The first thing Lena noticed when she pushed open the heavy glass door was the smell—ink, leather, and something sharp that curled in the back of her throat like smoke. The shop was dim, lit by a row of industrial lamps that swung low over steel counters cluttered with needles, gloves, ink caps, and designs tacked onto the walls.

And then there was him.

Jace Ochra.

She had seen him before—at the bar near her office, at the corner bodega late at night, once leaning against his ...