RAVYN'S POV
As I stepped away from the group, the cup cradled between my palms, the sun bore down on the stones like it, too, had joined the performance—unforgiving, blazing, relentless. Heat shimmered off the courtyard floor, distorting the air, turning every step into something theatrical. A walk of deliberate grace. A lie.
The perfume Nyx had dabbed onto my neck had begun to stir. Warmth bloomed under my skin, blooming like embers, pulsing in sync with my heartbeat. It wasn't flowery or soft—it didn't coo for attention. No, this scent stalked. It crawled. It slithered. It curled into the air like a whisper meant to be chased.
It was alive.
Not just a scent, but a weapon. One designed to stir something ancient and instinctual in the kind of creature I was walking toward. The kind with fangs. The kind that didn't need a reason to bite.
