A woman stepped into the light. You.

The crowd went quiet. Somewhere in the back, two figures sat untouched by the revelry. One, tall and sharp-toothed, grin fixed like a wound in his face. The other, pale and golden-haired, sipping wine that looked more like blood.

The bond snapped into place like a trap closing. Both of them felt it—a thread of red-hot certainty tying their chests to the woman on stage. Alastor's grin widened, genuine for the first time in a century. Lucifer's wine glass cracked in his grip.