Page 31 of Claws and Effect (Paranormal Dating Agency #87)

THIRTY

W ithout warning, Laykin began rearranging his meticulously organized evidence wall, creating connections with pushpins and string that followed no system he could decipher. Horror crawled up his spine as hours of methodical work dissolved into chaos.

“What are you doing?” The words emerged more strangled than intended.

“Finding patterns.” She didn’t pause, moving his carefully categorized photos into bewildering new groupings. “Your system is too linear. The attacks weren’t planned by someone who thinks in spreadsheets.”

His tiger bristled beneath his skin. “How can you possibly find anything in this hurricane?”

“The same way I spot that twitch in your left eye you’re trying to control right now.” She glanced at him, amusement dancing in her expression. “Not everything conforms to your color-coded worldview, Tiger Boy.”

The nickname should have irritated him. Instead, it burrowed under his skin like a splinter of warmth. His tiger growled at the challenge to his authority, but his strategic mind recognized the value in her alternative approach.

“Explain your reasoning,” he requested, moving beside her to study the chaotic arrangement.

For the next hour, Laykin walked him through connections his orderly mind had overlooked—symbolic meanings hidden in the modified tattoos, timing patterns in the attacks, geographical distributions that suggested coordination beyond random mercenaries.

“The tattoo alterations represent an ancient ideology centered on bloodline purity,” she explained, pointing to subtle marks around the traditional bear clan symbols. “Dating back to pre-modern shifter society when species intermingling was taboo.”

Understanding clicked into place. “A fringe movement opposing tiger-lion alliances.”

“Exactly.” Her eyes lit with the thrill of discovery. “But these mercenaries are hired muscle, not ideological zealots. Someone with resources and political motivation is pulling strings.”

Zyle turned to his financial data, pulling up transfer records. “These council members all publicly opposed our treaty,” he highlighted several names, including Laykin’s uncle Marcello, “but most lack the financial resources or connections to coordinate professional hits.”

He zoomed in on transaction records. “This account has been making regular payments to a security firm with documented ties to the mercenary group that attacked you.”

Their eyes met across the table, the shared intellectual breakthrough charging the air between them.

“You’re brilliant,” he said, the admiration in his voice surprising him.

Laykin paused, color rising to her cheeks before she recovered with a confident grin. “I know. Now let’s figure out who’s bankrolling these blood purists.”

As afternoon stretched toward evening, their investigation deepened. Zyle’s systematic analysis complemented Laykin’s intuitive leaps.

His phone buzzed. The message pulled a reluctant smile from him.

“My mother insists we join her for dinner.” He glanced up from the screen. “Apparently our absence has given Malachi too much unsupervised time with her, and she requires rescue.”

Alarm flashed across Laykin’s face. “Your mother? Tonight?”

The flash of vulnerability in her expression—so rare in this fearless woman—tugged at something protective in him. “She already loves you. Her exact words were ‘the lioness who finally tamed my impossible son.’“

“I wouldn’t say tamed,” Laykin muttered, though a pleased smile tugged at her lips.

“Neither would I.” He closed the financial records. “I’ve never been tamed.”

Her laughter bounced off the glass walls. “Keep telling yourself that, tiger.”

Frances Rubin’s home balanced modern luxury with timeless elegance—much like the woman herself. Silver hair styled in a sleek bob, she moved with the grace of someone half her age as she embraced Laykin.

“Finally, I meet the woman brave enough to share a bathroom with my son,” Frances declared, linking her arm through Laykin’s. “He’s been organizing his toiletries by size and color since he was twelve.”

“Mother.” Heat climbed Zyle’s neck.

“Darling, she’s sleeping with you,” Frances waved dismissively. “She’s already discovered your neurotic habits.”

“If she hadn’t,” Malachi’s voice boomed from the doorway, “I’d be happy to provide a comprehensive list.” His younger brother’s eyes danced with mischief. “The sock drawer alone would fill a psychology textbook.”

Zyle prepared to intervene, but Laykin surprised him.

“Actually,” she said, smoothly slipping into the family dynamic, “I find his organizational skills quite appealing. My assistant would stage a coup if she saw how I store my shoes.

“Speaking as someone who’s seen his closet,” Laykin continued, accepting a glass of wine from Frances, “it’s less storage and more of a gladiatorial arena where footwear fights to the death for dominance.”

Malachi’s bark of laughter filled the room. Frances beamed in approval, and something tight in Zyle’s chest loosened at the sight of Laykin so effortlessly charming his family.

During dinner, he found himself watching her more than participating in conversation. The way she leaned forward when interested in a topic. How she used her hands when describing the charity foundation she chaired. The respectful attention she gave his mother’s stories.

“You never told me she was funny,” Malachi said during a moment alone in the kitchen. “I thought she was just another political princess with a pretty face.”

“There’s nothing ‘just’ about Laykin,” Zyle replied, surprising himself with the protectiveness in his tone.

“I’ve noticed.” Malachi’s teasing expression softened into something more sincere. “You haven’t checked your phone once tonight. Not for emails, not for markets, nothing. That’s practically a marriage proposal in Zyle-speak.”

Before he could respond, Frances appeared, shooing Malachi away with practiced efficiency. Once alone, she touched Zyle’s cheek with maternal tenderness.

“I haven’t seen you this happy since before your father died.” Her eyes, so like his own, studied him with knowing affection. “Treaty or no treaty, don’t let this one go.”

The simple statement opened something vulnerable inside him—acknowledgment from the person who knew him best that Laykin had transformed him in visible ways.

“It’s complicated,” he began, but Frances cut him off.

“Love always is.” She patted his chest. “Now help me with dessert before your brother tells Laykin about the summer camp incident.”

“Which one?”

“The color-coding of the forest, darling.”

Zyle groaned. Some memories deserved to stay buried.