Page 11 of Claws and Effect

Laykin slipped it over her wrist, the cool metal a final seal on her commitment to the evening’s charade of normalcy. Whatever questions plagued her would wait. Tonight belonged to diplomacy and appearances.

Three hours after being drugged and attacked, Princess Laykin Barclay stepped into her waiting car—a heavily armored limousine this time with four security vehicles in escort. Her expression betrayed nothing of her inner turmoil as they pulled away from Summit Castle toward the gala venue.

Tonight, she would meet Zyle Rubin. Tonight, she would play her role flawlessly. But beneath her serene exterior, two questions burned:

Who wanted to stop this alliance badly enough to risk attacking her in broad daylight?

And why did her lioness roar with recognition at the sight of a white tiger with silver eyes?

SEVEN

The side entrance to the Summit guest villa opened with a soft click as Zyle Rubin slipped inside. He, his family, and entourage, had arrived this morning and were welcomed by the lion delegates before overtaking the guest quarters on the far side of the vast property.

Now he wondered if their arrival had sparked unrest among the lion pride. The bold attack on a well-to do member of lion society caught him completely off guard.

His breath came in controlled, measured pulls, though his heart hammered against his ribs—not from exertion but from the adrenaline still coursing through his veins. The marble beneath his feet cooled his overheated skin, a stark contrast to the warm afternoon he’d left behind.

Scents assaulted him—polished wood, fresh flowers arranged in precise patterns throughout the corridor, lingering traces of unfamiliar shifters who had passed through earlier. His tiger senses remained heightened, unwilling to stand down despite the danger being miles behind him.

Zyle paused before a gilded mirror that hung in the corridor, taking stock of his appearance. His dark gray joggers that he carried bore smudges of dirt and pine needles. A streakof blood—not his own—had dried on his forearm. His hair, usually meticulously styled, stuck up in unruly spikes. The transformation from tiger to human never left him looking pristine, but the evidence of combat created an altogether different dishevelment.

The pad of his thumb brushed over a scratch on his shoulder where a branch had caught him during his swift retreat through the forest. The tiny wound had already healed, his shifter biology erasing all evidence of injury. If only the memory of what happened could fade as quickly.

Those eyes. Her scent. The way she fought without hesitation.

He shook the thought away, resuming his path toward the suite at the end of the corridor.

The guest villa stood apart from the main castle, offering visiting dignitaries privacy during diplomatic exchanges. Four bedrooms, a shared common area, and private access to the grounds—all arranged with tasteful opulence that spoke of old money and older traditions.

Despite the opulence surrounding him, Zyle had counted the hours until he could retreat for his daily run.

Today’s run had turned into something else entirely.

The door to his suite swung open at his touch. Zyle stepped inside, immediately registering another presence in his temporary domain. Holden Greggs occupied the leather chaise by the window, scrolling through his tablet with casual disregard for the concept of personal space. Sunlight slanted through the floor-to-ceiling windows behind him, throwing his silhouette into sharp relief.

Holden didn’t look up. “Your mother called three times.”

The familiar drawl carried equal parts amusement and warning. Holden had been Zyle’s right hand for a decade, the balance to Zyle’s intensity, the humor to his seriousness. Theonly person besides his mother who dared to speak to him without deference.

“She threatened to implant you with a tracking chip before the engagement party.” Holden finally lifted his gaze, eyes widening as he took in Zyle’s appearance. “Since when do your ‘quick runs’ involve coming back with blood on your arm?”

The question hung between them, layered with unspoken inquiries. Zyle moved to the small bar cart nestled between two antique bookcases. Crystal decanters caught the afternoon light, amber liquid glowing like trapped fire. He poured himself two fingers of bourbon, the familiar ritual grounding him.

“Not mine,” he replied after taking a swallow, the spirit burning a path down his throat.

“Obviously.” Holden set his tablet aside. His posture remained casual, but his eyes sharpened with professional assessment. “The question remains—whose is it?”

The memory flashed vivid and unbidden—the lioness, surrounded by attackers, a dart embedded in her shoulder. Her fierce defense despite the tranquilizer coursing through her system. The shocking recognition that surged through him when their eyes met.

Zyle turned away, staring into his glass. The bourbon reflected his face in miniature, distorted by the curved surface.

“There was an ambush on the north road.” The words emerged neutral, controlled, nothing in his tone betraying the riot of emotion beneath. “Professional hit squad targeting a vehicle.”

“Our security team didn’t report any incident.” Holden sat forward, all traces of levity vanishing.

“Not our problem. Not our people.” Zyle drained his glass, setting it down with a decisive click. “It happened during my run. I intervened.”

Holden studied him, eyes narrowing. “You intervened? As Zyle Rubin, visiting dignitary, or as a white tiger that nobody’s supposed to know about?”

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