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Hood pulled up over my head, I maneuver through the crowd of beings all milling about the market and vying for the products they want. My scent blocker is working perfectly, but even if it wasn’t, the variety of creatures and scents here might just do a decent job of covering for me.

Vampires, sirens, ghouls, and casters float past me, their scents overwhelming and powerful. I have never seen so many at-odds species together in one place, but it seems we’re all willing to put our differences aside if it means getting our hands on something we want.

We’ve been aware of the dark market in Grayhide territory for years, but I never could have imagined this. Acres and acres of trading, stalls, shady deals in the even darker areas, magi-lights and torches barely lighting the path between each vendor.

The members of my pack are firmly prohibited from entering this territory without permission, as it’s far too dangerous, and we can’t risk prodding the Grayhides. I don’t know if they would go so far as to take a captive, but I also don’t want to find out.

To my left, a woman with a deep voice advertises the variety of fish swimming in tanks, some of them blinking with light, others glowing gently. In one of the tanks, bubbles roll through to the top, the fish swimming around hot to the touch, heating the water.

As I walk, I think of Emin finding me just before I left, arms crossed as usual, staring at me as I packed a light bag. My plan was to take my truck to the boundary line and cross the rest of the way on foot.

“I don’t think you should go alone,” he said, eyes following me as I smeared the scent-blocking cream over my pulse points.

“Noted.”

“We can’t risk you, Dorian.” Emin took a step toward me, eyes flashing, surely thinking about the power vacuum left the last time an alpha died suddenly. My grandfather fought to the death to take that place and made it his top priority to prepare me for the role, promising the pack that there would be no more brutal fighting for power. “You need someone at your back.”

“I can’t risk you , Emin,” I said, and what I really meant was that I couldn’t risk bringing him into Grayhide territory with me, couldn’t risk his eyes straying from the mission as he thought about the past. Emin is also my right-hand man, the only shifter in our pack capable of running things and putting out fires in my absence. So, I straightened, looked him in the eyes, and said, “And that is final.”

He hesitated, swaying back on his heels, looking like he wanted to say more, but ultimately respecting my leadership. After a beat passed, I returned to my bag, and he said, voice low, “You and I both know there was no inventory management problem, Dorian.”

I paused halfway through zipping my bag.

Emin was right, of course. A few weeks ago, we had enough Amanzite to cover the pack for the next year. Now, we have just enough left for the month. If that.

That kind of deficit doesn’t happen from poor management. It happens from theft. And, according to Emin, none of the security posts around our weapons house noticed anything. Nobody in, nobody out.

“Yes. We’ll just have to deal with it when I get back.”

Someone found a way to steal our Amanzite, and that understanding only raises more questions. Who, why, and how—but I don’t have time to think about that right now. I have to tackle one problem at a time, and right now, the most important thing is getting more Amanzite into the hands of our casters.

Now, I twist around a group of fairies, careful not to get their dust on me, and head in the direction of a stand I know might have the materials we’re looking for. Leta filled me in on this trader, from the coastline, likely selling stolen goods, and from her reports, a very nervous man.

I approach him, staring at another customer with hard eyes until they take the hint and move away, leaving me and the trader alone.

“Amanzite,” I say, voice only barely above a whisper. The last thing I need is for the others at this market to hear what I’m asking for. It will be a dead giveaway of me being a shifter, and might raise questions about my apparent lack of a scent.

The trader’s eyes widen, and though it’s nearly imperceptible, I catch him shifting to the right, hand twitching ever so slightly toward a chest hidden under his table.

“Don’t got any,” he says, voice rough, face sun-burnt and nearly like leather.

I lean in closer, until my face is an inch from his, and I smell his body odor, his scent, his fear.

“Why don’t you look again.”

His eyes flick to the chest under the table, and I give him a grin. My goal is that the grin conveys what I’m feeling—I’m taking the Amanzite, whether he sells it to me or not.

A moment later, I’m tucking the bag of stones into my inside jacket pocket. It’s not enough—that’s obvious. I brought over two million in currency, and I’ve spent less than a quarter on the Amanzite.

It’s when I’m turning away from the stall, getting ready to get the hell out of the market, that I catch the scent.

Warm, sweet, with the most subtle hint of spice. Like snickerdoodles baking in the oven, the warm rice pudding from the vendor on Main Street. A scoop of cinnamon ice cream on the hottest summer day.

My body moves without directive from my brain, pushing through the crowd, following the scent, something like hunger working through my veins. Controlling, compulsive. It’s a call like any other need—something I can’t ignore. Something I’m readily giving in to, letting it direct me deeper and deeper into the market until the scent gets so strong that it’s nearly in front of me.

And there she is.

Kira Argent.

I haven’t seen her in five years. Somehow, she looks exactly the same, but still different. Her golden-red hair is longer, curling over her chest, her skin pale and smooth. I can see the parts of her body where baby fat has shifted, giving way to curves, the soft arch of her hips more dramatic, her chest full.

“Fuck.” I don’t realize I’ve said it out loud until the person next to me turns and glances, their darting lizard-like eyes cutting through me. The next expletive, I manage to keep in my head. I don’t need the other shoppers at this market to pay any extra attention to me.

My eyes return to her, and I realize I’ve missed several vitally important details.

She stands on the stage in nothing but a tiny blue silk slip that clings to her body. A slit up the thigh reveals more of that creamy skin, and I feel a kernel of lust lodge itself in my chest, an undeniable urge to sink my teeth into that flesh.

To trail my tongue over her, pick up her scent, taste her. Claim her.

Memories flash through my head—Kira, in her school uniform, looking up at me with fearful eyes. Emin at my side, taunting her. The day she was cast out of the pack.

“This is a treat you don’t want to miss, folks,” the man on the stage says, swinging his arm out toward Kira, whose eyes are cast decidedly downward. “Omega is soon to go into heat. Think of it as a bulk purchase.”

He lets out a loud, snotty laugh, and my fingers tighten into fists at my sides. When I see a blush stain Kira’s cheeks, I want to stalk up to the stage and take this man out, hold his face to the floor with my boot, and make him apologize through his weeping to her.

I want to prostrate him, rip his heart out while she watches.

Forcing myself to take a deep breath, I shake the urges from my head. I’m in Grayhide territory, and the last thing I need is to risk the Amanzite I’ve already gotten my hands on.

“Starting at fifty thousand,” the man says, looking out into the crowd, waiting for someone to make a bid.

The best thing now is to leave. If I were thinking only of the pack, I’d turn on my heel, push through this crowd, and forget all about Kira Argent. Forget all about the auctioneer, the fact that she’s somehow landed herself here, for sale.

But I’m not thinking of the pack.

“I’ll do fifty.” Someone to the left of the crowd raises his paddle, laughing loudly. “Someone’s gotta do it.”

I should leave. This is not my fight—in fact, not even my own money in my pocket. This money belongs to the pack, and I’ll have to replenish it from my own treasury if I use it.

When I look up, I catch Kira’s eyes. While Emin has brown eyes, unremarkable in every way, his sister’s are like lightning, gleams of gold in the heavy, flickering light from the lamps and torches around us. Like two flames dancing ahead of me.

And I realize she’s looking right at me, recognition widening her eyes.

“Fifty-one,” I hear myself say, and then for good measure, I add, “Looks like she’ll make a good servant.”

When I return my gaze to hers, I see something all too familiar there.

Pure, unadulterated hatred.