The Blackfang sparring yard smelled like sweat, blood, and the kind of want that clung to the skin long after the fight ended. Dust floated in sunlit shafts that cut through the tree-filtered sky, catching on the curve of Jasmine’s hip as she stood barefoot in the ring, a strip of black fabric knotted at her chest, barely covering her breasts. Her thighs gleamed with sweat. Her mouth wore the kind of smile that made men forget who they were.
Across from her, Roger rolled his shoulders, muscles flexing beneath the leather cords strapped across his chest. He watched her not like a man, but like something more primal. Something that had stopped pretending to be civilized.
“You planning to fight in that?” he asked, voice a gravel-coated drawl that curled around her spine.
Jasmine stretched,
