Page 21 of Claws and Effect

Laykin’s phone buzzed on the table. Her heart jumped to her throat when she saw the name on the screen.

“Is that him?” Seren’s delight was palpable. “Answer it!”

Laykin drew a steadying breath and swiped to accept the call. “Hello?”

“Princess.” Zyle’s deep voice rumbled through the speaker, sending an involuntary shiver down her spine. “I hope I’m not interrupting anything important.”

“No, not at all. I’m having breakfast with Seren.”

Across the table, Seren mouthed,Put it on speaker!Laykin glared and shook her head.

“I called to invite you to dinner tonight,” Zyle continued. “If you’re available.”

The casual invitation belied the significance of what he was asking—their first proper date. Something beyond the political machinations that had thrown them together.

“We’re already scheduled to be mated in a month,” Laykin challenged, unable to resist testing him. “Isn’t dinner redundant?”

His chuckle reverberated through the phone, warming her from the inside out. “I’m not rushing this,” he replied, his tone both firm and tender. “The treaty secured our prides’ future. Now I want to secure ours. I want you to know the man you’re committing to, not just the alliance.”

The unexpected thoughtfulness in his approach left her momentarily speechless. Here she’d prepared for cold political obligation, yet he spoke of connection, of choice within the boundaries of duty.

“Princess?” he prompted, a hint of uncertainty in his voice.

“Yes,” she said quickly. “Dinner sounds lovely.”

“Excellent. I’ll pick you up at seven. Dress casual.” The smile in his voice came through clearly. “I’m looking forward to it.”

After they disconnected, Laykin glanced up to find Seren grinning like a cat who’d found the cream.

“What?” Laykin tucked her phone away.

“Nothing.” Seren’s smile widened. “Except that you’re blushing. The regal Princess of the Summit Pride, famous for her poker face during international negotiations, is blushing over a dinner invitation.”

“Shut up.”

“Not a chance.”

FIFTEEN

Laykin stood before her closet, staring at its contents with uncharacteristic indecision. What exactly did “casual” mean for a dinner date with a billionaire alpha tiger shifter? She fingered a simple emerald silk blouse—a shade that brought out the green in her hazel eyes—and paired it with fitted dark jeans.

The soft melody of a vintage jazz record filled her dressing room, a secret indulgence that helped calm her nerves. She hummed along as she applied makeup with practiced precision, carefully concealing the still-tender spot on her shoulder where the tranquilizer dart had pierced her skin.

Her fingers paused over her jewelry box, hovering above the emerald earrings now reunited thanks to Zyle. She remembered the intensity in his eyes when he’d returned the missing piece, the way his fingers had brushed against her palm, leaving a trail of heat in their wake.

This isn’t how arranged matings are supposed to feel, she thought, fastening the earrings. They were meant to be political transactions—cold, efficient alliances to strengthen bloodlines and unite territories. Not this magnetic pull, this electricrecognition that had her lioness purring at the mere thought of him.

On her dresser sat the mysterious shoe part, its cryptic note still attached. She traced the elegant script with her fingertip, puzzling over its meaning.Only one prince to worry about.What did that mean? Who else should she worry about?

Her phone chimed with a message from building security:Mr. Rubin has arrived.Since the attack, security had been tightened in all aspects around and outside the castle. She wasn’t thrilled with the arrangement, but what choice did she have if someone really wanted to stop the unification?

Laykin grabbed a light jacket and headed for the elevator. During the descent, she rehearsed potential conversation topics, determined to maintain her composure despite the fluttering in her stomach.

The doors opened, and there he stood—Zyle Rubin, alpha tiger and corporate powerhouse, leaning casually against the sleek black Bentley parked at the curb. The sight of him in dark jeans and a charcoal button-down, sleeves rolled to expose powerful forearms, hit her with physical force. His formal suits at the gala had been impressive, but this relaxed elegance revealed a different facet of the man—no less commanding, but more approachable.

His eyes locked on hers immediately, a smile slowly spreading across his face. “Princess.”

“Laykin,” she corrected, surprised by her own boldness. “If I’m calling you Zyle, then you should use my name.”

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