The room was nothing like the others in Blackfang.
No velvet. No firelight. No seduction laced in wine or shadows.
This chamber was stone and bone. Cold in the walls. Ancient in the scent. Carvings spiraled over every surface... glyphs etched in claw and blood. The center held a shallow pit, the floor covered in thick white ash that pulsed faintly, like it remembered heat.
Jasmine stood at the edge of it, barefoot again, a thin tunic clinging to her curves like fog. Her breath fogged in front of her.
Behind her, Roger’s voice cut through the stillness.
“Remove it.”
She didn’t turn.
The tension between them had become a third presence... an entity with breath and teeth.
“Is this part of the lesson?” she asked, her voice all smoke and silk.
“No,” Roger said. “It’s part of the ritual
