Prologue
The rain in London always tasted like rust and exhaust.
Seventeen-year-old Rhys lay against the damp brick wall of the alleyway, his breath coming in ragged, painful gasps. The copper tang of blood pooled in his mouth, his knuckles split to the bone, and his vision swam with the blurred reflection of neon streetlights in the puddles. He had taken on too many of them. His dominant Alpha pheromones, usually a weapon, felt heavy and suffocating as the dark figures closed back in for the final blow.
“Look at him. Not so tough now, rich boy.”
Rhys braced for the impact, closing his eyes. But the blow never came.
Instead, the alleyway exploded into a sudden, terrifying symphony of violence. There was no warning—just the blur of a heavy black jacket and movements so fast they looked like static. A sickening crack of a breaking jaw echoed off the brick walls, followed by the heavy, thudding weight of bodies hitting the wet asphalt one by one.
Rhys forced his swollen eyelids open.
Standing over the unconscious thugs was a stranger. He didn't release a single drop of a dynamic scent—he was a complete, chilling void in the air—but his presence was utterly overwhelming. The stranger adjusted his collar, looking down at the groaning men with absolute, supreme boredom.
He stepped closer to Rhys, his boots splashing in the crimson-stained water. Without a word, he ripped off his heavy black leather jacket and tossed it carelessly over Rhys’s shivering, beaten frame.
As the stranger leaned down, his collar shifted in the damp wind. For a single, fleeting second, the neon light caught the pale skin of his collarbone, illuminating a striking, intricate tattoo: a thorned vine, etched in shimmering gold and bleeding red ink.
"You talk too much," the stranger drawled. His voice was a low, razor-sharp, venomous Russian melody that cut straight through the pounding rain. "Next time, finish the fight before you bleed all over my jacket."
By the time Rhys could press his hand against the brick to stand, the alleyway was empty. The stranger was gone, leaving behind only his jacket, a burning obsession, and a voice that Rhys would play on a loop in the dark for the next eight years.
