The hall where the pack gathered was nothing like the opulence of the House of Solace. There were no velvet drapes, no mirrored ceilings, no honeyed perfume clinging to the air. Here, the walls were stone and rough timber, the hearths spitting with flames that cast long shadows over iron fixtures. But the men inside still lounged like kings, still held their drinks with slow arrogance and watched her like they deserved to devour her.
Jasmine walked through the smoke and warmth, and the world narrowed to the sway of her hips and the flick of her gaze. She wore black. Not mourning-black, not submission-black. Her gown was midnight silk, slit to her hip, with sheer panels that shimmered like water. No jewelry. No paint. Just lips the color of bruised plums and a mouth that moved like a praye
