Page 6 of Panther in the Shadows
Cataloging. Assessing. Looking for weakness or advantage or whatever it is that panthers hunt for in crowds.
I've always made sure to serve him quickly so that he might leave faster. Some instinct warning me that drawing his attention would be dangerous.
Too late for that now.
I resist the urge to stand, to put distance between us. That's what prey does, and I refuse to be prey. Instead, I finish wiping up the first drop of blood, then reach for the second. The rag comes away dark, and I can feel the magic even stronger through fabric. Salt-magic. Sea witch power. But tainted somehow. Spoiled.
"What do you want, Vega?"
"Couldn't sleep." He leans against my doorframe, blocking any retreat into the inn. The position looks casual but I'm not fooled. He's boxed me in with the kind of precision that comesfrom years of practice. "Too many disappearances. Too many questions. Too many people looking for someone to blame."
My hand stills on the second drop. Everyone on the island knows about the disappearances. Two dock workers who worked Rafe's shipments. One independent fisherman who sometimes moved goods on the side. All vanished over the past weeks. All last seen near water.
The pack is on edge. Declan has the brotherhood patrolling more frequently, and the tension has been building like pressure before a storm, everyone waiting for violence to break or answers to surface.
Preferably both.
"They're looking at you," I observe, keeping my tone neutral.
"They're wrong." His gaze hasn't left me, and there's something unsettling about the intensity of his focus. Like he can see through the practiced masks I've worn for ten years. "But you already know that, don't you?"
My heart stutters. "I don't know what you mean."
"Don't you?" He stalks closer, and I finally stand because staying crouched feels too vulnerable. We're nearly the same height when I straighten, though his presence makes him seem larger. More dangerous. "Someone marked your step, Moira. In blood. Which means you're involved whether you want to be or not."
"I'm nobody. Just an innkeeper."
The words are habit more than truth now. After healing Eliza two weeks ago, the supernatural community knows what I am. But I still serve drinks and play the role, still pretend to be nothing more than Siobhan Flynn's granddaughter who inherited an inn.
"Just an innkeeper." Dark amusement threads through his voice, and he's near enough now that I can feel his body heat despite the cold night air. "Who healed a gunshot woundwith salt water two weeks ago. Who never gets seasick. Who always knows when storms are coming hours before the weather changes."
Fear coils low in my stomach, sharp and acidic. He's listing things I revealed when I had no choice but to save Eliza's life.
But Rafe noticed before that. He's been watching longer than I realized.
Rafe sees everything. It's his gift, or his curse. The predator who thrives in shadows, who built an empire on noticing what others miss. He was cataloging my tells long before I healed Eliza and confirmed what I am.
"You've been watching me," I say quietly.
"For years." This close, I could touch him if I wanted. This close, I can see the faint scars along his jaw, pale lines against bronze skin. Battle scars, probably. Or the evidence of whatever drove him into exile from Spain. "Long before you healed Declan's mate. I've watched the water part for you in storms. Watched you call fish to nets without a word. Watched you calm waves with nothing but a touch."
The observation is too specific. Too accurate. He didn't just notice I have power. He's been studying how I use it. Water does touch me, of course it does. But it moves around me differently when my magic is active. Parts for me. Responds to me. Behavior that would be invisible to humans but apparently not to a predator who makes his living by noticing details others miss.
My magic surges in response to the spike of fear, and I barely manage to force it down before the ocean responds. Can't let the waves crash louder. Can't let the rain that's threatening to fall come any harder. Can't give him any more evidence than he already has to confirm what he knows.
"You're wrong," I say, but the words come out too quiet. Too uncertain.
One hand comes up, fingers catching my chin. The touch burns through my careful control, igniting something I've kept locked down for longer than I want to admit. His skin is warm, calloused from whatever work he does when he's not running his empire from the shadows. The contact sends awareness skittering across my nerves like lightning on water.
Dangerous. He's dangerous in ways that have nothing to do with his predator nature and everything to do with the way my body responds to his proximity.
"I'm never wrong about what matters." His thumb brushes along my jaw, possessive and certain in a way that should terrify me. "And you matter, Moira Flynn. You matter to whoever left that blood. Which means you're going to help me find them."
I should push him away. Should slam the door and pretend this conversation never happened. Should use my magic to drive him back and damn the consequences.
Instead, I feel the truth settling over me like a stone sinking in deep water.
Another sea witch is in Stormhaven. Not just near it—on it. In my territory. Someone powerful enough to leave a summoning mark on my doorstep without me sensing their approach through the water. Someone connected to the disappearances that have Stormhaven on edge and every supernatural faction looking for answers.
