Greyson’s POV
I had spent the last three centuries mastering the art of the frozen pulse, crafting a life out of carefully calculated maneuvers and a rigid architecture of control. It was a necessity, a way to keep the winter in my blood from spilling out and entombing the world in frost.
I was a Warden of the Hellgate, the CEO of the Hawthorne empire, and a man who did not, under any circumstances, lose his composure in a basement bar that smelled of cheap hops and human desperation.
And yet, as I watched Harper’s hand wrap around Callie’s wrist, pulling her toward the center of the sweat-drenched dance floor, the concrete pillar beneath my hand developed a fine, spiderweb network of frost that crunched under my palm.
“Greyson,” Nate’s voice crackled in my ear, calm but underscored by
