The Imprint

One

Alyssa's POV:

The scent of blooming gardenias drifted through the penthouse, mixing with jasmine oil and the light citrus swirl of her hair mist. Alyssa Stevens stood barefoot in front of the floor-to-ceiling windows, her golden-brown curls tucked into a loose bun and a silk robe cinched around her waist like a whisper. The city stretched below her-loud, hungry, alive. She liked watching it from above, where the sirens sounded like lullabies and the horns were just faint reminders that people were still chasing something.

She watered the last of her orchids, whispering to the petals like old friends. The magic pulsed lightly beneath her skin, a soft thrumming that never left her alone. She'd learned long ago how to tuck it away, how to exist like a normal girl in a world too cynical to believe in fairytales.

But she wasn't normal.

She was half of something ancient-fae blood on her mother's side, southern grit from her father. Her wings only appeared when she willed them to, and she hadn't let them out in years, not since she left Georgia. Here in Manhattan, there was no room for wings or whispers. She was just Alyssa: the florist from SoHo with an impossibly perfect Instagram aesthetic and a knack for making strangers cry in her shop because somehow, she always knew exactly what flowers they needed.

She liked it that way. Quiet magic. Secret healing. Invisible glow.

Her phone buzzed on the kitchen island. A text from her mom, another photo of the garden back home.

Alyssa didn't respond.

Instead, she walked out onto the balcony, the cool air brushing against her skin like the hush of a spell. She leaned on the railing, closed her eyes, and let her magic breathe.

A moment later, she felt it-that flicker. A thread pulling tight. Someone watching.

She opened her eyes.

Next door, on the adjacent penthouse balcony, a tall man leaned against the metal railing. Shadowed in low light, muscles cut beneath a black T-shirt, arms crossed over a chest inked in stories. His face was sharp and still. A dark, kind of patchy beard, neat straight-back braids, strong jaw. He didn't smile. Didn't flinch. Just looked at her with eyes that held too many winters and not enough warmth.

Alyssa blinked. He didn't look away.

"Evenin'," she called softly, her Southern drawl slipping in like sugar.

He nodded once. "Evenin'."

His voice was gravel, deep and cool like river stone.

Alyssa tilted her head, studying him. He felt... solid. Like earth. Like storms that never moved fast, just waited.

"What's your name?" she asked.

"David," he said. "Moved in today."

"You like it up here?"

He paused. "Quiet enough."

Alyssa smiled, even though he didn't. Then she turned and slipped back into her apartment without another word.

David's POV

The penthouse was too clean. Too bright. The kind of space that looked like a magazine ad, all sleek marble and glass walls. David Brewster dropped the last box on the kitchen counter and rolled his shoulders. He'd spent the past week juggling invoices and overseeing concrete pours for the high-rise in Brooklyn-his latest contract. He wasn't used to places like this. Hell, he still couldn't believe they'd approved his application.

But money talked. And his money was straight now.

Seven years ago, he'd been wearing orange and counting bricks on a prison yard wall. Now, he owned Brewster Build & Co., a legitimate construction business with 30 employees and three full-time site leads. Still, he didn't bother with celebration. The streets didn't care about your LLC, and neither did the past.