A Luna And A Whore

The smell of lavender and sickness clung to the air.Jasmine sat at the edge of the bed, her fingers curled tight around a ceramic mug she no longer had the strength to lift. Steam drifted lazily upward, but her mother hadn’t taken a sip. Not in hours.Outside the window, dusk bled into the sky, painting the trees in hues of dying gold. The wind rattled the glass, as if the forest itself grieved with them. Jasmine could hear the soft ticking of the old clock in the hallway, each second stretching longer than the last, like time didn’t want to move forward without her mother in it.“Ma,” she whispered, voice hoarse from crying. “You want me to open the window?”Her mother didn’t respond. Just the softest movement beneath the blanket…a twitch of fingers, a shallow breath.She looked like a ghost already.Her once-full frame had withered into something fragile, bones sharp beneath pale skin. Her lips were dry, cracking at the corners. Jasmine reached for the damp cloth and dabbed them ge

The rain came down in torrents, a relentless assault against the windows of the Blackfang Pack’s stronghold. The wind lashed the glass, each gust a howling beast, each raindrop a clawing hand. Inside, the room swam in shadows, thick and choking, as if the darkness had a life of its own.A man stood at the center of it, tall and unyielding, framed by the dim, struggling moonlight. His broad shoulders cast a long shadow against the stone wall, his jaw tight beneath the dark, tousled hair that hung like a mane around his face. Roger, the Alpha. The Almighty.The air was taut with his presence. Dangerous. Electric. The kind that made wolves tuck their tails and men swallow their pride.On the table before him lay a bow and a single arrow, its shaft gleaming silver. Roger’s fingers traced the curve of the bow, each callus brushing against the wood as though reacquainting himself with an old lover. The arrow’s point gleamed, wicked and sharp, as he lifted it, weighing its balance, feeling t

The House of Solace breathed in twilight hush, the last violet threads of dusk dissolving into the velvet dark. A warm amber glow hummed low behind brocade curtains, casting silhouettes of bodies and smoke onto the walls. Jasmine moved like she always did at this hour...... not with haste, not with hesitation...... but with the slow elegance of a secret being kept.She passed by the main parlor without glancing in, even though she felt the weight of eyes from within. Men lounged like softened wax across plush settees, their desire simmering just beneath the surface, held in check only by the rules of this place...... and by her refusal to be caught.Her scent was a paradox...... gardenia and cigarette ash, innocence tangled with ruin. A client once said she smelled like a prayer whispered by a sinner. She had smiled then, slow and cruel, and walked away before he could offer his devotion.They called her Jasmine, but never sweetly. Her name floated through the halls like an unanswered

The same night. Where dreams break skin.The moon did not rise. It arrived—like a god who no longer asked permission.It spilled through the window above Jasmine’s bed in thick sheets of silver, catching in the soft waves of her hair, gilding her throat, her collarbone, the curve of one hip slipping from beneath the quilt. Her sleep was not quiet. Not the sleep of peace. It was a sleep stretched thin by the edges of hunger. Of something coming. Something watching.Her fingers twitched first. A single, slow curl like a secret tightening around her.Then her breathing shifted—no longer soft and steady, but caught... trembling on a rhythm not her own. She lay there, half-tangled in velvet sheets that remembered the sweat of pleasure, the scent of Elora’s oils and power, her limbs splayed like she had once begged and once bitten, and neither had been enough.The House of Solace slumbered around her. Girls curled like cats in window seats. Candles guttered. Wine stains dried on lipsticked

The parlor glowed with the amber hush of candlelight, each flame trembling like a secret about to be whispered. Incense slithered through the air.....honeysuckle, something muskier beneath. Velvet hung in thick folds over the tall windows, sealing the room like a memory, and the women of the House of Solace were scattered like jewels, lounging on settees and polished arms of chairs, casting laughter and lashes at whichever man they had chosen to devour.Jasmine sat apart.She wore a wine-colored slip of silk, so thin it clung to her skin like breath. Her legs were folded beneath her, and her gaze traced the rim of her glass as though reading a fortune in the shape of the red wine. She was not looking at the door when it opened, nor when he entered—but every muscle in her body knew the exact moment he stepped through.Not Roger.Not anyone she knew.He moved like winter. Slow, assessing, tall enough to command a room with posture alone. His coat was tailored black, the collar slightly