Page 6 of A Gathering Storm (Tides of Fate)

KIAN

The North Atlantic hits like ice-water needles against exposed skin, but I barely feel it anymore.

Sixty feet down in the blackness off the wreck-dive cliffs, the cold becomes background noise—same as the pressure crushing against eardrums, same as the burn in lungs that can hold air longer than any human diver would believe possible.

My tiger's vision cuts through the murk where flashlights would be useless.

The merchant vessel Siren's Call rests on her side against the cliff base, her hull split open like a gutted fish.

Three years she's been down here, officially lost to a winter storm.

Unofficially, she's become the drop point for cargo that can't move through normal channels—my personal bank vault when I need quick money and don't mind the risk.

The waterproof case sits exactly where my contact said it would be, wedged between twisted metal beams in what used to be the captain's quarters.

High-grade pharmaceuticals, vacuum-sealed and worth more than most islanders see in a lifetime.

Payment for diving where others won't, for retrieving what others can't, for asking no questions about where it came from or where it's going.

I secure the case to my dive harness and kick toward the surface, following the cliff face up through layers of current that would slam an inexperienced diver into the rocks.

But I learned these waters the hard way—bleeding and half-drowned my first year here, too proud to ask for help, too damaged from Ireland to trust anyone's guidance but my own.

Breaking the surface, I gulp air that tastes of salt and coming rain. The cliffs loom above me, all sharp edges and crumbling handholds that have killed more than a few climbers over the years. But my tiger knows stone the way he knows water—every grip tested, every surface evaluated for stability.

I haul myself onto the lowest ledge, seawater streaming from my wetsuit, the case heavy against my back. The ascent is mechanical, methodical. Hand over hand, finding holds in cracks barely wide enough for fingertips, my tiger's strength making easy work of what would destroy a human climber.

Halfway up, the wind turns.

Wolf. Bear. Fresh scents cutting through brine and kelp.

They're already here, waiting above like self-appointed judges.

My tiger bristles beneath my skin, not quite threatened but nowhere near relaxed.

I could drop back into the water, disappear into the maze of underwater caves I've mapped over three years of diving.

But the case on my back represents two months' worth of expenses, and I'm not in the mood to explain to my buyers why their merchandise is sitting on the ocean floor.

I continue climbing, deliberate now, making enough noise that they know I know they're there. No point pretending surprise when we can all smell each other's intentions from fifty yards away.

The cliff top is exactly what I expected—Declan MacRae standing like some weathered monument to duty, Grayson Gunn beside him looking like he'd rather be anywhere else.

The alpha wolf's storm-grey eyes fix on the waterproof case with the kind of disapproval that probably works on his pack but slides right off me.

"Playing salvage diver again, O'Donnell?" His voice carries that particular tone of authority that makes my tiger want to bare teeth just for the principle of it.

I set the case down with deliberate slowness, taking my time, making him wait. Water drips from my hair as I straighten, amber eyes bright with the mockery that's kept me alive through worse confrontations than this.

"Last I checked, the ocean doesn't belong to wolves—or their pet bears." I let my gaze slide to Grayson, whose massive frame tenses at the dig. "I work alone."

"That cargo finances the cartels pressuring our borders." Grayson steps forward, all that bear solidity making the ground seem less stable. "You're feeding the threat."

The accusation hangs between us like kelp in current. They're not wrong—I know exactly where this shipment goes, who profits from it, what kind of blood money it represents. But caring about that is a luxury I gave up in Ireland, along with concepts like loyalty and greater good.

"Your noble cause isn't my problem." My tattoos seem to come alive as I roll my shoulders, letting them see the tiger stirring beneath ink and skin. "I survived Ireland's clan wars by staying out of other people's fights."

MacRae opens his mouth—probably to deliver some speech about community responsibility or the price of standing alone—but the crack of automatic weapons cuts him off.

Three men emerge from concealment behind the rocks, assault rifles trained on us with the kind of steady aim that speaks of experience. My tiger recognizes the leader before my human brain catches up—Miguel Santos, mid-level cartel enforcer with a reputation for making problems disappear.

"That merchandise belongs to us, tiger boy." His accent carries mainland Mexico filtered through too many years in California. The rifle doesn't waver as he gestures at the case. "Step away from it. Slowly."

The sarcasm dies in my throat as I process what's happening.

Santos doesn't usually handle pickups personally—he has people for that.

Which means this isn't about the pharmaceuticals.

It's about something else, something that brings a cartel enforcer out to the ass-end of nowhere to ambush a shifter who's always delivered on time.

My contact sold me out. Set me up. The realization burns worse than the North Atlantic cold.

Santos smiles, all gold teeth and anticipation. "You know what tiger blood goes for in certain markets? What your bones could fetch ground up for some rich pendejo's virility powder?"

The other two spread out, flanking positions that cut off escape routes. Professional. Prepared. They know what I am, came ready for it, probably have silver-core ammunition that'll punch through shifter healing like tissue paper.

Time slows the way it does when violence becomes inevitable. I can smell MacRae's wolf rising, feel Grayson's bear awakening to threat. They could leave—this isn't their fight, their cargo, their mistake in trusting the wrong contact. But something in their stillness says they won't.

The tiger doesn't wait for conscious decision.

He explodes from skin in a rush of fury that tears through my wetsuit, launches me at the nearest gunman before his finger can tighten on the trigger.

My claws find the gap between Kevlar plates, opening his throat in a spray that paints the rocks crimson.

Automatic fire erupts, bullets sparking off stone where I was a heartbeat ago. But MacRae's already moving, his wolf form massive and grey-black in the twilight, jaws crushing the second gunman's shooting arm before he can track my movement.

Grayson doesn't shift—doesn't need to. He simply steps inside Santos's rifle arc and drives one massive fist through the man's sternum, the crack of breaking ribs lost under the cartel leader's truncated scream.

It's over in seconds. Three bodies cooling on clifftop stone, blood running in rivulets toward the sea. The pharmaceuticals case sits untouched, absurdly clean amid the carnage.

I shift back, naked now except for blood that's not mine, breathing hard as the killing fury slowly drains away.

MacRae returns to human form with that fluid grace all wolves seem to have, surveying the scene with grim satisfaction.

Grayson just wipes his hands on his jeans, looking vaguely annoyed at the mess.

"Santos had connections," I say, because someone has to acknowledge what just happened. "His crew won't let this go unanswered."

"Then they'll find more than they bargained for." MacRae's eyes find mine, something stirring in their storm-grey depths. Not quite approval, but maybe a reassessment. "You fought with us."

The observation hangs there, waiting for explanation. I could tell him it was pure instinct, that the tiger reacted to threat without consulting me. Could pretend it meant nothing, just survival reflex and coincidence.

Instead, I meet his gaze straight on. "Fine. I'm in."

His eyebrows rise slightly—he wasn't expecting capitulation.

"But don't mistake survival for loyalty, MacRae. I still don't trust any of you."

A ghost of something that might be amusement crosses his features. "Trust is earned, O'Donnell. On all sides."

Grayson grunts, already checking the bodies for identification, phones, anything that might tell us if this was isolated or part of something larger. Professional to the end, even covered in arterial spray.

The case of pharmaceuticals sits between us like a question mark. Blood money, Grayson called it. He's not wrong. But it's also two months of dock fees, fuel for my boat, food that doesn't come from diving for shellfish when pickings are slim.

"The cargo?" I ask, not quite ready to give it up, not quite able to take it after what just happened.

"Dump it," MacRae says without hesitation. "Santos is dead. The deal's dead. Unless you want to explain to his buyers why their pickup crew is feeding the crabs."

He's right, and we both know it. The smart play is to make all of this disappear—bodies, drugs, every trace that tonight happened. But it grates, losing that much money, even if keeping it would paint a target on my back in cartel colors.

I pick up the case, walk to the cliff edge where waves crash against rocks below.

One throw, and a fortune in pharmaceutical-grade heroin disappears into the black water.

The tide will scatter it, break the packaging, dilute it to nothing.

Another fortune lost to the deep, like all the other things I've had to let go since leaving Ireland.

"We need to move the bodies," Grayson says, practical as always. "The tide pools on the north side—they'll be gone by morning."

It's grim work, hauling corpses down treacherous paths in growing darkness. But we move with shared purpose now, three predators who've killed together, even if we haven't quite decided what that makes us.

Santos's body is heaviest, dead weight made worse by Grayson's fist-sized hole in his chest. I take his feet while MacRae handles the shoulders, navigating the cliff path by tiger-sight and wolf-sense.

The irony isn't lost on me—the first time I work with Declan MacRae, we're disposing of bodies rather than making treaties.

"You knew they were coming," MacRae says as we reach the tide pools. Not an accusation—an observation.

"I knew something was off. Santos doesn't handle pickups." I help him roll the body into a deep pool where the morning tide will claim it. "Should have listened to instinct."

"But you came anyway."

"I needed the money."

He looks at me across Santos's floating corpse, something unreadable in those storm-grey eyes. "And now?"

It's a bigger question than it seems. What now, without my pharmaceutical sideline? What now, having killed cartel with the man trying to build some grand alliance? What now, when working alone just proved nearly fatal?

"Now I figure out which side of this war I'm on," I tell him, honest for once because lying to a man you've killed beside seems pointless.

"The cartels are everyone's enemy," Grayson says, dragging the second body to the pool's edge. "Human, shifter, doesn't matter. They're a plague."

Maybe he's right. Maybe there's no staying neutral when one side trades in misery and the other's trying to protect what little wildness is left in the world.

Or maybe I'm just tired of swimming alone in dark water, never knowing when the next Santos will come with silver bullets and a market price on tiger bones.

We work in silence after that, three killers hiding evidence with practiced efficiency. By the time the last body disappears into the tide pools, full dark has settled over Stormhaven. Clouds mass on the horizon, promising another storm by morning.

"There's a meeting," MacRae says as we climb back to the clifftop. "Tomorrow night, the old boathouse. The others will be there—Rafe, Jax, Finn."