Page 68 of Claws and Effect

Ultimately, the outcome was inevitable. Marcello fought with the desperation of a cornered animal, but Zyle fought with the cold precision of an executioner and a mate. The tiger’s jaws closed around the lion’s throat, powerful enough to crush the life from him in an instant.

Marcello’s struggles weakened, then ceased altogether. Zyle released him, the lion’s body crumpling to the floor in a heap of golden fur. The tiger stood over his fallen enemy, sides heaving with exertion, silver eyes still burning with battle rage.

“Zyle,” Laykin called softly, stepping into the devastated room.

The tiger’s head snapped toward her, recognition tempering the wildness in his gaze. His massive form blurred, shifting back to human with fluid grace that belied the serious injuries evident as the transformation completed.

Zyle stood naked and bloodied among the wreckage, chest heaving, eyes finding Laykin’s across the destruction. Without a word, he crossed to her, hands framing her face with impossible gentleness given what he’d just done.

“You’re safe,” he whispered as if reassuring himself.

“I’m safe,” she confirmed, leaning into his touch despite the blood on his hands—her uncle’s blood, now cooling on the marble floor behind them.

His gaze dropped to her injured shoulder, rage rekindling. “Medical wing. Now.”

This time, Laykin didn’t argue as he swept her into his arms, carrying her through the stunned palace staff who had begun to gather at the commotion. Their whispers followed—speculationabout the princess’s return, about the dead councilor, about the tiger who had defended lion territory as his own.

“You need treatment too,” Laykin murmured against his neck, noting the deep gashes across his torso that continued to bleed.

“Later.” His arms tightened around her, mindful of her injuries despite his urgency.

“Stubborn tiger,” she chided softly, her hand resting over his heart.

Zyle’s answer rumbled through his chest, a sound halfway between growl and purr. “Your stubborn tiger, Princess. As it seems, I’ve always been.”

The medical wing doors swung open before them, healers rushing forward at the sight of the bloodied pair. Laykin closed her eyes, allowing herself a moment of weakness now that the danger had passed. The paper was signed. Her uncle’s betrayal ended. Her parents safe.

And Zyle—her arranged mate, her destined partner, her fierce protector—held her as if she were the most precious thing in his world.

FIFTY-FOUR

Laykin stood before the full-length mirror in the medical suite, examining her reflection with critical eyes. Three days of intensive care had worked wonders—only faint pink lines remained where deep gashes had marred her shoulder and side. By tomorrow, even those would fade completely, leaving her skin unmarked as if the attack had never happened.

The doctors had finally cleared her to leave, much to her relief. Three days confined to a hospital bed—even one fit for royalty—had tested her patience more thoroughly than any diplomatic negotiation.

A soft knock on the doorframe drew her attention. Zyle leaned against it, arms crossed over his chest, watching her with that intense gaze that still sent shivers across her skin.

“Ready to escape?” he asked, the corner of his mouth quirking upward.

“Beyond ready.” Laykin turned from the mirror, crossing to where her packed bag sat on the bed. When she reached for it, Zyle was already there, slipping the strap over his shoulder before she could protest.

“I can carry my own bag,” she pointed out, though without much conviction.

“I know, but why should you when I’m here?”

Such a simple statement, yet it encapsulated the shift in their relationship over these chaotic weeks.When I’m here. As if his presence at her side was a given, a constant she could rely on without question.

“Your security detail is waiting at the south entrance,” Zyle informed her. “Holden coordinated with the pride guards to establish a clear route home.”

Home. The word resonated within her chest. Not the palace where she’d grown up, but Zyle’s mountain estate—their estate now. The space they would share as mates, officially and in truth.

“How are your injuries?” Laykin asked. His wounds had been more severe than hers—Marcello’s claws had cut deep during their battle.

“Healing,” he replied dismissively. “Nothing that requires concern.”

She raised an eyebrow, unconvinced. “Says the man who refused to leave my bedside for thirty-six hours straight.”

“That was different.”

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