Page 47 of Panther in the Shadows
"Or more dangerous." Moira wraps her arms around herself, and I see the tremor in her hands. "Rafe, if she knows I'm here, if she knows about us... everyone at my inn is at risk. Old Tom. Danny Morrison. Everyone I've ever spoken to."
"Which is why you're staying here where I can protect you." Not negotiable. "And why we're bringing the brotherhood in completely. No more holding back information. No more protecting territories or playing politics. We tell them everything we know and we hunt this necromancer together."
She nods slowly. "When?"
"Now. I'll call Declan. Get everyone here by noon." I pull out my phone. "And Moira? Until we end this, you don't go anywhere without me. Not to your inn. Not to the docks. Nowhere. Understood?"
"You can't just?—"
"Someone died on my loading dock this morning with symbols carved into his chest and threats about you on his lips." The words come out harsher than intended, but I can't soften them. Can't make this easier than it is.
My voice cracks on the last word. Just slightly. Enough that she hears it.
"So yes," I continue, steadier now. "I can and I will keep you here until we find her and end this. Because I just spent twenty minutes kneeling beside a dead kid who trusted me to keep him safe, and I'm not doing that again. Not with you. Not ever."
The fight drains from her face. She crosses to me, hands reaching for mine. "Okay. You're right. I'll stay."
Relief floods through me, sharp and unexpected. "Good. Because I just found something worth protecting again, and I'll be damned if some necromancer takes it away."
The admission hangs between us. Too much. Too soon. But true. Terrifyingly true.
Her eyes widen. "Rafe?—"
"Later." I cut her off before she can say something that complicates things further, before we have to examine what this thing between us actually means. "Right now, I need to make calls. You need to prepare. The brotherhood arrives soon, and we're going to need every piece of information we can give them."
She nods. Moves toward the guest room where her things are. Pauses at the door, hand on the frame. "Thank you. For trying to save him. For caring about your people."
"Marco was a good kid. Didn't deserve to die delivering someone else's threats." The anger returns, sharp and purposeful. The kind of anger that plans. That calculates. That kills efficiently. "But his death won't be meaningless. We're going to use everything he told us to find this necromancer and end her."
"And then?"
"And then she's going to learn what happens when you threaten mine."
The possessive comes out naturally. Easily. Like I've been saying it for years instead of hours.
Moira's breath catches. She opens her mouth like she wants to say something, then closes it. Nods once. Disappears into the guest room.
I pull out my phone and text Declan:Emergency meeting. My warehouse. Noon. Bring everyone. The necromancer just made this personal.
The response comes within seconds:We'll be there.
I stare at the phone. At the simple confirmation that doesn't begin to capture what's coming. The brotherhood gathering in my warehouse. Sharing information we've kept close. Admitting that one of my dock workers died and I couldn't stop it.
Admitting that I care about the sea witch enough to declare war over threats to her life.
The phone goes dark in my hand. My reflection stares back from the black screen. I look like hell. Blood on my jacket. Exhaustion carved into the lines around my eyes. The face of someone who just watched a kid die in his arms.
But beneath that, something else. Something I haven't seen in seven years.
Purpose beyond survival. Beyond building wealth and power as shields against the world. Purpose that centers on another person. On protecting her. On making sure she survives this even if I don't.
Foolish thinking for someone who learned that caring about people gets them killed.
But I'm done running from what I feel. Done pretending that isolation equals safety.
The warehouse above me hums with activity. Santos barking orders. My men securing the perimeter. Marco's body being prepared for his family. Business and death mixing together like they always do in my world.
But down here, in the quiet of my quarters, I can still smell Moira's scent on my sheets. Still feel the ghost of her touch on my skin.
