Page 22

When he gestured toward the primary bedroom, Keira planted her feet.

"Seriously? The primary suite? You expect me to sleep in what is very obviously your bedroom? What happened to the guest rooms? Surely a house this big has some."

Finn arched an eyebrow. "It does. I just like the idea of you in my bed—even if I’m not in it with you. The space suits you."

"You do realize that forced proximity and kidnapped mafia princesses are, like, the most overused tropes in existence, right? Should I expect the storm and the secret baby next?"

Finn chuckled, enjoying her light-hearted banter. "Should I be insulted you think I’m that predictable?"

"Oh, please. You’re practically a walking plot device. Brooding alpha with commitment issues? Classic."

Finn’s mouth twitched. "I’ve missed that smart mouth."

"Don’t get used to it. And don’t think for a second I’m not locking that door."

"Wouldn’t expect anything less."

She huffed and stalked off to the bath, her muttering trailing behind her.

Finn waited a beat longer, listening to the low click of the door locking behind her before turning away. He descended the staircase with smooth precision, each step sure and measured across the wide treads in the hush of early afternoon.

Dinner was simple but satisfying—roasted chicken, potatoes, and a dark leafy salad served with a good bottle of wine. Finn had insisted they eat in the smaller dining room off the kitchen, the one with the stone hearth and a view of the sea just beyond the bay windows. They didn’t talk much, but it wasn’t the same sharp-edged silence from before. It was easier. Companionable. Like an old rhythm still buried under the ruins of what they used to be.

Keira had picked at her food more than eaten it, eyes shadowed with thought. She excused herself early, mumbling something about exhaustion. Finn didn’t press. He watched her go, her steps slow but determined as she made her way up the stairs.

He couldn’t see her, but he could feel the hesitation in the silence that followed. Then the soft creak of the door opening, the whisper of her slipping through, and finally, the firm click of the lock sliding into place, like a final line drawn between them..

That sound echoed down the hall, sharp and final.

He closed his eyes. He could picture her clearly—leaning back against the door, breathing out the day, letting it crush her for a moment now that no one could see. He’d lit the fire before she returned, knowing the room would be cold otherwise. The flames would be dancing now, casting warm light across her skin as she undressed in silence.

He swallowed hard, the image of her slipping out of her clothes branded behind his eyes. Slow, methodical. Not sensual—just tired. Worn down to the bone. She wouldn’t cry. Not Keira. But he knew that kind of quiet. Knew what it cost to carry that much alone.

She’d slide into the bed like it was the only place she could keep breathing. Outside, the ocean whispered to the cliffs—steady and indifferent, like time itself.

Sleep wouldn’t come easy for her. He knew. Because it wouldn’t come easy for him either.

The house had long since gone quiet, the hum of the evening settling into the bones of the place. He crossed the main floor without turning on a single light, navigating by memory and moonlight slanting through the tall windows. In his study, the fire in the hearth had burned down to embers, casting low golden flickers across the old oak desk. He sat, activated the secure line, and keyed in his codes to check for updates from his men. Just because they were away from Boston didn’t mean the threat had vanished.

Leaving his phone on the kitchen counter, Finn strode out the back door, the screen clicking shut behind him. The air was cold, clean, and thick with pine. He crossed the wide stretchof yard, boots moving across the lush lawn, and didn’t begin stripping until the tree line swallowed him whole. Inside the cover of the woods, he pulled his shirt over his head, removed the rest of his clothes, exhaled, and let the wildness rise.

The change came fast. A sudden, twisting rush in his core—hot, familiar, and unrelenting. Finn welcomed it. The raw power surged inside him, like a muscle stretched too long finally snapping back into place. Bones didn’t crack—they liquified and reformed. Skin prickled as fur pushed through. His vision narrowed, sharpening to slits of moonlit clarity. The air buzzed across his nerves like static, and his pulse surged with primal certainty.

A swirl of mist surged up from the ground, curling and thickening until it wrapped him in an electric cocoon. Finn felt the temperature drop, his skin tingling as the energy coursed through him, humming beneath the surface like a storm ready to break. Thunder cracked with the mist—sharp, immediate, and close. The scent of loam and ozone filled his nose, heady and wild. In that moment, the world narrowed to sensation: the tension in his muscles, the static dancing along his spine, the flash of light behind his closed eyes.

Then, as quickly as it came, the mist began to recede, falling away to reveal the lithe, powerful form of a black panther crouched in its place. Finn breathed in deeply through his snout. The air tasted alive. Wild. Free. He surged forward on four paws, claws silent over damp pine needles, every motion sleek and purposeful.

His panther form stretched luxuriously, every movement fluid, silent. The world snapped into sharp relief—sound and scent and movement heightened to something almost otherworldly. He bounded through the forest. Fast. Hard. Trees whipped past in a blur. The earth pulsed beneath his paws,steady and grounding—an old, familiar rhythm that settled something deep inside him. This was freedom. This was power.

A scent on the wind—wrong. Copper. Sweat. Metal. The brush of voices.

He veered toward the beach, low and fast, his body hugging the terrain with a predator’s grace. The brush thinned and the dark expanse of the shoreline spread before him. There—two figures hunched near the surf, dragging equipment from a bobbing Zodiac raft. One had a rifle slung across his back, the other hauled what looked like a heavy satchel lined with wires and metal tubing. Smugglers? Saboteurs? His muscles tensed.

As Finn crept closer, the wind carried their voices—low, urgent, in an accent he didn’t recognize. He caught the flash of a blade, a glint of something metallic passed between them. They weren’t amateurs. These were professionals, armed and precise. One turned, eyes sweeping the tree line, and suddenly froze. His mouth opened in a curse. He raised a pistol and took aim.

Too late. Instinct surged through Finn—feral, unfiltered, and deadly. In this form, there were no words, only raw awareness. His vision tunneled on the target, every muscle tuned to act. Danger. Intrusion. Defend. The scent of blood stoked the furnace in his chest, hot and primal. No hesitation. No mercy. His pulse beat not in his ears but in his bones. Protect. Eliminate threat. Guard the den. Nothing else mattered.

He exploded from the tree line, a blur of muscle and fury. The gun fired—a hot crack that missed wide. Finn launched, claws out, fangs bared, and hit the first man square in the chest. The scream didn’t last long. One brutal swipe shattered bone and sent the man sprawling. A second man bolted for the raft. The first, bleeding and gasping, managed to crawl to the boat. The second intruder pulled the first into the boat. The man collapsed, unconscious, trailing his bloodied limb in the surf.