The walls were older in this wing of the stronghold. Stone layered over stone, blackened in some places with old fire, smoothed in others by the brush of bodies long dead. The floor clicked beneath Jasmine’s heels... polished, echoing, deliberate. Everything in Blackfang was too deliberate.
She walked like the click of her steps meant something.
And maybe they did.
Her dress was midnight blue and slit up the side, scandalously high. It swayed with every step like it had been poured onto her skin instead of sewn. The bodice pressed tight against her ribs, her breasts half-swallowed in silk and suggestion. No jewelry. No scent. Just her.
No one had told her what to wear for the Council’s convening. But she had learned long ago… if men want you clothed in fear, show up in skin instead.
S
