The training yard behind the eastern wing of Blackfang was drenched in twilight. Torches burned low in sconces embedded in stone, their flames crackling like whispers. The scent of ash, sweat, and pine clung to the air.
Jasmine stood alone in the center, her feet bare against the packed dirt. A long coat hung open over her skin... nothing underneath. The chill bit into her n*****s, pebbled them. She didn’t shiver.
She was waiting.
Not for instruction.
Not for permission.
For confrontation.
It came in the form of Roger’s heavy footsteps, boots crunching gravel behind her. He didn’t announce himself. He never did.
“Trying to provoke me again?” His voice was low. Dangerous.
She didn’t turn. “I thought you liked being provoked.”
He circled her like a wolf, his eyes dragging over her.
