Page 49 of Claws and Effect

Each small reaction—the softening around his eyes, the gentle way he handled her gifts—told her more than words ever could. This man, who commanded empires with iron control, treasured simple acts of thoughtfulness as if they were precious beyond measure.

And perhaps, to someone who had spent a lifetime putting duty before personal happiness, they were.

As evening approached,a special courier arrived with the carefully packaged poetry volume. Laykin signed for it personally, excitement bubbling through her as she unwrapped the protective layers to reveal the pristine first edition of “North of Boston.”

She waited for Zyle in the library, the book hidden behind her back. When he appeared in the doorway, tie loosened after hours of phone calls, his expression immediately brightened at the sight of her.

“Rough day?” she asked, noticing the tension in his shoulders.

“Better now,” he replied, crossing to press a kiss to her forehead. “Thank you for the coffee. And the chocolates. And the shirt.”

“You’re welcome.” Laykin wrapped her free arm around his waist, leaning into his solid warmth for a moment before stepping back. “But I saved the best for last.”

His eyebrow arched in question.

With a small flourish, she presented the poetry volume, watching as recognition dawned in his eyes.

“How did you know?” he asked quietly, fingers reverently tracing the embossed leather cover.

“I pay attention,” she echoed his words from days earlier. “Even tigers deserve beautiful things that serve no practical purpose.”

For a heartbeat, his public mask dropped completely, revealing such naked vulnerability that Laykin’s breath caught in her throat. Before she could speak, he pulled her into his arms, burying his face in the curve of her neck. She held him tightly, understanding that this gift had penetrated defenses built over decades.

“Thank you,” he murmured against her skin, the words vibrating through her body.

Laykin ran her fingers through his hair, savoring the way he relaxed into her touch. She’d seen glimpses of this Zyle before—the man beneath the armor—but each time he surrendered another piece of himself to her felt like a profound gift.

When he finally pulled back, his eyes held an expression she’d never seen from him—a mixture of wonder and something deeper, something that made her heart race with both hope and terror.

“You continually surprise me, Princess,” he said, voice rough with emotion.

“Good.” She brushed her lips against his. “Keeps tigers on their toes.”

THIRTY-SIX

The next morning over breakfast, Zyle mentioned needing to handle additional business downtown.

“Take your time,” Laykin said, already formulating her grandest plan yet. The moment his car disappeared, she dialed Frances Rubin.

“Good morning, dear,” Frances answered warmly. “How’s my impossible son treating you?”

“Wonderfully,” Laykin admitted, a smile in her voice. “Actually, I need your expertise. Would you happen to have the recipe for buttermilk fried chicken and honey biscuits?”

Silence greeted her request, then a soft intake of breath. “He told you about those?”

“Not exactly,” Laykin said. “Let’s just say I have my sources.”

“He hasn’t had them since his father’s last birthday.” Frances’s voice grew tender with memory. “It’s about time someone made them for him again.”

“I want to surprise him tonight,” Laykin explained. “Something special, just for us.”

“The key is soaking the chicken overnight, but since you’re on a deadline...” Frances launched into a modified recipe, her excitement palpable through the phone. “The secret to thebiscuits is freezing the butter before grating it into the flour. And don’t overmix!”

“Thank you,” Laykin said sincerely. “This means a lot to me—to both of us.”

“You love him, don’t you?” Frances asked suddenly, her perceptiveness catching Laykin off guard.

The question hung in the air, voicing what Laykin had barely admitted to herself. Did she love Zyle Rubin—the arranged mate who had somehow become essential to her happiness?

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