Page 33 of Claws and Effect (Paranormal Dating Agency #87)

THIRTY-TWO

D awn crept through the curtains as Laykin blinked awake, momentarily disoriented until her gaze settled on Zyle’s sleeping face beside her. The powerful tiger shifter who commanded boardrooms with a glance now lay vulnerable in slumber, dark lashes resting against his cheeks, lips slightly parted.

She resisted the urge to trace the strong line of his jaw with her fingertips, not wanting to wake him. Instead, she drank in the sight—a rare gift to see him this unguarded. No calculating CEO. No fierce alpha tiger. Just Zyle, his chest rising and falling with each deep breath.

A sudden ache bloomed beneath her ribs, surprising in its intensity. This arranged match—this political convenience—had somehow transformed into something she couldn’t have anticipated. Something precious.

Laykin reached out, stopping just short of touching his cheek. She’d faced countless diplomatic challenges, but this unplanned emotion terrified her more than any adversary. The realization that she might not be able to imagine her life without him anymore.

The early hour presented a rare opportunity with Zyle still resting instead of punishing himself through his dawn workout routine. Carefully, she slipped from the bed, her mind already racing with possibilities. Yesterday he’d prepared breakfast for her; today she would return the favor.

In the kitchen, Laykin faced her greatest diplomatic challenge yet: Zyle’s gleaming professional-grade espresso machine. The chrome monstrosity loomed before her with its bewildering array of buttons, dials, and levers. She pressed what seemed like the power button, only to be greeted by an aggressive hiss of steam.

“Overengineered caffeine dispenser,” she muttered, jabbing another button that did precisely nothing.

Her third attempt unleashed a torrent of water across the pristine countertop.

“ Sa?uvaj me, bo?e ,” she cursed, lunging for a towel. “ Proklet stroj .”

“You know, most people start with the beans.”

Zyle’s voice startled her. He leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed over his chest, hair deliciously rumpled from sleep. The morning light caught in his eyes, turning them nearly silver.

Heat rushed to her cheeks. “How long have you been there?”

“Long enough to expand my multilingual vocabulary.” His mouth curved into that rare, genuine smile that never appeared in boardrooms. “The coffee machine’s parentage is indeed questionable.”

She clutched the soggy towel to her chest, absurdly conscious of her disheveled appearance in his borrowed T-shirt, hair tumbling wild around her shoulders. “I wanted to surprise you with breakfast.”

“Consider me surprised.” He pushed away from the doorframe with that fluid grace that still made her breath catch. Even in sleep pants and a simple white T-shirt, he moved like the predator he was. “Though I expected less flooding.”

Before she could retort, he stood behind her, his chest warm against her back as he guided her hands through the proper coffee-making sequence. His fingers covered hers, strong and sure as they pressed buttons in the correct order, the machine humming to life under their touch.

“No one’s tried to make me breakfast in...” His voice dropped to a murmur against her ear. “I can’t remember how long.”

She leaned back into him, savoring his warmth, the steady beat of his heart against her spine. “Get used to it. Next time I’ll attempt toast.”

Zyle’s arms encircled her waist, pulling her closer. “I have fire extinguishers strategically placed throughout the kitchen.”

Laykin turned in his embrace, rising to press her lips to his. What began as a playful morning kiss deepened as his hands slid up her back, tangling in her hair. His scent surrounded her, familiar now in a way that felt like home.

When they finally parted, Laykin noticed the surprise in his eyes—not at the kiss, but at her casual initiation of it. As if he still couldn’t quite believe she welcomed his touch, craved it even.

She reached up to smooth his sleep-rumpled hair, letting her fingers linger against his cheek. “The coffee will burn.”

“I have more beans,” he murmured, leaning into her touch like a great cat seeking affection.

“But not more countertops,” she pointed out, nodding toward the water still spreading across the marble surface.

His laugh—that rare, rich sound she’d come to treasure—filled the kitchen as he grabbed another towel to help with the cleanup.