Page 39 of Claws and Effect

“No, I wanted you with me,” Zyle admitted, his usually confident demeanor giving way to something more vulnerable. “But this situation has been forced on you from the beginning—the treaty, the attacks, being brought here. I wanted something to be entirely your choice.”

Her heart squeezed with unexpected emotion. This man who commanded boardrooms and rival prides with iron authority had prepared her favorite things, respected her independence, and now lay beside her with careful distance, letting her determine the boundaries of their relationship.

Before she could respond, his phone buzzed insistently. Zyle glanced at it with a frown. “I have to take this. Security update from Summit.”

“Go,” she shooed him, settling more comfortably against the pillows. “I’ll be fine.”

He hesitated, then leaned down to press a gentle kiss to her forehead. “Rest. I’ll be back soon.”

As he left, Laykin found herself examining his bedroom more carefully. Unlike the controlled, sleek aesthetic of his public spaces, this room revealed a more complex man. Bookshelves held an eclectic mix of business texts, historical analyses, and surprisingly, several volumes of classical poetry. A framed photograph on his nightstand showed a younger Zyle with a woman who shared his eyes—his mother, perhaps—their smiles relaxed and genuine.

The careful consideration evident throughout the house—from security measures to personal touches in her suite—spoke volumes about Zyle himself. Thorough. Protective. Thoughtful in ways his business reputation never hinted at.

She drifted toward sleep, her last conscious thought acknowledging that perhaps, just perhaps, fate had paired her with someone who might understand her better than she’d expected.

Evening shadows stretchedacross the room when Laykin awoke. Her entire body ached, but the sharp pain had subsided to a dull throb. The scent of something delicious pulled her from drowsiness, drawing her attention to Zyle entering with a covered tray.

“You cook more than breakfast?” she asked, pushing herself upright with more ease than earlier.

“Many things about me would surprise you,” he replied, setting the tray across her lap. “How’s the pain?”

“Manageable.” She lifted the cover to reveal a perfectly prepared meal—herb-crusted chicken, roasted vegetables, and wild rice. “This looks amazing.”

“Nothing fancy,” he demurred, settling into a chair beside the bed. “I thought you might be hungry after sleeping all day.”

“Starving,” she admitted, taking a bite that made her close her eyes in appreciation. “Where did you learn to cook like this?”

A shadow crossed his face. “After my father died, my mother went through a difficult period. I took over meal preparation to ensure she ate regularly.”

Yet another layer to Zyle she hadn’t glimpsed before. Not just the powerful businessman or protective alpha, but a son who had stepped up for his family in moments of crisis.

They ate in comfortable silence, Laykin savoring both the food and the quiet companionship. When she finished, Zyle took the tray and disappeared briefly before returning with something that made her eyes widen.

“Is that chocolate cake?”

“Your favorite, according to Seren,” he confirmed, offering a generous slice. “Apparently, it’s ‘medicinal chocolate’ that aids in shifter healing.”

Laykin laughed, accepting the dessert eagerly. “Seren’s medical theories are highly suspect but delicious.”

As she enjoyed the rich chocolate, Zyle sat on the edge of the bed, his expression turning serious. “We’ve identified the bear shifters. All four belonged to a mercenary group with loose ties to the Northern Territories clan, but they weren’t acting on official clan orders.”

“I noticed their tattoos were modified,” Laykin said, setting aside her empty plate. “Traditional Northern symbols, but altered.”

Zyle’s eyebrows rose slightly, impressed. “You noticed that while bleeding out?”

“I pay attention to details,” she shrugged. “The question is who hired them. Bears don’t typically involve themselves in feline politics unless heavily compensated.”

“The survivor isn’t talking yet,” Zyle admitted. “But we’re exploring several leads. Summit security is investigating potential insider information leaks.”

“We have some council members who really opposed this treaty, including my uncle Marcello,” Laykin mused. “He believes lion-tiger alliances dilute bloodlines. He’s conservative enough to want it stopped, but I can’t imagine him resorting to violence. I mean, I’m his niece. He’s never been mean or aggressive toward me, just very set in his ways.”

“Everyone has boundaries they won’t cross,” Zyle agreed. “Until something pushes them.”

The conversation shifted to strategy and investigation plans, their minds working in complementary patterns that surprised Laykin. Where she approached problems with intuitive leaps, Zyle contributed methodical analysis. Together, they formulated theories more comprehensive than either could develop alone.

“I prepared a bath for you,” Zyle mentioned when they finally exhausted their theories. “The healing salts should help with your injuries.”

The thought of hot water easing her aching muscles made Laykin groan appreciatively. “That sounds heavenly.”

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