She didn’t dream that night.
Sleep refused to come after surrender. Jasmine lay tangled in velvet sheets that still smelled of heat and skin and the wet earth where he had taken her. Her body thrummed, low and coiled like a harp still quivering from the strike.
Roger had left her aching.
Not with pain. Not even with pleasure. But with something worse... the ghost of him, the heavy absence of teeth never quite biting. The promise of ruin that hadn’t yet come. Her thighs still burned where his mouth had lingered. Her skin smelled of pine and sweat and s*x.
And Jasmine knew the pack would smell it too.
Morning in Blackfang was brutal in its stillness. Mist clung to the barracks and stone arches like silk dressing a corpse. Wolves sparred in silence, fists cracking against bone, the clang
