Page 12 of Claws and Effect (Paranormal Dating Agency #87)
ELEVEN
A strong arm caught her around the waist, pulling her firmly against a solid chest while another hand stabilized the waiter’s tray. The movement happened so quickly that the glasses barely rattled.
The scent hit her first—pine and snow with an underlying note of something wild and distinctly feline. Laykin’s body responded before her mind could process what was happening, her skin heating where his hand gripped her waist. Her lioness, who had been sulking since meeting the younger Rubin, suddenly sprang to attention, clawing at her insides with desperate need.
Him. MATE.
Her gaze traveled upward, past the immaculately tailored suit jacket to broad shoulders, a strong jaw, and finally—locking with deep brown eyes rimmed with unmistakable silver. The emerald of her gown seemed to intensify those silver rims as they stared at each other, neither willing to break the connection.
Time stopped. The ballroom faded away—the music, the conversations, the political machinations—all of it disappeared. There was only this man, this tiger, his arm still firmly around her waist, his scent enveloping her, his eyes burning into hers with an intensity that stole her breath.
“Careful,” he said, his voice a deep rumble that vibrated through her entire body. “These marble floors can be treacherous.”
Heat pooled low in her abdomen at the sound. Her lioness purred and pressed against her skin, desperate to get closer to him. Laykin struggled to form coherent thoughts as recognition, confusion, and raw desire battled for dominance.
This is him. My rescuer. But why is he here?
Before she could speak, a familiar voice shattered the moment.
“There you are, Zyle!” The younger Rubin approached with a relieved smile. “I tried entertaining your fiancée until you arrived, but I think I bored her to tears. She’s all yours now, brother.”
Brother.
Zyle.
The pieces clicked into place with dizzying speed. Her gaze darted between the two men, noticing the family resemblance she’d somehow missed before. The powerful presence holding her wasn’t just any tiger shifter—he was Zyle Rubin. Her actual arranged mate.
“You’re Zyle Rubin?” The words escaped in a breathless whisper.
Something flashed in his eyes—recognition, followed by a heat that matched the fire igniting in her veins. His hand on her waist tightened almost imperceptibly.
“I am.” His voice dropped lower, meant only for her ears. “And you must be Princess Laykin Barclay.” His gaze traveled over her face, lingering on her lips before returning to her eyes. “My brother Malachi has a habit of introducing himself by our surname only.”
Malachi grinned, completely unrepentant. “The look on your face right now is priceless, Princess. I’d apologize, but honestly, it was worth it.” He winked at Laykin before backing away. “I’ll leave you two to get properly acquainted.”
As Malachi disappeared into the crowd, Laykin became acutely aware that Zyle’s hand still rested at her waist, his thumb now making small, possessive circles against the silk of her gown. The simple touch sent electricity racing through her nervous system. She took a small step back, needing distance to think clearly.
The man who saved me is my arranged mate.
The tiger who made my lioness roar is the man I’m contracted to marry.
Fate has a twisted sense of humor.
Before either could speak further, Laykin spotted both mothers approaching with determined expressions.
“There you are, darling,” Juliette Barclay said with calculated warmth. “I see you’ve found each other without our formal introduction.”
Frances Rubin, a striking woman with salt-and-pepper hair and shrewd eyes, regarded them with undisguised satisfaction. “Sometimes fate works more efficiently than mothers, doesn’t it?”
The formal introductions proceeded despite their prior meeting. “Princess Laykin Barclay,” her mother announced with practiced dignity, “may I present Zyle Rubin, CEO of Rubin Corp International and Alpha of the Rubin Pride.”
Laykin extended her hand in the traditional greeting, hyper-aware of every molecule of air between them as Zyle’s warm fingers closed around hers. His touch sent liquid heat racing up her arm, pooling in her chest before spreading throughout her body. Her lioness stretched languidly beneath her skin, finally satisfied.
“An honor, Princess Barclay,” he said formally, lifting her hand to his lips. The press of his mouth against her skin sent a shockwave straight to her core. His eyes never left hers, and she caught that flash of recognition again—along with something darker, hungrier. His gaze briefly took in her emerald gown, and something like approval flickered across his features.
“The honor is mine, Mr. Rubin,” she replied, struggling to keep her voice from betraying the riot of sensations coursing through her.
“Zyle,” he corrected, his voice low and intimate despite their audience. “After all, you’re already mine on paper, Princess. Formality seems... unnecessary.”
The possessive edge in his voice sent a delicious shiver down her spine. Her lioness preened at his claim while her human side remained cautious.
Their mothers exchanged pleased glances before gracefully withdrawing, leaving them in a small bubble of relative privacy despite the crowded ballroom.
Laykin noticed Zyle subtly touch the inner pocket of his jacket—a protective gesture that piqued her curiosity. What was he carrying?
He leaned closer, his breath warm against her ear. “You kept your shoes on this time,” he murmured, his voice low enough that only her enhanced lioness hearing could catch it.
Heat bloomed across her skin. “They’re more practical for ballroom dancing than combat,” she replied softly. “Though tonight’s pair would make decent weapons in a pinch.”
The corner of his mouth lifted in a half-smile that transformed his stern features. “Noted. I’ll stay on your good side, then.”
Laykin studied him openly now, taking advantage of their proximity. In the forest, she’d caught only glimpses of raw power and lethal grace. Here, in the carefully controlled environment of the ballroom, she could appreciate the contradictions that made up Zyle Rubin—the civilized refinement overlaying primal strength, the diplomatic polish barely containing the alpha predator beneath.
“I believe we’re expected to dance,” he said, offering his hand. “Unless your shoulder needs more time to recover?”
Her eyes widened slightly at the reference to her injury. “How did you?—”
“I saw where the dart hit you,” he interrupted, his expression darkening. “And I can smell the pain beneath your perfume.”
The intimate observation both startled and intrigued her. “I’m fine,” she insisted, accepting his hand despite the dull ache beneath her carefully applied makeup.
Zyle led her to the dance floor with confident grace, placing his hand on the small of her back as they assumed the traditional waltz position. Their bodies fit together as if designed by fate itself, her curves aligning perfectly with his solid frame. The forest green of her gown stood out vividly against his dark suit, the gold embroidery catching the light with each turn.
“You’re a mystery, Mr.—Zyle,” Laykin said as they moved seamlessly to the music. “Why didn’t you mention our earlier encounter when we were introduced?”
His expression remained controlled, but his eyes darkened slightly. “For the same reason you didn’t, I imagine. Some conversations are better held in private.”
“How did you happen to be in exactly the right place at the right time?” she pressed.
“Instinct.” Something shifted in his expression—a brief vulnerability quickly masked. “I caught your scent on the wind while running. My tiger... responded.”
The implication hung between them, electric and unspoken. His tiger had recognized something in her—just as her lioness had recognized something in him.