Page 6 of Claimed By The Tracker

Gold flashed behind the dark.

Gone almost instantly.

His shoulders dropped half an inch before correcting. His breathing became careful. Deliberate. Counted.

The way someone breathes when holding something enormous on a very short leash.

Wolf.

The realization landed hard.

Of course.

My father hadn't sent a lawyer.

He'd sent a shifter.

"You're shaking," he said.

His voice had dropped. Rougher now.

"Cold coffee." I lifted the cup. "Terrible service."

His jaw tightened.

"You don't smell like cold."

Every survival instinct I'd built over nineteen years of lying to powerful men went still.

Run.

Not later.

Now.

I slid four dollars beneath the cup and stood.

"Enjoy breakfast."

"Lena."

My name stopped me for half a heartbeat.

I turned my smile on him.

"Like I said. Wrong woman."

Then I walked.

Not fast.

Never fast.

I smiled at the waitress as I passed and headed for the side exit with my shoulders loose and my pace unhurried.

The way you move when you want everyone to believe you aren't running while every cell in your body screams to sprint.

The morning light hit me like a slap.