The scent hit her before the sound did.
Heat. Musk. Wine. Sweat.
It rolled through the corridor like fog rising from a river of want.
Jasmine moved slowly, deliberately, each step echoing down the long marble hall as if the stones themselves remembered desire. Her gown... if it could be called that... clung like a lover’s tongue. Bare-backed, slit high enough to scandalize saints, it was black velvet cut into sin, dripping off her hips in heavy, deliberate waves. No jewelry. No perfume. Just skin... scented by instinct.
She didn’t knock at the great door.
She didn’t ask for permission.
She pushed it open.
And walked into the room like a lit match dropped in a drought.
It wasn’t a party.
It was a ritual.
Laughter, moans, the low growl of wolves who hadn’t shifted, who clung to hum
