Magic always had a scent to it—burnt ozone, blood, and the sharp sting of things not meant for this world. But tonight, the air around John Constantine was layered with something else: heat. Not the kind from hellfire or spellwork.

The kind that came from her. He lit a cigarette with shaking fingers, eyes scanning the darkened ritual circle he’d carved into the concrete floor of some godforsaken flat in London. The runes glowed faintly, reacting not just to the spell—but to him. To the bond humming beneath his skin like a curse and a promise. She wasn’t here. Not physically. But he could feel her.

His mate.

Hell, he’d tried to fight it. Constantine didn’t do mates. He did nights and regrets and unspoken goodbyes. But this bond was carved deeper than any magic he knew—primal, eternal, inescapable. And now she was in heat.

And he was losing his damn mind.

He dropped the cigarette, grinding it under his boot, pacing like a beast in a cage. He wasn’t going to show up at her door like some lovesick Alpha. He had demons to banish, blood debts to settle, and too many enemies that would use her scent like a weapon.

But still… His hands twitched. His throat tightened.

And the magic? It pulsed with her name.