Page 62 of Claws and Effect

“All this time...” He struggled to articulate the enormity of it.

“All this time you were finding your way back to where you belonged.” Frances reached into her pocket, pulling out a small velvet box. “Your father knew. He said you’d find each other eventually, our prides joining or not.”

She placed the box in his palm. Zyle opened it to reveal his grandmother’s mating band—a platinum ring set with a rare blue diamond. Light caught in its facets, scattering prisms across the room. This wasn’t just any family heirloom; this was the ring given only to true mates.

“Your father wanted you to have this when the time came.” Frances touched his arm gently. “That time is now.”

Zyle closed his fingers around the box, a rush of clarity washing over him. Every protective instinct, every moment of irrational jealousy, every instance where his tiger hadthreatened to tear through his skin to get to her—all of it made perfect sense now.

A memory surfaced—Laykin touching the bracelet he’d chosen as an engagement gift whenever she grew stressed or anxious. At the time, he’d thought nothing of it. Now he recognized it for what it truly was: seeking comfort in something connected to him, her true mate.

Something warm and fierce bloomed in his chest—not the possessive satisfaction of his tiger, but something deeper, almost painful in its intensity. Laykin wasn’t just a convenient political match who happened to spark something in him. She was his, had always been his, would always be his—across time and circumstance as his father had written.

The room’s stillness shattered with the sharp ring of his phone. Laykin’s name flashed on the screen. Zyle answered immediately, smiling at the sound of her voice?—

But instead of her usual composed tone, her voice came through fractured and desperate, breath coming in short gasps. “Zyle! We were on our way to the assembly—we’re under attack!”

His blood froze in his veins. In the background, he heard shouting, the unmistakable pop of gunfire.

“Laykin!” Her name tore from his throat. “Where are you? What’s happening?”

“Marcello—he’s—” Her words cut off with a cry of pain that sliced through Zyle like a physical blow.

“Laykin!”

Only static answered him.

Red clouded his vision, his tiger clawing to the surface with a fury that threatened to tear him apart. The velvet box dug into his palm as his fingers clenched around it. Without conscious thought, he shoved it into his pocket and grabbed his father’s journal, tucking it inside his jacket.

“Zyle?” His mother’s voice seemed to come from a great distance. “What’s happened?”

“Laykin’s in danger.” The words emerged as a growl, barely human. “Marcello.”

Understanding darkened Frances’s eyes. “Go. I’ll alert the pride guards.”

Zyle didn’t wait for more. He sprinted through the mansion, bursting through the front doors and launching himself into his car. The engine roared to life, tires squealing against pavement as he accelerated down the winding driveway onto the mountain road.

His phone sat uselessly beside him as he called Holden repeatedly, each unanswered ring increasing the pressure in his chest. The speedometer climbed as he pushed the car to its limits, taking mountain curves at speeds that defied safety.

Marcello. That name thundered through Zyle’s mind in time with his racing pulse. If that scheming, bitter old man had harmed a single hair on Laykin’s head?—

The steering wheel creaked under his grip, tiger strength threatening to snap it in half. His claws extended involuntarily, piercing the leather covering as rage and fear battled for dominance in his veins.

He’d kill him. With his bare hands. Anyone who dared touch what was his would pay with their life, pride politics be damned. The covenant, the alliance, his carefully cultivated business persona—none of it mattered against the primal need to protect his mate.

Sunlight flickered through trees as he took another curve too fast, the car drifting slightly before regaining traction. The mountain road stretched before him, each mile a test of his control, each second a lifetime of possibility and dread.

The velvet box pressed against his thigh, his father’s journal on the seat next to him—twin reminders of the destiny he nowfought to protect. Not just a political arrangement, not just a convenient alliance that had grown into something deeper—but a connection written in their stars since he was a child growling protectively over an infant princess.

“Hold on, my mate,” he growled, the words emerging as both prayer and promise. “I’m coming.”

FIFTY

Laykin drummed her fingers against her thigh, glancing at her watch for the third time in as many minutes. The countryside blurred past the tinted windows of the armored SUV as Holden navigated the winding mountain roads toward Summit Palace. The convoy moved with precision—two security vehicles ahead, two behind, a protective cocoon of steel and trained shifters.

“He’ll meet us there,” Holden said, catching her restless movement in the rearview mirror. “You know nothing keeps Zyle from being exactly where he intends to be.”

“I know.” Laykin smoothed her hand over the leather portfolio containing her copy of the covenant. “I’m just curious what his mother wanted to tell him, that’s all.”

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