The smell of burnt jasmine woke her.
Janine blinked slowly, her body sore in the most indulgent way. Her thighs ached where Ciro’s fingers had clutched her. The soft pull between her legs, the dampness still clinging to her, reminded her of how completely he had taken her and how greedily she’d given herself.
The bed was empty.
Her palm moved instinctively to the warmth left behind on the sheets. No blood, no regrets. Only heat. Ciro Hitchdulf’s heat.
She rose from the tangled bedding, wrapping herself in a worn robe, brushing fingers through wild curls. Her mirror reflected something new in her eyes—a dark glow that hadn’t been there before. Like something in her had been stoked into existence.
She padded to the hearth, where the embers of last night’s ward-fire still glowed. Someone had reignited it.
A folded note waited beside a bowl of cinnamon bark and broken boneleaf petals.
*Gone to settle a debt. Stay in the house. You’re not ready for what hunts you.*
His handwriting was shar
