Page 84 of Wolf of the Storm
Two Weeks Later
The blood on my doorstep is still warm.
Three drops in a perfect triangle. Deliberate. A message I don't want to understand.
The sea responds to my fear, waves crashing harder against the rocks below my inn. I force the magic down, tamping it beneath layers of careful control. Can't let it show. No one can know my full power.
Especially not the shifters.
"Dangerous habit, Moira. Kneeling in the dark where anyone could find you."
Rafael Vega materializes from the shadows like he was born from them. The panther-shifter moves with liquid grace, all coiled power and predatory awareness. Dark eyes assess the blood, my position, the way my hand has frozen mid-swipe.
"It's my doorstep," I say evenly, rising. "I'll kneel where I please."
His mouth curves, predatory. "Will you, now?"
The words carry weight I refuse to acknowledge. I've seen what Rafe does to people who interest him—how he circles, stalks, waits for the perfect moment to strike.
I won't be prey.
"What do you want, Vega?"
"Can't sleep." He leans against the doorframe, blocking my retreat. "Too many disappearances. Too many questions. Too many people looking for someone to blame."
Three shifters have vanished in two weeks. Everyone assumes the panther who runs the docks is responsible.
Until last night, I assumed it too.
"They're looking at you," I observe.
"They're wrong." He hasn't stopped watching me. "But you already know that, don't you?"
My heart stutters. "I don't know what you mean."
"Don't you?" He stalks closer. I hold my ground even as every instinct screams to run. "Someone marked your door, Moira. In blood. Which means you're involved whether you want to be or not."
"I'm nobody. Just an innkeeper."
"Just an innkeeper." Dark amusement threads through his voice. "Who never gets seasick. Who always knows when storms are coming. Who serves fish so fresh it's like they swam straight into your kitchen."
Fear coils low inside me.
"You're imagining things."
"Am I?" He's close enough now that I can feel his body heat. "Then explain why the water never touches you. Even in storms. Even when it should."
No one has ever noticed. No one has ever looked close enough to see the patterns.
But Rafe sees everything. It's his gift.
"You're wrong," I lie.
One hand comes up, fingers catching my chin. The touch burns. "I'm never wrong about what matters. And you matter, Moira Flynn. You matter to whoever left that blood. Which means you're going to help me find them."
"I don't help criminals."
"You will." His thumb brushes along my jaw, possessive and certain. "Because whoever's hunting on my island just made their first mistake. They involved you."
