When Mykael Frost—Santa, but not the saint from carols—swipes right, the North misses a beat and fate answers from Kansas City. He’s winter in a sharper silhouette: immortal at thirty-eight, mahogany-dark, silver-eyed, and far more blade than bell.
Sa’Niedra is the match that won’t let go. Their first brush crackles like a record finding its...
