Craving His Cursed Mate

Marisol’s POV

The rain in Iron Port didn't just fall; it punished. It was a cold, relentless assault that turned the neon lights of the High District into blurred smears of electric blue and poison pink against the asphalt.

I stood in the shadows of an alleyway across from The Obsidian, my boots soaking through and my heart hammering a rhythm against my ribs that felt like a war drum. Puta lluvia, I hissed under my breath, wiping a wet strand of hair from my eyes. My curls were a lost cause, a wild, frizzing halo that matched the storm brewing in my gut.

I wasn’t here for the thumping bass vibrating through the pavement. I wasn’t here for the overpriced vodka or the sight of the city’s elite pretend-playing at being predators.

I was here because Dante Valerius’s dogs had broken into my botanica at dawn, shattered my windows, and walked away with the only thing that kept the Vega bloodline from flickering out like a spent candle: El Corazón de la Vena. The Heart of the Vein.

"You’re going to get yourself killed, Marisol," I whispered to myself, the scent of wet sage and ozone clinging to my skin. "But if you don't go in there, Sofia doesn't have a future. And that is not an option."

My little sister’s face flashed in my mind—pale, sleeping, oblivious to the fact that the Syndicate was closing its iron fist around our throats. That memory was the gasoline. My rage was the match.

I stepped out of the shadows, my leather jacket creaking. I didn't look like a thief. I looked like a woman on a mission to ruin someone’s night.

Two bouncers stood at the front door—members of the Valerius Pack. I could tell by the way they stood; too still, too alert, their nostrils flaring as they scented the air. They were looking for trouble. They were looking for me.

"Time for a little distraction," I muttered.

I reached into my pocket and pulled out a small, jagged piece of copper wire wrapped in dried hibiscus. I closed my eyes, reaching down into that hum of energy beneath the city—the Vein. It felt like a live wire touching my soul. I didn't need a grand ritual. I was a Vega. I was the "crazy ass" witch the neighborhood kids were told to avoid.

I whispered a single word in Spanish, a jagged syllable that tasted like copper and smoke. ¡Rómpelo!

I flicked my fingers. A tiny, invisible pulse of static electricity shot across the street, precise as a sniper’s bullet. It hit the bouncers' ear-pieces.

A sharp, high-pitched squeal erupted from their radios. Both men winced, clutching their ears as the feedback screeched through their skulls. One of them dropped his flashlight, cursing in a guttural growl that was halfway to a howl.

"Move, perra," I told myself, darting across the street while they were disoriented.

I didn't head for the front door. I knew the layout of this place better than the wolves realized—my grandmother had helped build the foundations of this city back when the Valerius family were still licking their paws in Europe. I slipped through the service entrance, my magic hummed in my fingertips as I "convinced" the electronic lock to forget it was closed.

Inside, the atmosphere shifted. The air was thick with the scent of expensive tobacco, sweat, and the musk of over-privileged shifters. The bass from the dance floor felt like a physical weight, thudding against my chest, vibrating the very marrow of my bones.

I moved through the back hallways, my eyes darting. Every time a suit-clad guard walked past, I pressed myself into the shadows, holding my breath until my lungs burned. My magic was itching to lash out, to set the velvet curtains on fire and watch this den of wolves burn, but I had to be smart. For Sofia. For the Low Quarter.