Page 18 of Claws and Effect

Zyle’s hand at her waist drew her imperceptibly closer, his eyes locked on hers with an intensity that made her breath catch. “He thinks what I think,” he said, his voice a rough whisper. “That fate has a strange way of giving us exactly what we need even when we’re looking in the wrong direction.”

Heat bloomed in Laykin’s chest at his words. Was he saying what she thought he was saying? That this arrangement, this political match, might be something more?

“And what do you need, Zyle Rubin?” she dared to ask.

His eyes flashed silver, his control slipping for just a moment. “Someone who kicks off her designer heels to fight for her life. Someone whose courage matches her beauty.” His thumb traced a small circle on her waist. “Someone who makes my tiger pace restlessly beneath my skin, demanding I claim what’s mine.”

The raw possession in his voice should have offended her independent nature. Instead, it sent a thrill racing through her body. Her lioness roared in approval while her human side remained guarded.

“I’m not yours yet,” she reminded him, needing to establish some boundaries despite her body’s traitorous response. “Paper arrangements can be torn up.”

“True.” His smile turned predatory. “But fate’s arrangements aren’t so easily dismissed, are they, Princess?”

Before she could respond, Laykin became aware of numerous eyes tracking their movements—some approving, others calculating, a few openly hostile. Her gaze caught on a familiar face among the security detail stationed near the eastern entrance—a face she recognized from the roadside ambush.

Her body tensed instinctively, and Zyle responded immediately, his arm tightening around her waist.

“What is it?” he asked, voice sharp.

“Three o’clock, near the eastern archway,” she said without turning her head. “The guard with the scar across his jaw. He was one of my attackers.”

Zyle’s expression didn’t change, but something dangerous flickered in his eyes as they flicked briefly toward the man in question. “Are you certain?”

“I never forget a face that’s tried to kidnap me,” Laykin replied dryly. “He’s wearing Summit security credentials.”

“Interesting,” Zyle murmured, seamlessly guiding her in a direction that kept the suspect in his peripheral vision. “That means someone with access to Summit security protocols wanted to prevent you from attending tonight.”

“But who would benefit from sabotaging the treaty? Both our prides need this alliance.”

Zyle’s jaw tightened. “Not everyone embraces change, Princess. Some prefer to cling to the past, no matter the cost.”

The music faded, and they separated with appropriate formality, though Laykin felt the loss of contact like a physical ache. Her lioness growled in protest, demanding she return to his arms.

“Stay close tonight,” Zyle said quietly, his hand lingering on hers. “I won’t let anything happen to you.”

“I can take care of myself,” Laykin reminded him, though the protectiveness in his voice sent a shiver of pleasure down her spine.

“I know.” The corner of his mouth lifted in that half-smile again. “I watched you in a skirt fight off three armed men. But even the fiercest lioness deserves protection sometimes—especially from her mate.”

Mate.The word hung between them, heavy with implication. Not fiancée. Not arranged partner.Mate.

“Is that what you are?” Laykin asked, unable to stop herself. “My mate?”

Something primal flashed in Zyle’s eyes. “What does your lioness tell you, Princess?”

Before she could answer, various diplomats and family members approached to claim their attention, and they were swept into separate conversations. Throughout the next hour, Laykin caught glimpses of Zyle across the room—commanding attention in business discussions, charming elderly pride members, exchanging what appeared to be sharp words with his brother. Each time their eyes met, even briefly, that same electric current passed between them.

Her phone buzzed in her clutch. Excusing herself from a dull conversation about hunting territory boundaries, Laykin checked the message:

No treaty is worth your life.

The text came from an unknown number. A chill ran down her spine despite the warmth of the ballroom. Who would send such a warning? And why?

She scanned the crowd, looking for anything out of place. Her uncle Marcello watched her from across the room, hisexpression unreadable. When their eyes met, he raised his glass in a mocking toast before turning away.

Needing a moment to collect herself, Laykin slipped into a secluded alcove off the main ballroom. The small sitting area provided a reprieve from the constant scrutiny. She sank onto a velvet settee, allowing herself a rare moment of vulnerability as she massaged her aching shoulder.

Something hard pressed against her hip. Frowning, Laykin reached into the narrow pocket of her evening clutch and froze. Her fingers closed around a familiar object—the broken heel from her shoe she’d lost during the ambush.

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