The moon hung like a bleeding eye in the sky, full and swollen, casting a silver heat across the courtyard stones. The night air pulsed with tension. Jasmine stood in the middle of Blackfang's sacred arena, not in chains, not bound... but wrapped in silk that clung to her curves like a whispered sin.
Her gown was black and sheer, slit to her hips on either side, baring the strong lines of her legs, the shimmer of oil on skin. Gold ink marked the swell of her breasts and the dip of her collarbone, painted in ancient sigils meant to test her lineage, to confirm what she already knew:
She was no one’s prey.
A low growl echoed from the stone gallery above her. Dozens of wolves watched. Elders. Alphas. Blooded warriors. And somewhere in the dark, Roger watched too.
She could feel him.
She
