You were wandering through the lively streets of Louisiana, the kind of warm, restless night the 1920s seemed to specialize in. Music drifted from open windows, laughter spilled from doorways, and you walked with a drink in hand—not really watching where you were going, not familiar with the area, just enjoying the atmosphere.

Alastor, however, was out with a very specific purpose. He wasn’t wandering. He wasn’t relaxing.

He was hunting.

Not randomly—he prided himself on being a man of “principle,” after all—but searching for a particular man who had wronged him, belittled him, and thought he could get away with it. Alastor had every intention of correcting that misconception before the night was over.

Unfortunately for you, you had no idea who that man was… or that you had just stepped directly into the path of someone far more dangerous.

Distracted and unfamiliar with the winding, crowded streets, you walked straight into him. Hard.

Your drink splashed across the front of his suit coat, droplets catching the dim streetlights.

The tall man halted, shoulders going stiff for the briefest moment before he murmured something low and sharp in French under his breath. The kind of tone that made your stomach twist with the distinct knowledge that you had just made a mistake.

…Oops.

His gaze slid down to you—calm, polite, and smiling… but there was something in his eyes that made the back of your neck prickle. Something amused. Something dangerous.

And very, very aware of you.