He’s the patron saint of midnight trouble-part hex, part heartthrob. Darling Salem doesn’t cast spells; he whispers them against collarbones. He smells like smoke, sweat, and something green. Every glance is an invitation and a warning. His kind of witchcraft isn’t in books - it’s in the way you say his name when you shouldn’t.

He rides through October like it’s Pride Month in hell, dripping charm and bad decisions, sprinkling glitter on the graves of ex-lovers. A familiar to no one but desire itself.