Page 9 of Panther in the Shadows
I press my hand over it, feeling Gran's magic humming beneath the silver. She survived forty years as Stormhaven's hidden sea witch. Kept the full depth of her power secret even from those who knew what she was. Protected these waters from threats that came from the deep and from the land alike.
I've barely managed ten.
Two weeks ago, I revealed myself to save a life. Now another sea witch has invaded my territory, one who's twisted our giftinto something monstrous. And Rafe knows far more about what I can do than anyone should.
Outside, the rain falls harder. The ocean crashes against the cliffs—responding to my anger as much as my fear. And somewhere in the darkness, two predators circle—one who's been watching me for years and one who thinks she can claim my island for her dark rituals.
Both of them are about to learn I'm not as helpless as I seem.
CHAPTER 2
RAFE
The warehouse smells like salt and secrets.
I move through the darkness between stacked crates, checking inventory by touch and memory rather than light. Moonlight filters through high windows, casting just enough illumination to paint shadows across concrete floors slick with decades of fish oil and sea spray. The legitimate shipments arrived this afternoon: whiskey from the mainland, building supplies for the new construction up the coast, three pallets of preserved fish that Old Tom will distribute through his shop. All documented. All taxed. All perfectly legal.
The manifest sits on my desk, numbers adding up perfectly for anyone who might decide to audit. The best way to hide illegal operations is to bury them beneath mountains of legitimate commerce. Give the authorities a reason to approve, and they rarely look deeper.
A Prague smuggler taught me the value of good paperwork. The man moved weapons through five countries using furniture invoices.
The other cargo waits in the back room behind a false wall that only I and two trusted men know exists.
I key in the code, listen for the mechanical click as pneumatic locks disengage. The wall slides aside with a whisper of well-oiled machinery, revealing the real heart of my operation.
Spanish wine that never went through customs. Cuban cigars that would make the British authorities ask uncomfortable questions. A dozen crates of "machine parts" that are actually weapons bound for buyers who don't leave paper trails. Nothing that harms Stormhaven directly. Nothing that brings heat down on the island itself. Just commerce that operates in the spaces between laws, where I've always thrived.
Seven years since the panther clans declared me exiled, stripped me of the Vega legacy, and cast me out with nothing but the clothes I wore and the gifts my bloodline gave me. Two years spent learning how to survive in Europe's criminal underworld—stealing what couldn't be bought, eliminating targets who thought they were protected, building connections and capital until I could choose my own path. Then five years here on this windswept rock, building an empire from nothing.
They couldn't take what my bloodline gave me. The shadow-walking that lets me move through darkness like water. The predator instincts that helped me identify who to threaten and who to buy. The patience to wait for the right moment to strike.
I claimed the docks first. Waited three months, watching who controlled what, learning the hierarchy of criminals and opportunists who'd carved up Stormhaven's underworld like a feast. Then I removed them. One by one. Some I killed. Others I simply convinced that living elsewhere would be healthier for their continued existence.
Within a year, everything that moved through the harbor answered to me.
The dock workers learned quickly that working for Rafael Vega meant protection, good pay, and absolute discretion. The local authorities learned that looking the other way meant theirpockets stayed heavy and their streets stayed relatively clean. The mainland connections learned that Stormhaven had a new gatekeeper, and he didn't forgive disrespect.
I built this. Not the territory I was born to inherit, but mine nonetheless. And now someone's trying to take it from me by painting me as a murderer.
My panther snarls beneath my skin, straining against my control. He wants to hunt. Wants to find whoever's killing my people and leaving evidence designed to point directly at me.
Not yet. Patience first.
I check the last shipment, running my hands over sealed crates that smell like gun oil and cosmoline. Everything's in order. Tomorrow night they move north to Glasgow, and I'll be ten thousand pounds richer. Money I'll funnel back into Stormhaven through legitimate businesses, slowly building a foundation that can't be stripped away by tribunals or betrayals.
I seal the false wall behind me, listening for the pneumatic locks to engage. My office feels ordinary again, just another warehouse space with a desk and manifest books.
The door opens without a knock. Only one person has that privilege.
"Problems," Declan MacRae says, his voice carrying the weight of alpha authority even in my territory.
I turn, letting my eyes reflect the ambient light, showing him the gold beneath my human façade. "There usually are."
He's dressed for patrol, which means the brotherhood has found trouble. Jax probably, or Kian. The tiger has a nose for it that would make bloodhounds jealous.
"Another body," Declan continues, moving into the office with the controlled power that comes from decades of being pack alpha. "North shore, near the old smuggler's caves. Fresh kill. Same method."
My jaw tightens. "Drained?"
