Jace barely remembered walking home.
The city blurred around him—headlights, streetlamps, the soft hum of night pressing in from every corner. But it wasn't the usual kind of buzz, not the familiar static of late-night air. It was alive. Electric. Like something invisible was brushing along his skin.
By the time he pushed open the door to his third-floor apartment, his body was still pulsing. Like a low-grade fever that didn't hurt, just hummed under the surface. Steady. Hungry.
He tossed his jacket onto the couch and stood there for a second, staring at the wall. His chest still glowed faintly beneath his shirt. That same weird mark from the alley—swirling lines and a faint reddish hue like a fresh bruise that had learned how to breathe.
He yanked his shirt off.
The mark was still there, pulsing slowly like it had a heartbeat. It didn't hurt. But it felt… aware. Like it was watching him from the inside.
"What the hell are you?" he muttered.
The mirror over the sink caught his reflection, and he stepped closer, gripping the edge of the counter.
Same face. Same sharp jaw, tired eyes, unshaven stubble. But something in his eyes looked different. Brighter. Wilder. Like whatever happened in that alley had scraped something awake inside him.
And then there was the heat. Low in his gut. Not just lust—though yeah, that was there too, stronger than usual—but something heavier. Weightier. Like desire meant something different now.
Lira's voice echoed in his head.
"Desire fuels you."
"They'll come for you now."
He snorted. "Yeah, sure. And I'm the next Spirit Pope or whatever."
Still, he couldn't stop thinking about her. The way her lips felt. The spark that went off when their bodies touched. The way his mind had just… opened.
It didn't feel like a dream.
And dreams didn't leave glowing tattoos on your chest.
He turned on the shower, letting the water steam up the small bathroom, and stepped in. It didn't help. If anything, the heat just stirred everything up more. Every drop on his skin felt sharper, more… there. His senses were amped. He could hear the faucet's rhythm, feel the water's temperature shifting from hot to just too hot, smell the leftover cinnamon from the body wash his ex left behind six months ago.
And then, there was the knock.
Three short raps at the door. Sharp. Confident.
Jace froze, dripping.
No one knocked at this hour. And nobody he knew came by unannounced.
He grabbed a towel, wrapped it low on his waist, and opened the door just enough to see.
She leaned against the frame like she belonged there.
Short red leather jacket. Tight black jeans. Short bobbed hair. Nose ring glinting under the hallway light.
Lena.
His neighbor. Trouble in boots. And someone he'd flirted with maybe three times before deciding she was too much work—and probably too much fire.
"I heard yelling. You good?" she asked, looking him over.
Jace blinked. "Uh… yeah. No yelling."
"You sure?" She tilted her head, eyes flicking down to his bare chest. "You look… flushed."
"I just got out of the shower."
She raised an eyebrow. "Must've been a hell of a shower. You're glowing."
He paused.
Shit.
The mark. It was still lit. Dull, but there. Barely visible in the hallway light, but enough for someone paying attention.
Lena stepped closer before he could think of something clever. Her fingers brushed against his chest, right over the mark.
"What is that?"
Jace grabbed her wrist instinctively, not hard, just enough to stop her.
"Nothing. Tattoo."
She smirked. "It moved."
"It's a good tattoo."
"Mm." Her gaze lifted to his eyes. "You high?"
"No."
"Then what's this heat rolling off you?" she asked, her voice dropping just slightly. "You feel like… lightning."
He didn't answer. Couldn't. Because she wasn't wrong. And because her wrist was still in his hand, warm and soft, and suddenly the space between them felt way too small.
Lena leaned in a bit more. Her voice was quieter now, laced with something that wasn't exactly concern.
"You ever feel like something's about to happen, but you're not sure if it's sex or violence?"
Jace stared at her for a beat.
Then he let go of her wrist and stepped back, still dripping, still wearing nothing but the towel.
"Come in."
She didn't hesitate.
The door clicked shut behind her, and the apartment suddenly felt smaller. Hotter.
She brushed past him slowly, almost on purpose, walking straight to the small kitchenette like she'd been there a hundred times.
"You're acting weird," she said, leaning against the counter. "Like you've got a secret."
"Do you want a drink?" he asked, reaching for a bottle of cheap whiskey.
She tilted her head. "Only if you're pouring."
As he grabbed two glasses, he could feel her watching him. Like a cat watches a mouse that might bite back.
He poured. Handed her one. Their fingers brushed. That same spark.
Not like with Lira. Not as sharp. But there. Real.
Lena's eyes flicked to his towel again. "If you're trying to seduce me, Ryker… you don't need the whiskey."
He took a sip. "I'm not trying to seduce you."
She stepped closer. "So it's working, then."
He didn't know who moved first. Maybe it didn't matter. One second she was inches away, next her hand was on his bare chest again, mouth brushing his.
And when they kissed—it wasn't soft.
It was hungry.
Her lips were demanding. Jace responded without thinking. His body moved on instinct. Her jacket hit the floor, followed by her shirt. The towel dropped somewhere between the living room and the bedroom. Skin on skin. Tongues. Breath. Hands.
And through it all, that heat inside him burned brighter.
The mark on his chest pulsed in time with their movements. He didn't understand it yet. Didn't need to.
Because for the first time in his life, Jace wasn't just feeling lust.
He was feeding on it.
And it felt good