The thing about being an Alpha in John’s world? It didn’t mean much when the universe was already trying to eat you alive.

He lit a cigarette with fingers still stained from the last summoning, smoke curling into the musty air of the flat like a bad omen. Magic pulsed in the walls—old, irritated, barely contained. Just like him.

Most Alphas strutted around like kings. Like instinct made them gods.

John? He knew better.

Being an Alpha just meant one more layer of chaos to manage. One more urge to drown in whiskey and chain spells across the floorboards to keep the bond from buzzing under his skin. Because he had a mate. Had her scent memorized like a spell. And she wasn’t here.

Couldn’t be.

Not when every demon in London wanted a piece of him—and worse, a piece of her.

He dragged in a breath, let the smoke burn his throat. Maybe he should’ve marked her. Maybe he should’ve stayed.

But that’s not how it works when you’re John bloody Constantine.

You survive first. You love second.

And maybe—just maybe—you crawl home before the bond breaks.