Chapter 5: THE CHEST BENEATH HER BED

The hallway outside Jasmine’s room moaned like an old woman, wood swelling and sighing in the heat that had not yet broken. The candle she carried burned low, its wax dribbling down her wrist like white blood, unnoticed. Her bare feet made no sound on the Persian runner, but the walls heard her. They always had.

Behind her, the House of Solace softened into sleep. Velvet laughter faded into the hush of closing doors, silk whispering against skin, muffled gasps folded into pillows. The scent of pleasure still clung to the air—opium, sweat, the hot-spilled musk of men who wanted to forget. But Jasmine was wide awake.

Inside her room, the mirror caught her like it always did: untamed. The red silk robe she’d thrown on hung open, careless, the shadows of her collarbones sharp enough to slice moonlight. Her curls were a storm over one shoulder. She looked like a woman who had just ruined someone’s life...... and had done it slowly.

But tonight, there was no client. No hungry stare to meet with sharper hunger. No lips to read like scripture. No coins slid beneath her door.

Only that dream. That voice she couldn’t name.

Her fingers trembled as she dropped the candle into a crystal basin, then dropped to her knees. The rug was thick, but she knew the edge of the floorboard by touch now. The exact grain that felt different. It had taken her a year to realize what it was.

The hidden latch gave way with a little sigh, as though the floor itself was tired of keeping secrets.

The chest was small—cedar, iron-braced, old. Its surface was scratched by time, but its lock was newer, glinting gold in the dark. She reached for the key she always wore around her neck, tucked between her breasts, next to the throb of her pulse.

The click was delicate. Almost shy.

When she opened it, the perfume hit her first.

It wasn’t hers.

It wasn’t anyone’s in the House, either—not floral or spiced, not meant to intoxicate. No, this scent was wilder. Damp moss. Ashes. A bloom crushed underfoot before it had time to open. Her mother’s scent. Not from the bottles Elora had kept, but from memory. From the smell of skin pressed to a child’s hair during storms.

Her eyes burned.

Inside, the chest held only three things.

A bundle of letters, tied with black ribbon.

A small velvet pouch, which she did not open.

And a carved box made of something dark and cold to the touch, humming faintly with something ancient.

She picked up the letters first.

The ribbon came undone too easily. These had been read before. By someone. Maybe more than once. But never by her.

The first envelope was addressed in ink that bled at the edges, soft and frantic. No name. Just one word.

“Daughter.”

She sat back on her heels and unfolded it carefully. The paper was old, but not crumbling. Her mother’s handwriting danced across the page like smoke—slanted, elegant, just a little mad.

“If you’re reading this, then the wind has turned. The sea has risen. The blood has begun to sing again. My Jasmine... my wild girl made of fire and honey...”

Jasmine stopped. Her throat was too tight.

Outside, a low howl cut through the night like silk tearing.

It couldn’t be a wolf. Not here. Not this deep in the city. But her skin still prickled as if teeth had pressed against her neck.

She kept reading.

“You were never meant to be caged. The House kept you safe, yes, but not soft. Elora was only ever the gatekeeper. The world outside is not ready for you, my darling. And still—you must go. When the time comes, follow the call. You will know it not by sound, but by ache. Your blood will tell you where to go.”

There were more pages. Too many to read in one night. And something inside her said she shouldn’t—not all at once. Her mother had scattered truths like breadcrumbs, not meals. If she swallowed them whole, she’d choke.

She set the letter aside with care, each fold a tiny prayer.

Then her fingers curled around the velvet pouch.

Inside, she felt the cool slide of metal against her palm. Rings. Not jewels. Symbols. One bore a crescent moon etched in silver. Another, a wolf's head, mouth open in eternal snarl. The third was plain—save for a single red stone, no bigger than a tear. She did not try them on. They were not ornaments. They were warnings.

The carved box waited.

It was heavier than it looked. The lid stuck for a moment, then opened with a soft groan, like something exhaling after too long in the dark.

Inside, nestled on black velvet, was a small glass vial.

The liquid inside was opalescent, shifting colors like moonlight through storm clouds. She didn’t need to unstopper it to know it would smell like the forest just before lightning struck.

She reached for it...... paused.

A faint heat bloomed in her lower back, throbbed in her belly. The same ache that had begun in dreams. That same electric hum.

Her body remembered something her mind did not.

She closed the box gently.

And then—the knock.

Three soft taps.

No one knocked at her door.

Her robe fell closed without her telling it to. She rose slowly, like something being summoned, and crossed the room in silence.

When she opened it, the hallway beyond was empty.

Only the faintest wisp of smoke hung in the air. And a single red rose lay on her doorstep.

Its stem was black with thorns.

Jasmine bent, picked it up, and didn’t flinch when a thorn bit her thumb.

The drop of blood bloomed crimson across the petals.

She smiled faintly.

Then licked it off.

Behind her, the chest still lay open. The vial shimmered like breath in the dark. And from somewhere just outside the window, a second howl peeled through the night—closer this time.

Lower.

Hungrier.

And this time, Jasmine did not pretend she hadn’t been waiting for it.