Page 23 of Claws and Effect

“Everything.” The single word hung between them, laden with meaning.

SIXTEEN

Awaiter approached with fresh water, accidentally dropping a knife in the process. Before the blade could clatter against the stone floor, Zyle’s hand shot out, catching it midair. The movement happened so quickly that Laykin barely registered it until the knife was safely back on the table.

“Nice reflexes,” she murmured, impressed despite herself.

Zyle shrugged, but the incident revealed volumes about him. Even in a romantic setting, his guard remained vigilant, his senses tuned to potential threats. It spoke to a lifetime of both privilege and burden—the constant awareness required of an alpha protecting what was his.

After dinner, Zyle suggested a walk through the rooftop garden. Solar-powered lights illuminated stone pathways winding between raised beds of herbs and vegetables. The night air carried the scent of basil and lavender, mingling with the distant sounds of the city below.

“Do you miss the savannah?” Zyle asked as they strolled side-by-side, their hands occasionally brushing in a dance of anticipation.

Laykin nodded, surprised by the perceptive question. “The open space. The freedom to run without buildings hemming you in.”

“I have property upstate. Hundreds of acres, mostly forest and meadow.” His voice softened. “There’s a lake that catches the sunrise in a way that makes you believe in magic.”

“Sounds perfect for a tiger.”

“Lions enjoy swimming too, don’t they?” Their fingers brushed again, but this time Zyle captured her hand in his, interlacing their fingers with casual confidence.

The simple contact sent electricity racing up her arm. It shouldn’t have affected her so strongly—she’d shaken countless hands in diplomatic settings—but Zyle’s touch felt fundamentally different. Claiming. Anchoring.

They reached a small stone gazebo overlooking the city lights. The intimate structure sheltered them from the slight breeze, creating a pocket of privacy within an already private space.

“You’re not what I expected,” Laykin admitted, turning to face him.

“No?” Zyle stepped closer, his proximity intoxicating. “What did you expect?”

“Someone colder. More calculating.” She looked up into his eyes, finding them fixed on her with intensity that stole her breath. “I expected duty without desire.”

“And now?” His hand came up to cup her cheek, thumb tracing the curve of her lower lip.

“Now I don’t know what to think.”

“Then don’t think.”

Zyle leaned down, his lips capturing hers with deliberate slowness. Unlike their first impulsive kiss in the alcove, this one started gentle, almost questioning. But as Laykin responded, rising onto tiptoes to press closer, the kiss transformed intosomething hungrier, more urgent. His hand tangled in her hair while hers gripped his shirt, the fabric bunching between her fingers.

The attack came without warning.

The access door to the roof slammed opened, and four masked figures emerged, moving with military precision. Laykin registered the danger an instant before Zyle spun her behind him, his body tensing for combat.

“Stay close,” he growled, his eyes flashing silver in the darkness.

But Laykin wasn’t some helpless damsel. Years of combat training kicked in as she positioned herself back-to-back with Zyle, creating a unified defense.

“Four attackers,” she murmured. “Armed. Nine o’clock and three.”

Zyle’s surprise at her tactical assessment lasted only a microsecond before the first attacker lunged. What followed was a blur of motion—Zyle’s powerful strikes contrasting with Laykin’s precise, fluid movements. They fought with a synchronicity that suggested they’d trained together for years rather than meeting days ago.

Laykin executed a spinning kick that connected with one attacker’s jaw, sending him sprawling across the garden path. Pride surged through her at the clean hit—until she spotted another figure lunging toward her, knife glinting in the moonlight.

She pivoted to block, but the angle was wrong. The blade arced toward her throat with deadly intention.

Between one heartbeat and the next, Zyle moved—impossibly fast, placing his body between Laykin and the knife. The blade sank into his shoulder with a sickening sound that made Laykin’s blood run cold.

Despite the injury, Zyle fought with unleashed ferocity. His eyes blazed silver as his tiger emerged just enough to enhance his strength without triggering a full shift. The remaining attackers retreated through the door, leaving their unconscious companion behind.

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