Page 25

"We find the use of the term 'were' offensive. It locks us into some stereotype invented by humans to keep us separate. We prefer the term shifter as in panther-shifter, wolf-shifter..."

"Well excuse me all to hell. Let's put whether or not I believe you aside for a minute. You just… what? Forgot to mention that little detail before we almost got married?"

Finn didn’t blink. "It wasn’t safe to tell you. And I never wanted to scare you. I planned to tell you before I claimed you..."

"Wait 'claim' me as in, what, suck my blood?"

"That's vampires," he explained patiently. "Shifters claim their mates, and turn them..."

"Whoa! You were going to 'turn' me into some kind of freak?"

"Not a freak Keira; a panther-shifter. You would have a longer, healthier life, more finely attuned senses and there's a freedom..."

"Stop. Can you not hear yourself? You sound deranged. First you want me to believe you can change from a man to a panther, and now you want me to embrace being like you?"

He nodded. "It’s the truth. It doesn’t have to be terrifying."

Keira stood up, pacing the length of the study. The whiskey glass shook in her hand. Her heart was beating too fast.

"Why don't I know about this? Did I inherit some monster gene from my father? Is my Uncle Cathal one of you? Was my sister secretly a panther?"

Finn rose too, slowly, coming toward her like one might approach a spooked animal. "No. You and your family are human, Keira. Through and through. If you weren't, I’d know."

"How would you know?"

He stepped closer. Close enough to touch. Close enough for her to feel the truth of what he was saying.

"Because the first time I scented you, I knew. You were mine."

The words slammed into her. Hot and direct and terrifying.

She shook her head, trying to push the fog out of her thoughts. "No. No, we are not doing the whole fated mates trope. This isn’t a fantasy novel."

He smiled sadly. "It isn’t a trope. It’s biology. It’s instinct."

Keira felt like the world had tilted off its axis, gravity pulling in the wrong direction. Her legs gave out beneath her and she dropped into the chair with a graceless thud, the whiskey glass thunking against the table. Her fingers curled tighter around the cut crystal as if it could anchor her to reality. The burn of his words hadn’t even fully registered yet—her pulse galloped, heat and disbelief crawling up her throat. Her breath came in shallow gulps, heart pounding like it was trying to outrun what she’d just heard.

Finn crouched beside her, his hand reaching for hers with a quiet, steady intent. She let him take it—partly because she didn’t have the strength to pull away, but also because some small, fractured part of her needed the connection. Her fingers were cold, stiff, but they curled around his instinctively, the warmth of his palm grounding her even as her mind reeled. A hollow ache opened in her chest, raw and painful, too tangled in shock to name. She didn’t know what she believed—but in that moment, she didn’t want to be alone with it.

"You’re not crazy," he said gently. "And neither am I. You’re not broken. You’re the only person who’s ever made me feel like more than just a weapon."

Her throat worked, trying to swallow down the swell of emotion rising like a tide. Her eyes burned, not from the whiskey or the firelight, but from the sharp sting of feelings she hadn’t let herself acknowledge. His hand in hers radiated heat—steady, grounding, and yet so overwhelming it made her want to bolt. It tethered her to the moment, even as her instinct screamed to run from the truth settling over her like a weighted shroud.

"Finn..."

He leaned in, close enough that his breath fanned over her lips—warm, whiskey-laced, and tinged with the primal scent of the forest still clinging to his skin. The heat of his nearness prickled across her cheeks and down her throat, her breath stalling as something tight and trembling took root deep in her belly.

"You feel it too. You always have."

Then he kissed her. Not soft. Not sweet. It was fire and hunger, the kind of kiss that bruised and branded, tongue and teeth sliding over lips that trembled from more than just surprise. His hands cupped her jaw, fingers splayed against her cheeks like he was afraid she might disappear if he let go.

The taste of whiskey lingered between them, sharp and smoky, and Keira gasped into his mouth as heat unfurled low in her belly, liquid and urgent. Her whole body arched into him like it remembered something her mind wasn’t ready to accept. Her fingers clawed into his shoulders, desperate and possessive, grounding herself in the sheer physicality of him—the hard planes of muscle, the raw male heat of his skin, the silent vow buried in the pressure of his lips.

She kissed him back like she was drowning in him—hungry, desperate, her body moving instinctively, seeking heat and grounding. His lips were fire against hers, and the taste of him—whiskey, wildness, the lingering smoke of something feral—ignited a slow, aching heat low in her belly. Her heart pounded like it wanted to tear free from her ribs, and her breath hitched with every brush of his tongue, every pull of his mouth.

The kiss deepened, darkened, turned into something raw and consuming. Her fingers twisted in his shirt, knuckles white, anchoring herself as much as claiming him. Every breath between them was friction, every moan a confession she wasn't ready to say out loud. This was no gentle remembering—it was a violent reminder of what they’d been, what they still were, andwhat might burn them alive again. A promise. A challenge. A whispered scream for more.

She tore away, breath ragged, eyes wide and wild—shining with emotion she couldn’t name, heart slamming in her chest like it had broken free.