Blood and Sliver

The city bled neon into the rain, and Aria Vale stalked its shadows like a ghost. Her hand brushed the knife at her hip—silver, poisoned, deadly to wolves. She could smell them tonight. The stink of wet fur and wild hunger threaded the air between the cracked bricks of the alley. One of them was close. Watching. “Come out, mutt,” she murmured. A low growl curled from the dark. Then he stepped into the light. Not the feral, mindless rogue she expected. No. This one was different. Tall. Lean. Dressed in black like the night itself. And smiling. "You're hunting the wrong wolf, witch," he said smoothly, his voice a purr of danger. Her heart kicked. She hated that sound—like velvet over broken glass. His eyes gleamed gold under the streetlight. Ancient. Predatory. And familiar. “Kael Draven,” she whispered, disgust curling her lip. “Alpha of the Crescent Pack. Should’ve known the city’s lapdog would crawl out to play.” His smile sharpened. “I smelled you," he said, stepping closer. "Sweet. Sharp. Like power and fire. And something else..." His nostrils flared. "Mine." Her knife flashed between them in warning. "Keep dreaming, mutt. I’d rather die." Kael’s smile didn’t fade. If anything, it deepened—as if she’d amused him. "Oh, witch," he murmured, "you already belong to me. Fate decided." Something inside her burned. A mark curled under her skin—old magic, wild and cruel. No. It wasn’t possible. But the way he smelled—the way her pulse jumped—said otherwise. Fated mates. Her worst nightmare. His darkest desire. And the city of New Haven would burn because of it.