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TWENTY-ONE

H er lioness snorted at the lie, but Bryn finally left, throwing worried glances over her shoulder until she disappeared around the corner.

Alone in the spa, Zina moved through her closing routine with mechanical precision. Lock the front door. Set the alarm. Double-check the wards her mother had installed—they hummed with renewed power after this morning’s breach.

Instead of taking her usual route to the town square for dinner, she headed for the back alleyways. Maybe varying her routine would throw off the watchers. She slipped into the narrow alley, immediately regretting her decision.

Multiple lion shifter scents hit her nose simultaneously—fresh ones that hadn’t been there this morning. They’d anticipated this move, laying their trap with patience born of professional experience.

Five massive figures materialized from strategic positions, their coordinated movements blocking both exits. All wore identical black clothing that absorbed what little light remained. The tactical gear marked them as more than simple thugs—these were trained operatives.

The leader stepped forward, the streetlight catching the scar that bisected his left eyebrow. His presence here meant Severin had stopped playing games.

“Ms. Parker.” His voice carried the false courtesy of someone who enjoyed the prelude to violence. “Mr. Madrigal is done playing nice.”

“Five elite enforcers for one spa owner?” Zina forced lightness into her tone even as her lioness calculated angles of attack. The alley was narrow—that could work to her advantage. “Severin must be desperate.”

The scarred lion’s eyes flashed gold, his control slipping momentarily. “Sign over the deed to the nexus property, or we’ll make sure you’re too broken to ever massage again.”

“The power node beneath your spa is wasted on hot rocks and aromatherapy,” another enforcer added, his voice carrying the fervor of a true believer. “Mr. Madrigal can tap its true potential—imagine controlling the magical flow for the entire town. Every ward, every protective spell, every drop of power flowing through Enchanted Falls, all directed by someone with vision.”

The third enforcer moved closer, his tone oddly conversational. “The ley line convergence belongs to Madrigal by ancestral right. Your mother knew that when she took possession of the property.”

The implications crashed over her like ice water. This was about more than simple power-grabbing. This wasn’t just about the nexus, but some kind of historical claim. Severin didn’t just want the ley lines—he wanted to dominate Enchanted Falls itself, using the convergence point as his magical amplifier. Her mother had died protecting this town’s magical freedom. Now that responsibility fell to her daughter.

“No deal.”

The words barely left her lips before they attacked.

Zina’s shift exploded from her skin faster than conscious thought. Clothes shredded as golden fur erupted, her human form dissolving into two hundred pounds of lethal feline grace. Her lioness burst free with savage joy, finally unleashed to do what she was born for—protect what mattered.

Five against one should have been suicide. Any sane person would have surrendered. But she knew every brick and shadow of this alley, every fire escape and narrow passage. She’d played here as a cub while her mother worked, learning the geography with a child’s thoroughness.

Her mother’s training echoed in her mind: Fight geography first, opponents second.

She became liquid gold, flowing between attackers with impossible grace. The first lion lunged, expecting her to retreat. Instead, she ricocheted off the wall like a pinball, using his own momentum against him. Her claws raked across his flank before he could adjust, drawing first blood.

The second tried to pin her against a dumpster, his superior weight seemingly an advantage. She slipped through the eighteen-inch gap between metal containers, leaving him to crash into unforgiving steel with a sound like thunder. His pained roar echoed off the brick walls.

Her lioness reveled in the dance of combat, ancient instincts singing with purpose. Even outnumbered, she moved like deadly poetry, each strike precise, each dodge perfectly timed. This was what she was made for—not the careful control of spa ownership, but the primal protection of territory and tribe.