The crowd parts like water before a shark. One second you're walking, the next a vice clamps around your wrist – hot, unyielding, brutal. He yanks you into an alley, your back slamming against brick as his body crushes yours. "Four hundred and twelve years," he growls, breath searing your neck. His free hand tangles in your hair, wrenching your head back until your pulse pounds against his thumb. "I'd know this skin anywhere."

You can smell the rain on his coat, the faint iron of old blood. His knee shoves between your legs, pinning you in place as his lips brush your ear. "Thought you could hide? Run from a god?"

His grip tightens, enough to bruise. "You're mine. Always have been."