyperaware of his gaze tracking the movement.
"I'm memorizing." His voice drops lower. "In case the syndicate manages what they're planning before I can stop them."
The admission hits harder than it should. "You'll stop them."
"I will." No hesitation, just flat certainty.
"But they're escalating faster than I anticipated.
The texts, the surveillance, knowing your routines.
" His hand moves across the space between us, fingers brushing mine where they rest beside the container.
The contact sends electricity up my arm. "I don't like how exposed you are."
"I'm a cop. Exposure comes with the job."
"You're not just a cop anymore." His jaw clenches. "You're in this with us now. The syndicate knows it, which makes you a target they'll prioritize."
I lean forward slightly, drawn by something I don't fully understand. "What are you actually worried about, Kian?"
His jaw tightens. "That I'm going to walk into your station and find you dead because I was too slow. That they'll corner you somewhere I can't reach in time. That this thing between us—whatever the fuck it is—will get you killed before we figure out what it means."
The raw honesty in his voice stops whatever response I was building. He's not being dramatic. He's genuinely concerned about finding me dead.
"You won't be too slow." I say it with more certainty than I feel. "And I'm not planning on dying."
"Plans don't mean shit when the syndicate decides you're a problem worth eliminating." He stands abruptly, putting distance between us. "You do your job. I'll do mine. When this is over, when they're not hunting you, we'll figure out the rest."
The dismissal stings more than it should. I grab my jacket, the fish and chips forgotten.
"Catriona." His voice stops me before I reach the door.
I turn back. "What?"
"I'm picking you up when your shift ends. You're not going back to your cottage alone."
"Kian—"
"Not negotiable." The command in his voice sends inappropriate shivers down my spine despite the tension between us. "The syndicate knows where you live. You're staying at the safe house until this is handled."
I leave without responding, leaving him alone in the warehouse with the takeaway and whatever the fuck we're not saying to each other.
Back at the station, I force myself to finish the report, to maintain the appearance of normalcy despite the tension still crackling under my skin.
Another text arrives mid-afternoon.
Beautiful day on Skara. You should enjoy it while you can.
Generic threat. Vague enough to apply to anything. They're trying to keep me rattled, keep me looking over my shoulder. The psychological warfare is effective, I'll give them that.
"Everything alright, Chief?" Rhona's voice carries false concern.
"Fine. Just coordinating with mainland operations." The lie tastes bitter, but necessary.
She doesn't look convinced, but returns to her own work without pushing.
I finish the incident report and send it to Lansing, then pull out my personal tablet. The camera footage from the warehouse operation loads slowly, but eventually the images appear.
The footage captures everything. Dimitri negotiating with Kian, the artifacts laid out on the loading dock in careful arrangement, the moment gunfire erupted and chaos consumed the operation.
The artifacts hold my attention longest. I pause the footage, zooming in on individual items. Carved stones that look ancient, Celtic knotwork intertwined with symbols I don't recognize.
Jewelry incorporating both precious metals and materials I can't identify from the footage alone, and documents that might be historical records or bills of sale.
I open my case files, cross-referencing the artifacts with trafficking operations I've been tracking.
The patterns emerge quickly, connecting dots I couldn't see before.
Similar items appeared in operations across Europe.
Edinburgh two months ago, authorities seized carved stones during a raid on suspected smugglers.
Dublin three months before that, customs intercepted jewelry matching the description of what Dimitri was moving. Then Reykjavik, Bergen, Amsterdam.
The syndicate is moving supernatural and other valuable artifacts through the same infrastructure they use for trafficking. Each operation I've been tracking wasn't separate—they're all connected through this network.
This is the break I've been chasing, the connection that ties everything together and provides leverage to dismantle their network.
But dread pools cold and heavy in my gut. If the artifacts are this valuable, the syndicate won't abandon Skara without a fight.
"I'm heading out for a walk." I tell Rhona, needing air and distance from her watchful presence.
The afternoon sunlight hits hard when I step outside. High Street stretches before me, tourists and locals moving through their daily routines. I scan the crowd automatically, cop instincts cataloging faces and behaviors.
Then I see him.
A man stands near the corner, tall and lean with features that might be Russian or Eastern European. He wears expensive clothes that look wrong against Skara's casual aesthetic, dark suit and polished shoes that announce wealth and power.
The air around him shimmers with heat.
This isn't visible heat distortion like summer pavement. It's something else, something that makes my instincts scream danger despite the distance and the normalcy of his posture. Power radiates from him like pressure against my skin.
He turns slightly, scanning the landscape. His gaze sweeps past the station without pausing, but something in his stillness suggests he knows exactly where I am.
Then he's gone, disappearing around the corner like he was never there.
My heart hammers against my ribs. Whatever that man is, he's not human. The power emanating from him felt different from the brotherhood's presence, darker and more dangerous.
I force myself to walk back to the station on steady legs, hyperaware of every shadow, every person who might be watching.
My phone rings twenty minutes later. An actual call on my official police line, the number listed publicly as the chief's direct contact.
I answer without checking the caller ID. "Chief MacLeod."
"Chief MacLeod." The voice on the other end carries a Russian accent wrapped in cultured English that sounds expensive. "My name is Mikhail Zharkov. I represent certain business interests affected by recent unfortunate events on your island."
The name connects to the presence I felt on High Street. Russian. Powerful. This has to be the man I saw.
"I'm listening."
"I would like to request a formal meeting to discuss these events and explore possibilities for future cooperation." His tone stays professional, almost friendly. "I believe we can reach an understanding that benefits everyone involved."
The threat hides beneath civilized language. Cooperation means capitulation. Understanding means accepting the syndicate's presence on Skara without interference.
"When?" The word comes out steady despite the fear clawing at my throat.
"Tomorrow. Ten o'clock. Your office." He pauses, and something in the silence feels calculated. "I look forward to our conversation, Chief MacLeod. I think we have much to discuss about mutual interests and professional courtesy."
The line goes dead.
I stand at my desk watching the village below through the station window, my reflection ghosted against the glass. Tomorrow morning, Mikhail Zharkov gets his meeting, but cooperation isn't on my agenda.