Page 17 of Claws and Effect

The man who saved me is my arranged mate.

The tiger who made my lioness roar is the man I’m contracted to marry.

Fate has a twisted sense of humor.

Before either could speak further, Laykin spotted both mothers approaching with determined expressions.

“There you are, darling,” Juliette Barclay said with calculated warmth. “I see you’ve found each other without our formal introduction.”

Frances Rubin, a striking woman with salt-and-pepper hair and shrewd eyes, regarded them with undisguised satisfaction. “Sometimes fate works more efficiently than mothers, doesn’t it?”

The formal introductions proceeded despite their prior meeting. “Princess Laykin Barclay,” her mother announced with practiced dignity, “may I present Zyle Rubin, CEO of Rubin Corp International and Alpha of the Rubin Pride.”

Laykin extended her hand in the traditional greeting, hyper-aware of every molecule of air between them as Zyle’s warm fingers closed around hers. His touch sent liquid heat racing up her arm, pooling in her chest before spreading throughout her body. Her lioness stretched languidly beneath her skin, finally satisfied.

“An honor, Princess Barclay,” he said formally, lifting her hand to his lips. The press of his mouth against her skin sent a shockwave straight to her core. His eyes never left hers, and she caught that flash of recognition again—along with something darker, hungrier. His gaze briefly took in her emerald gown, and something like approval flickered across his features.

“The honor is mine, Mr. Rubin,” she replied, struggling to keep her voice from betraying the riot of sensations coursing through her.

“Zyle,” he corrected, his voice low and intimate despite their audience. “After all, you’re already mine on paper, Princess. Formality seems... unnecessary.”

The possessive edge in his voice sent a delicious shiver down her spine. Her lioness preened at his claim while her human side remained cautious.

Their mothers exchanged pleased glances before gracefully withdrawing, leaving them in a small bubble of relative privacy despite the crowded ballroom.

Laykin noticed Zyle subtly touch the inner pocket of his jacket—a protective gesture that piqued her curiosity. What was he carrying?

He leaned closer, his breath warm against her ear. “You kept your shoes on this time,” he murmured, his voice low enough that only her enhanced lioness hearing could catch it.

Heat bloomed across her skin. “They’re more practical for ballroom dancing than combat,” she replied softly. “Though tonight’s pair would make decent weapons in a pinch.”

The corner of his mouth lifted in a half-smile that transformed his stern features. “Noted. I’ll stay on your good side, then.”

Laykin studied him openly now, taking advantage of their proximity. In the forest, she’d caught only glimpses of raw power and lethal grace. Here, in the carefully controlled environmentof the ballroom, she could appreciate the contradictions that made up Zyle Rubin—the civilized refinement overlaying primal strength, the diplomatic polish barely containing the alpha predator beneath.

“I believe we’re expected to dance,” he said, offering his hand. “Unless your shoulder needs more time to recover?”

Her eyes widened slightly at the reference to her injury. “How did you?—”

“I saw where the dart hit you,” he interrupted, his expression darkening. “And I can smell the pain beneath your perfume.”

The intimate observation both startled and intrigued her. “I’m fine,” she insisted, accepting his hand despite the dull ache beneath her carefully applied makeup.

Zyle led her to the dance floor with confident grace, placing his hand on the small of her back as they assumed the traditional waltz position. Their bodies fit together as if designed by fate itself, her curves aligning perfectly with his solid frame. The forest green of her gown stood out vividly against his dark suit, the gold embroidery catching the light with each turn.

“You’re a mystery, Mr.—Zyle,” Laykin said as they moved seamlessly to the music. “Why didn’t you mention our earlier encounter when we were introduced?”

His expression remained controlled, but his eyes darkened slightly. “For the same reason you didn’t, I imagine. Some conversations are better held in private.”

“How did you happen to be in exactly the right place at the right time?” she pressed.

“Instinct.” Something shifted in his expression—a brief vulnerability quickly masked. “I caught your scent on the wind while running. My tiger... responded.”

The implication hung between them, electric and unspoken. His tiger had recognized something in her—just as her lioness had recognized something in him.

TWELVE

“And what does your tiger think now?” Laykin asked, her voice barely audible over the music.

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