Page 30 of Claws and Effect (Paranormal Dating Agency #87)
TWENTY-NINE
D awn crept across the sky in whispers of amber and gold. Zyle hadn’t moved in twenty-three minutes. Usually by this hour, he’d have completed his morning workout, reviewed overnight market reports from Asia, and outlined objectives for the day ahead.
Instead, he lay perfectly still, watching Laykin sleep.
Her golden hair spilled across his chest. The steady rise and fall of her breathing hypnotized him—this fierce warrior-princess who had fought bear shifters with her bare hands now curled against him like a contented house cat.
His tiger stirred beneath his skin. Mate safe. Mate home.
A week ago, thoughts had centered on acquisition strategies and competitor weaknesses. Now they circled around a single golden-haired focal point. The shift in priorities should have alarmed him. It didn’t.
Laykin stirred, her lashes fluttering open. Catching him watching her, she smiled—that slow, confident curve of lips that consistently rewired his neural pathways.
“Taking inventory or plotting world domination this early?” Morning roughened her voice to a husky purr.
“Can’t it be both?” The corner of his mouth twitched upward.
“Multitasking.” She stretched beside him, testing her healing wounds with cautious movements. “Very CEO of you.”
His gaze traced the shadow of a bruise along her ribs. “How do they feel?”
“Better.” She propped herself up to study him, head tilted. “You look different in the morning. Less... starched.”
“Sleep deprivation compromises my starch levels.” He brushed a strand of hair from her face. “Hungry?”
She arched an eyebrow. “Very. You’re cooking again for me?”
He rose, pulling on a shirt. “I’d do anything for you.”
The blush that colored her cheeks shot straight to his core, satisfaction rumbling through him as he padded toward the kitchen.
Zyle moved through his gourmet kitchen with the same precision he brought to boardroom negotiations. Coffee beans ground to exact coarseness. Bread sliced to uniform thickness. Fruit arranged by color and size.
Once again, Laykin appeared wearing his shirt in the doorway. The sight short-circuited his brain. His tiger surged with primitive satisfaction— mine, mine, mine —while his human side scrambled to maintain composure.
“I expected staff bustling about,” she said, sliding onto a barstool. “More suits, fewer spatulas.”
“I prefer privacy.” He slid a mug of coffee toward her. “Staff arrives at nine.”
The silence between them stretched comfortably. For a man who spent his days drowning in corporate jargon and political maneuvering, the quiet struck him as startlingly honest.
“Tell me about growing up as the tiger prince,” she prompted, stealing a piece of melon from his plate. “Were you born wearing a tiny power suit?”
“According to my mother, I emerged from the womb with a five-year strategic plan.” His lips quirked upward. “Malachi compensated by having enough fun for both of us.”
“The charming chaos to your regimented order?”
“The hurricane to my carefully constructed harbor.”
He found himself recounting stories rarely shared—his first shift at twelve, two years earlier than average; training sessions with his father where combat practice doubled as business lessons; the weight that settled on his shoulders when his father’s unexpected death thrust him into leadership.
Laykin listened. Not with the calculated assessment of business associates. Not with the pitying sympathy of those who saw only tragedy. She listened with the understanding of someone who carried her own burdens of duty and expectation.
His tiger stretched contentedly beneath his skin, more relaxed in her presence than he could remember feeling in years.
“Enough reminiscing,” he said finally. “We have work to do.”
Zyle led Laykin to his home office.
“Welcome to the war room.”
Zyle stepped aside as Laykin entered his transformed home office. Multiple screens lined the walls, displaying satellite imagery, financial records, and surveillance footage. A central table held physical evidence from the attacks—photos, recovered weapons, and detailed reports.
“Impressed or terrified?” he asked as her eyes widened.
“Both.” She immediately gravitated toward the photos of the bear shifters’ modified tattoos. “These aren’t standard Northern Territory markings.”
“No.” He tapped commands into his tablet, bringing up enhanced images. “The base designs match historical records, but the alterations are significant.”