Connor had instructed Jordan Reed to lay out a spread of ceremonial silks for my choosing. Among the vibrant textiles, he had hand-picked a gown of spun gold, form-fitting and etched with intricate ink-black swirls that mimicked the ancient calligraphy of the Eastern packs. He was radiant when he saw me emerge in it—unique and lethal, a classic elegance that only a High Luna could carry.
Connor stood behind me in the mirror of the Vale Hills Estate, his massive frame a protective shadow against my back. He wound his arms around my waist, his touch a brand. "You are a masterpiece, Ava. A relic of a more graceful age. Thank you for choosing the gold; you have the instincts of a queen."
I leaned my head back against his shoulder, smiling at our reflection. I hadn't realized how much "scent"
