The scent hit me first. Not just the crisp cold of the ice rink, but him. Raymond. His cheap, cloying cologne mixed with the clean sweat of exertion. And he was standing too close to her. My Antalya.

I’d been away for three days, handling pack business that felt trivial compared to the need crawling under my skin to see her, to smell her, to claim her. And this is what I find? My brother, a serpent in my garden, hissing poison in her ear.

I stayed hidden in the shadow of the entrance, my ...