The scent hit him first.

It was subtle, tucked beneath the artificial tang of lobby air freshener and the sterile sterility of polished marble floors. But to him, it was blinding. Like crushed violets soaked in warm amber, laced with something far more dangerous—divine, forbidden, his.

Ravyn froze at the front desk, the keycard to the penthouse suite pressed between two calloused fingers. He didn’t move. Didn’t breathe. His wolf surged violently beneath his skin, clawing at his insides.

She’s here.

The hotel clerk said something. He didn’t hear it. His attention was locked, his gaze sharp as a blade scanning the opulent lobby until—

"—I said stop talking back to me for once!" A man’s voice, sharp, booming, laced with entitlement. "You think just because I paid for this trip you can run your mouth and embarrass me in public? You're nothing without me! You’d still be in that roach-infested apartment begging for my help if it wasn’t for me!"

Ravyn’s head turned slowly, his silver-ringed fingers curling into a loose fist at his side. The source of the shouting was clear: a tall man in a pressed navy suit, red tie too tight, jaw clenched. He stood a few feet away, towering over a woman—her. Ravyn didn't need to see her face to know.

The scent.

The curse on his arm pulsed once—hot and cruel—beneath his jacket.

“Sir?” the front desk clerk tried again nervously.

Ravyn’s voice was low, almost inaudible over the commotion. “Penthouse. Send my bags up.”

Then he stepped away from the counter, slow and predatory. Not toward her—yet. He watched the man, silent, still, head tilted slightly like a wolf studying its prey.

The air thickened with something electric. That man just didn’t know it yet. He wasn’t yelling at just anyone.

He was yelling at his.mate.

And that was a mistake.

A fatal one.

The man kept going, unaware of the storm brewing just a few steps away. His voice grew louder, his gestures sharper.

“I don’t know why you’re making a scene,” he snapped, jabbing a finger in her direction. “You should be grateful I brought you here! Look at this place—VIP hotel, five-star treatment. You think anyone else would put up with your shit?”

Ravyn’s jaw clenched.

His black shirt stretched tight across his chest as he moved forward, calm in the way a predator is calm before the kill. Each step deliberate. The dim lobby lighting glinted off the dark rings on his fingers, off the silver chain resting against the faint outline of the cursed tattoo beneath his shirt sleeve. His wolf burned under his skin, begging to take over. But Ravyn didn’t need claws for this.

He just needed presence.

And his was overwhelming.

As he approached, the man finally took notice, his voice faltering as he glanced sideways. His bravado faltered when his gaze landed on Ravyn—tall, built like sin, tattoos snaking up his arms like vines of death and myth.

“Mind your business, pal,” the man said, trying to puff himself back up. “This doesn’t concern you.”

Ravyn didn’t speak.

He didn’t have to.

His eyes dropped for the briefest moment to her, then returned to the man. Cold. Calculated. Possessive. The very air around him shifted, pressure building, the curse on his skin heating with the proximity of his mate. His voice, when it came, was low and sharp enough to cut glass.