"The thing about Almond was… she never blinked first."
Almond didn't belong in the light, but damn, she wore it like it owed her rent.
The morning sun brushed the gold undertones of her skin—brown like melted bronze, smooth like quiet danger. She had that look about her: almost too much, almost too bare. Her septum wasn't pierced, but you could swear it should've been. Her lower lip had that permanent temptation curve, like something once belonged there—a silver ring, maybe. Gone now, or never there at all. Just vibes. Chaos. Beauty laced with menace.
Her fingers, long and unhurried, bore traces of fading ink around her knuckles—lines of tattoos that never quite made it to the skin, but lingered in the air around her like perfume. Anyone who stood too close could almost hear them hum.
She moved through Temple Street like sin in stiletto heels.
A black dress clung to her body like whispered promises. Her belt was a real chain—thick and silver, swaying like it had punished someone before. She wore no jewelry, no earrings, no rings. Just presence. That kind that left men haunted and women second-guessing their sexuality.
She stopped outside a flower shop, white lilies blooming behind the glass. The scent of roses couldn't touch her.
The bell above the door jingled when she walked in.
"Good morning," the florist said. Old. Shaky. Dressed like kindness.
Almond gave her a smile that could've melted steel.
"I'm looking for lilies," she said softly. "White ones. They pretend to be pure."
"For a wedding?"
A beat.
"No. A funeral."
The florist blinked. Almond ran a finger across the petal of one bloom like she was petting a lover's throat.
"I like how flowers die soft," she murmured.
But she wasn't here for flowers.
She was tracking something. Or someone.
This city wasn't like others. It was laced in old blood and older rules. Almond wasn't normal. She wasn't safe. She wasn't even sane. But she was powerful. A villain in every lover's story. A godsend in the eyes of monsters.
The scent hit her as she stepped back onto the sidewalk: iron, sulfur, sweat.
Supernatural blood. Spilled recently. Nearby.
She followed it like a siren follows shipwrecks.
Between a rusted jazz bar and a bookstore filled with forgotten poems, she found the trail. A body. Male. Mid-20s. Bitten by something unnatural. Not yet dead. Not worth saving.
And then—
Footsteps.
Slow. Sure. Heavy with arrogance.
He emerged from the shadows like a nightmare in designer leather. Six foot something. Shaved sides, wild black hair. Tattooed fingers. A scar slicing his brow. His eyes were mercury—cold and unreadable.
He smirked. "Almond."
She didn't flinch. "You again."
"I thought you didn't clean up other people's messes."
She looked at the man on the ground.
"I don't."
"But here you are."
Almond rose to her full height, the chain on her hips glinting like a threat. Her gaze roamed him—neck inked with symbols she knew how to unbind. Boots worn from walking roads he shouldn't have survived.
"You've been feeding off witches," she said. "Sloppy."
He stepped closer. "You've been watching me sleep."
"You leave your shields down on purpose."
"I like it when you watch."
"You're sick."
"You like it."
She smirked. "Maybe."
And that's when the tension coiled.
Like leather tightening around wrists. Like teeth biting a soft lower lip. Like danger asking for a dance and the devil saying yes.
He leaned in, close enough to touch. Almond didn't move.
"I want you," he said low. "Like a curse wants blood."
She tilted her head. "You want control. Not me."
"No. I want you. The parts you don't show."
Almond's laugh came soft and deadly.
"Careful," she said. "Wanting me is how people die."