Page 15 of Claws and Effect (Paranormal Dating Agency #87)

FOURTEEN

S unlight streamed through the tall windows of the Barclay Manor dining hall, casting golden patterns across the polished mahogany table. Laykin stared at the flaky croissant on her plate, her mind replaying last night’s events for the hundredth time.

The memory of Zyle’s silver-rimmed eyes, the warm press of his hand on the small of her back during their dance, the unexpected kiss in the alcove—each moment flickered behind her eyelids in vivid detail.

“Earth to Laykin,” Seren waved her hand across the table. “Your croissant is getting cold, and that’s practically a crime against pastry.”

Laykin blinked, refocusing on her friend’s amused expression. “Sorry. Distracted.”

“By what? The treaty arrangements? The assassination attempt? Or perhaps a certain tiger with eyes that made you forget basic motor functions?” Seren took a sip of her coffee, her eyebrows raised in playful accusation.

Heat crawled up Laykin’s neck. “I did not forget basic motor functions.”

“Please. You two looked ready to combust on the dance floor—I’m surprised the sprinklers didn’t activate.” Seren leaned forward, dropping her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “So... tell me everything. Every. Delicious. Detail.”

Laykin tore off a piece of croissant, buying time. “There’s nothing to tell.”

“Lie.”

“Fine.” Laykin glanced around to ensure none of the staff hovered within earshot. “Remember the tiger shifter who saved me during the ambush?”

Seren nodded, eyes widening. “The mysterious hero who disappeared into the forest? Your own personal cover model?”

“It turns out he’s Zyle. My fiancé.”

Seren choked on her coffee. “Wait—what? Your arranged mate is also your heroic rescuer?” She set down her cup with a decisive click. “That’s not a treaty, that’s a romance novel.”

“It’s complicated.” Laykin’s fingers tightened around her napkin. “And now there’s this.” She pulled out her phone, showing Seren the anonymous text message: No treaty is worth your life.

Seren’s playful expression vanished. “Who sent this?”

“Unknown number.”

“And what about that creepy note with your shoe?” Seren shook her head. “Someone’s targeting you, specifically.”

The weight of it all pressed on Laykin’s shoulders. Her parents’ expectations. The treaty. The attacks. And now these conflicting emotions toward a man who’d been a complete stranger a day ago.

“The thing is...” Laykin’s voice dropped to a whisper, “my lioness recognized him instantly. Before I knew who he was. Before the alliance.”

Seren’s eyes softened. “A fated mate?”

“I don’t know. It sounds ridiculous?—”

“It sounds perfect,” Seren interrupted. “Your arranged mate happens to be the one your lioness chooses? That’s like winning the shifter lottery.”

Laykin’s phone buzzed on the table. Her heart jumped to her throat when she saw the name on the screen.

“Is that him?” Seren’s delight was palpable. “Answer it!”

Laykin drew a steadying breath and swiped to accept the call. “Hello?”

“Princess.” Zyle’s deep voice rumbled through the speaker, sending an involuntary shiver down her spine. “I hope I’m not interrupting anything important.”

“No, not at all. I’m having breakfast with Seren.”

Across the table, Seren mouthed, Put it on speaker! Laykin glared and shook her head.

“I called to invite you to dinner tonight,” Zyle continued. “If you’re available.”

The casual invitation belied the significance of what he was asking—their first proper date. Something beyond the political machinations that had thrown them together.

“We’re already scheduled to be mated in a month,” Laykin challenged, unable to resist testing him. “Isn’t dinner redundant?”

His chuckle reverberated through the phone, warming her from the inside out. “I’m not rushing this,” he replied, his tone both firm and tender. “The treaty secured our prides’ future. Now I want to secure ours. I want you to know the man you’re committing to, not just the alliance.”

The unexpected thoughtfulness in his approach left her momentarily speechless. Here she’d prepared for cold political obligation, yet he spoke of connection, of choice within the boundaries of duty.

“Princess?” he prompted, a hint of uncertainty in his voice.

“Yes,” she said quickly. “Dinner sounds lovely.”

“Excellent. I’ll pick you up at seven. Dress casual.” The smile in his voice came through clearly. “I’m looking forward to it.”

After they disconnected, Laykin glanced up to find Seren grinning like a cat who’d found the cream.

“What?” Laykin tucked her phone away.

“Nothing.” Seren’s smile widened. “Except that you’re blushing. The regal Princess of the Summit Pride, famous for her poker face during international negotiations, is blushing over a dinner invitation.”

“Shut up.”

“Not a chance.”