Page 42 of Claws and Effect

The silence between them stretched comfortably. For a man who spent his days drowning in corporate jargon and political maneuvering, the quiet struck him as startlingly honest.

“Tell me about growing up as the tiger prince,” she prompted, stealing a piece of melon from his plate. “Were you born wearing a tiny power suit?”

“According to my mother, I emerged from the womb with a five-year strategic plan.” His lips quirked upward. “Malachi compensated by having enough fun for both of us.”

“The charming chaos to your regimented order?”

“The hurricane to my carefully constructed harbor.”

He found himself recounting stories rarely shared—his first shift at twelve, two years earlier than average; training sessions with his father where combat practice doubled as business lessons; the weight that settled on his shoulders when his father’s unexpected death thrust him into leadership.

Laykin listened. Not with the calculated assessment of business associates. Not with the pitying sympathy of those who saw only tragedy. She listened with the understanding of someone who carried her own burdens of duty and expectation.

His tiger stretched contentedly beneath his skin, more relaxed in her presence than he could remember feeling in years.

“Enough reminiscing,” he said finally. “We have work to do.”

Zyle led Laykin to his home office.

“Welcome to the war room.”

Zyle stepped aside as Laykin entered his transformed home office. Multiple screens lined the walls, displaying satellite imagery, financial records, and surveillance footage. A central table held physical evidence from the attacks—photos, recovered weapons, and detailed reports.

“Impressed or terrified?” he asked as her eyes widened.

“Both.” She immediately gravitated toward the photos of the bear shifters’ modified tattoos. “These aren’t standard Northern Territory markings.”

“No.” He tapped commands into his tablet, bringing up enhanced images. “The base designs match historical records, but the alterations are significant.”

THIRTY

Without warning, Laykin began rearranging his meticulously organized evidence wall, creating connections with pushpins and string that followed no system he could decipher. Horror crawled up his spine as hours of methodical work dissolved into chaos.

“What are you doing?” The words emerged more strangled than intended.

“Finding patterns.” She didn’t pause, moving his carefully categorized photos into bewildering new groupings. “Your system is too linear. The attacks weren’t planned by someone who thinks in spreadsheets.”

His tiger bristled beneath his skin. “How can you possibly find anything in this hurricane?”

“The same way I spot that twitch in your left eye you’re trying to control right now.” She glanced at him, amusement dancing in her expression. “Not everything conforms to your color-coded worldview, Tiger Boy.”

The nickname should have irritated him. Instead, it burrowed under his skin like a splinter of warmth. His tiger growled at the challenge to his authority, but his strategic mind recognized the value in her alternative approach.

“Explain your reasoning,” he requested, moving beside her to study the chaotic arrangement.

For the next hour, Laykin walked him through connections his orderly mind had overlooked—symbolic meanings hidden in the modified tattoos, timing patterns in the attacks, geographical distributions that suggested coordination beyond random mercenaries.

“The tattoo alterations represent an ancient ideology centered on bloodline purity,” she explained, pointing to subtle marks around the traditional bear clan symbols. “Dating back to pre-modern shifter society when species intermingling was taboo.”

Understanding clicked into place. “A fringe movement opposing tiger-lion alliances.”

“Exactly.” Her eyes lit with the thrill of discovery. “But these mercenaries are hired muscle, not ideological zealots. Someone with resources and political motivation is pulling strings.”

Zyle turned to his financial data, pulling up transfer records. “These council members all publicly opposed our treaty,” he highlighted several names, including Laykin’s uncle Marcello, “but most lack the financial resources or connections to coordinate professional hits.”

He zoomed in on transaction records. “This account has been making regular payments to a security firm with documented ties to the mercenary group that attacked you.”

Their eyes met across the table, the shared intellectual breakthrough charging the air between them.

---