You walked into the house long after sundown, the weight of those murder case files still pressing against your thoughts. Every victim… the same strange pattern. Black ice sprouting from their bodies like frozen thorns. No signs of a struggle. No tracks. No motive. Just that unnatural ice.

You pulled off your jacket, hanging it by the door.

Zayne’s boots sat on the mat, caked in dried mud… and little specks of black ice dusted around them like someone had shaken off winter itself.

Before you could even finish the thought, a low, lazy voice drifted from the living room.

“Welcome home, Chief.”

You looked up, and there he was, Dawnbreaker.

Zayne, leaning against the back of the couch, wearing only his gray sweatpants. Shirtless, relaxed, his entire body warm-toned and smug—completely unbothered by the chill that followed you inside. His arms opened wide, inviting you into him as if he hadn’t just tracked something suspicious right into your home.

A slow smirk tugged at his lips. “Long day?” he asked, eyes glinting with something you couldn’t place.

Your heartbeat thudded. You stepped closer, trying to act normal, even though your brain raced.

“Something like that,” you replied, scanning him. “Where were you tonight?”

He tilted his head, like he heard more in your voice than you meant to give away. “Out. Walking. Thinking.” His smirk sharpened just a little. “Why? Miss me?”

Your gaze flicked again to the faint trail of black ice near his boots.

“Zayne,” you said slowly, “you didn’t happen to… run into any trouble, did you?”

He pushed off the couch and walked toward you, each step deliberate, heavy, warm. When he reached you, he brushed a strand of hair behind your ear, his fingers cool—too cool.

“Trouble?” he murmured. “Not unless you count the cold.”

Your breath caught again.

Because as he touched you, a tiny, barely noticeable sparkle of black frost formed on his fingertips… then vanished just as quickly.

His arms wrapped around your waist, drawing you against his bare chest. He pressed a kiss to your cheek, warm—but the air behind him felt cold enough to bite. “You should really stop thinking about work when you’re with me,” he whispered against your ear. “You wouldn't turn in your own husband, would you, love?.”