Page 22 of Claws and Effect (Paranormal Dating Agency #87)

TWENTY-ONE

T he rest of the day passed in a blur of meetings and calls, Zyle’s mind constantly splitting between corporate strategy and Laykin’s safety. By evening, as he descended to his private gym where Holden and Malachi waited, tension coiled through his muscles like a spring wound too tight.

“Either you’re trying to kill me or you’re distracted,” Malachi gasped from the gym mat after a particularly brutal takedown. “Since I’m still breathing, I’m guessing it’s the latter.”

Zyle extended a hand to help his brother up, aware he’d been fighting with more aggression than their usual sparring warranted. “Your left side is exposed every time you throw that combination.”

“And your head is in the clouds,” Malachi retorted, accepting the hand up before immediately attempting a sweep kick that Zyle evaded effortlessly.

The three men had gathered at Zyle’s private gym for their weekly training session. The space occupied an entire floor of his penthouse—a state-of-the-art facility with every piece of equipment a shifter could want for maintaining peak physical condition. Usually, these workouts provided stress relief, allowing Zyle to channel business frustrations into physical exertion. Tonight, however, his movements carried an edge of barely contained ferocity.

Holden observed from the sidelines, sipping water. “Those financial records I sent about the attackers’ payment sources—anything useful?”

“Several transactions trace back to shell companies with connections to traditionalist shifter families,” Zyle replied, blocking Malachi’s jab and countering with a combination that drove his brother back across the mat. “Keep digging.”

Malachi tapped out after Zyle secured him in a flawless armbar. “Break time,” he wheezed. “My ego can only take so much bruising.”

“Your pride is as indestructible as cockroaches,” Zyle commented dryly, but released his hold and stepped back. Sweat glistened on his torso, the training session barely enough to take the edge off his restless energy.

“Speaking of pride,” Malachi rolled his shoulder, wincing, “when’s the princess visiting the compound?”

The question caught Zyle off guard. “She isn’t. Yet.”

“But you’re planning to move her there,” Holden observed, his tone making it a statement rather than a question.

“If necessary.”

“If necessary,” Malachi mimicked, grabbing a towel. “Translation: the second he can convince her, she’s getting whisked away to Fortress Rubin, where no one can touch her without going through an army of security and one seriously possessive tiger.”

Rather than deny it, Zyle reached for his water bottle. His phone buzzed in his gym bag. Without hesitation, he crossed the room to check it, ignoring his brother’s knowing smirk.

“Princess check-in time,” Malachi sang out. “How many is that today? Fifteen? Twenty?”

“I ordered food,” Zyle announced, deliberately changing the subject as he typed a quick reply. “It should be here soon.”

“You? Ordering takeout?” Holden’s eyebrows rose. “During training night? Who are you and what have you done with my control-freak best friend?”

As if on cue, the elevator chimed, delivering stacks of fragrant containers that Malachi pounced on like a starving man. They migrated naturally to the kitchen where he spread cartons across the island.

“You got everything,” Malachi said. “Thai, Indian, Italian, and those weird veggie spring rolls Holden pretends to like because some yoga instructor once told him they’re cleansing.”

“They improve recovery time,” Holden defended, reaching for said spring rolls.

“So does shifter metabolism,” Malachi countered around a mouthful of pad thai. “But you do you, health guru.”

Zyle’s phone vibrated again. This time, he didn’t bother hiding his immediate response, earning identical knowing looks from both men.

“You might as well have her name tattooed on your forehead,” Malachi said. “It would be less obvious.”

“Shut up and eat your food,” Zyle growled without heat, pocketing his phone after sending Laykin a quick update on his evening.

By the time they’d demolished the food, the edge of tension had eased from Zyle’s shoulders. Malachi stretched and glanced toward the upper level of the penthouse.

“Game room? I need to redeem myself after that humiliating defeat on the mat.”

Without waiting for an answer, he headed for the stairs. Holden and Zyle exchanged long-suffering looks before following.

“You know what would make this more interesting?” Malachi’s eyes glinted mischievously as he lined up shot glasses along the bar. “Every time Zyle mentions Princess Laykin or checks his phone, we drink.”

“We’ll be unconscious in twenty minutes,” Holden deadpanned but reached for the bottle of premium whiskey, nonetheless.

The game room, like everything in Zyle’s penthouse, exemplified luxury without ostentation. A professional-grade pool table dominated the center, surrounded by top-of-the-line dart boards, air hockey, and a fully stocked bar. Floor-to-ceiling windows offered a panoramic view of Manhattan’s glittering nightscape—a view most people would give their right arm to enjoy.

“This is childish,” Zyle protested, though he found himself oddly amused by his brother’s antics.

“What’s childish is how you go from terrifying alpha businessman to lovesick teenager every time your phone pings,” Malachi retorted, distributing shot glasses. “Come on. It’ll be fun.”

Against his better judgment, Zyle relented. “Fine. But I don’t mention her that often.”

The drinking game escalated with alarming rapidity. Within fifteen minutes, Zyle had triggered three shots without realizing it, causally referencing Laykin in conversation about security measures, pride politics, and the upcoming ceremonial covenant signing.

After an hour, even with their enhanced shifter metabolism, all three men showed signs of inebriation. Malachi sprawled across the pool table, one leg dangling over the edge as he spun the cue ball with his finger. Holden missed the dartboard entirely, his dart embedding itself in the expensive wallpaper instead.

Zyle, despite his legendary tolerance, found himself smiling more freely than usual. His customary rigid control had softened at the edges, his tie discarded and shirt unbuttoned at the collar.

“You’ve got it bad, big brother,” Malachi said, rolling onto his back to stare at the ceiling. “Never seen you this obsessed with anyone.”

“I’m not obsessed,” Zyle objected. “I’m concerned. Two attacks in three days is not coincidence.”

“Sure, sure.” Malachi waved dismissively. “That’s why you keep touching your phone like it holds the nuclear codes. Pure professional concern.”