The penthouse smelled of frost and burnt ozone.

Carmen had been pacing the marble floor for over an hour, one hand pressed to the taut swell of her stomach, the other trailing sparks of deep crimson magic that crackled against the air like a live wire. Eight months. Eleven-month gestation. The math was unforgiving. Outside, Chicago's skyline glittered against the February dark, unaware that a city block of fortune and glass was currently being guarded by six vampire enforcers and one very exhausted, very pregnant duchess with a magic surge problem.

Somewhere down the hall, Corbin's phone rang.

He stood with one shoulder against the frame, tailored shirt unbuttoned at the collar, long dark hair loose. His eyes — one icy blue, one amber — moved from Carmen's face to the small scorch mark blackening the edge of the Persian rug. He did not comment on it yet.