Page 50 of Claws and Effect

“I do,” she whispered, the truth of it settling into her bones like certainty. “I really do.”

“Good,” Frances said, satisfaction evident in her tone. “He deserves someone who sees all of him, not just the parts he shows the world.”

After ending the call, Laykin stood motionless in the kitchen, the weight of her admission washing over her. She loved him—not the political match, not the convenient alliance, but the complex man with all his layers and contradictions. The man who pretended to be made of stone but treasured poetry and action movies with equal passion.

The realization should have terrified her. Instead, it filled her with a fierce determination. Tonight, she would show him exactly what he meant to her even if she couldn’t yet say the words aloud.

THIRTY-SEVEN

By mid-afternoon, the kitchen resembled a war zone. Flour dusted every surface, dishes filled the sink, and Laykin’s hair had acquired a fine white coating despite her attempts to keep it tied back. She sampled a biscuit, frowning at its leaden texture.

“I’ve negotiated peace treaties between feuding wolf packs,” she muttered, dumping the batch and starting over. “I can manage fried chicken.”

Three burnt attempts and one minor oil fire later, success emerged in the form of golden-brown chicken and perfectly flaky biscuits. Laykin triumphantly packed everything into an insulated basket, then raced upstairs to execute the final phase of her plan.

She transformed their bedroom into a cozy haven—picnic blanket spread across the bed, salted caramel chocolates artfully arranged on the nightstand, and Zyle’s secret collection of action movies prominently displayed. After a quick shower that finally banished the lingering scent of flour, she changed into the silk pajamas Seren had smuggled in as “essential supplies,” then waited for his return.

The security system alerted her when Zyle’s car approached. She heard his footsteps on the stairs, following the scent of fried chicken to their bedroom. He stopped in the doorway, briefcase still in hand, taking in the transformed space with uncharacteristic stillness.

“What is this?” he asked, his voice soft with wonder.

“I believe humans call it ‘movie night,’“ Laykin replied, patting the space beside her. “I thought the mighty tiger might enjoy a break from strategy and security protocols.”

For a moment, he remained frozen in place, his expression unreadable. Then something shifted in his posture—the corporate titan giving way to the man beneath as he set down his briefcase and removed his tie.

“Your mother may have provided intelligence support,” Laykin admitted. “She mentioned you’ve seen Die Hard seventeen times but still watch it like it’s the first.”

“John McClane is an underappreciated tactical genius,” Zyle said with unexpected solemnity as he unbuttoned his shirt cuffs.

Laykin laughed, relief washing through her as he accepted her surprise. “A man after my own heart. Now sit down before the food gets cold. Do you know how many biscuits I burned to get these right?”

As they settled onto the bed, Laykin tucked herself against his side, relishing the way his arm automatically curved around her shoulders. This casual intimacy—his body relaxed against hers, sharing food from the same plate—felt more significant than any formal ceremony.

“I never pictured the fearsome Zyle Rubin yelling at movie characters,” she teased, delighting in the way his eyes crinkled at the corners when he smiled. “Especially with honey biscuit crumbs on his chest.”

“This information doesn’t leave this room,” he warned, though the effect was somewhat undermined by the touch of honey at the corner of his mouth.

Laykin reached up to wipe it away with her thumb, then impulsively leaned forward to kiss the spot. “Your secret’s safe with me.”

His eyes darkened at her touch, his hand coming up to cradle the back of her neck as he returned the kiss with an intensity that stole her breath. When they parted, his forehead rested against hers, their breathing synchronized in the small space between them.

“No one’s ever done something like this for me,” he admitted, the words barely audible. “Seen these parts of me. Wanted to see them.”

“I want to know all your parts,” Laykin replied, her hands framing his face. “Not just the CEO or the alpha, but the man who loves action movies and poetry and organizes his closet by color.”

Something vulnerable flickered in his eyes. “Why?”

The simple question held worlds of meaning. Why invest in knowing him beyond what duty required? Why seek the man behind the mask when the arrangement demanded nothing more than political alliance?

Because I love you, she thought but couldn’t yet say. Instead, she showed him, pressing her lips to his with all the emotion building inside her chest.

As the movie played forgotten in the background, Laykin guided Zyle’s hands to her waist, inviting him to touch her as she’d sensed he wanted to. His restraint—always so careful, so controlled—melted beneath her encouragement, his palms sliding beneath her silk top with reverent hunger.

“Last time you escaped with some excuse about tea,” she murmured against his mouth. “I’m not letting you get away this time.”

“I thought you needed more time to heal,” he confessed, his voice rough as she unbuttoned his shirt.

Laykin sat back, holding his gaze as she deliberately pulled her top over her head. “My injuries are fully healed, and I’ve run out of patience with your noble restraint.”

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