Page 47 of Claws and Effect

“No one’s tried to make me breakfast in...” His voice dropped to a murmur against her ear. “I can’t remember how long.”

She leaned back into him, savoring his warmth, the steady beat of his heart against her spine. “Get used to it. Next time I’ll attempt toast.”

Zyle’s arms encircled her waist, pulling her closer. “I have fire extinguishers strategically placed throughout the kitchen.”

Laykin turned in his embrace, rising to press her lips to his. What began as a playful morning kiss deepened as his hands slid up her back, tangling in her hair. His scent surrounded her, familiar now in a way that felt like home.

When they finally parted, Laykin noticed the surprise in his eyes—not at the kiss, but at her casual initiation of it. As if he still couldn’t quite believe she welcomed his touch, craved it even.

She reached up to smooth his sleep-rumpled hair, letting her fingers linger against his cheek. “The coffee will burn.”

“I have more beans,” he murmured, leaning into her touch like a great cat seeking affection.

“But not more countertops,” she pointed out, nodding toward the water still spreading across the marble surface.

His laugh—that rare, rich sound she’d come to treasure—filled the kitchen as he grabbed another towel to help with the cleanup.

THIRTY-THREE

Half an hour later with breakfast salvaged by Zyle’s culinary expertise, they spread financial reports across the kitchen island. Laykin’s tablet displayed the Summit council calendar as she sipped the perfect cup of coffee Zyle had guided her to make.

She glanced up to find him watching her instead of the reports, his expression softening in a way reserved solely for these private moments. The contrast never failed to fascinate her—how the ruthless businessman transformed in her presence. His eyes, normally sharp with assessment, now held warmth that made her heart stumble mid-beat.

Laykin slid her hand across the counter to cover his, a simple touch that still seemed to surprise him every time she initiated it. “What?”

“Nothing.” He turned his hand to interlace their fingers. “Just... this.”

The gesture spoke volumes from a man whose vocabulary rarely included such admissions. Laykin squeezed his hand, understanding the magnitude of what remained unspoken between them.

With reluctance, they returned to the investigation at hand, though their fingers remained linked as they reviewed the financial data.

“The money trail keeps disappearing into shell companies,” Laykin observed, tapping one report with her free hand. “Seven different jurisdictions, then nothing.”

“Someone knows how to cover their tracks,” Zyle agreed, his thumb absently stroking the inside of her wrist in a way that made concentration increasingly difficult.

She swiped to display the council calendar. “There’s a session tomorrow at Summit. All council members will be present, including Uncle Marcello.”

“Your uncle has been vocally against the treaty,” Zyle said carefully, studying her face rather than the tablet. “But according to our investigation, he doesn’t have the financial resources to hire mercenaries of this caliber.”

“I don’t think it him.” She frowned at the screen. “Marcello’s always been traditional and stubborn, but he’s family. I can’t imagine him trying to have me killed regardless of his stance on the treaty.”

Zyle lifted their joined hands, pressing a kiss to her knuckles that somehow conveyed more support than words could express. The gesture—tender, protective, understanding—made her throat tighten with emotion.

Before she could respond, his phone buzzed with an incoming message. His expression darkened as he read the screen.

“Emergency at the downtown office. Tokyo acquisition hit regulatory issues.”

“Go,” she urged, leaning across the island to brush her lips against his cheek. “I have some research to do here anyway.”

She watched the transformation—both fascinated and a little saddened by it. His shoulders squared, jaw firming as hementally donned the armor of Zyle Rubin, CEO. Within twenty minutes, he stood before her in a perfectly tailored suit, every element of the man who’d laughed in his kitchen now hidden behind an impeccable façade.

Almost every element.

When he bent to kiss her good-bye, his lips lingered against hers longer than necessary, his hand cupping her face with a gentleness that belied his formal appearance.

“I’ll be back for dinner,” he promised, thumb brushing her lower lip in a caress that sent heat spiraling through her body.

“I’ll be here,” she replied, her voice embarrassingly husky.

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