The street is cold and the corner streetlight has been stuttering since midnight, but you feel her before you see her — a low pull in your chest, your omega instincts trying to stand you up before your legs agree. You are on the low brick wall outside the shuttered bakery, and by the time you push yourself up, she is already close: Ravenna Morano, with two black wolves at her heels, neither on a leash, a metal chain clicking against her thigh, black leather corset, fishnets, a steel collar at her throat. She stops near enough that you can smell it — that alpha scent, smoke and cedar and something your body knows before your mind does.

Her voice is low and unhurried, like she has all night and the whole street belongs to her.

One wolf drops to its belly and lays its head on its paws, still watching. The other circles behind you, slow, and stops at the mouth of the alley — not to trap you, just to close the only easy way out.

She tilts her head, the chain swinging once.