Semua Bab A Luna And A Whore : Bab 41 - Bab 50

The training ring behind the Blackfang barracks wasn’t meant for elegance. No chandeliers here. No velvet. Just dirt, sweat, and the constant reek of dominance battles pressed into the ground. The torches ringed the space in flickering amber light, casting long shadows across the dust-caked stone.Jasmine stood at the edge, barefoot, her hair braided tightly down her back. The skin beneath her black tunic gleamed with the aftermath of heat and moonlight. She cracked her knuckles one at a time, slow, deliberate, as if each pop of bone was a declaration.Kade leaned against the wooden post, shirtless. Scarred. Smirking. His eyes didn’t leer—they challenged. “I didn’t think you’d show.”“Then you haven’t been paying attention,” Jasmine said, stepping into the ring.He followed, slow, dragging his gaze over her body. Not with lust.With calculation.The circle was silent. No guards. No pack. Just the two of them. The air between them charged like lightning about to break.“No weapons?” he

The scent hit her before the sound did.Heat. Musk. Wine. Sweat.It rolled through the corridor like fog rising from a river of want.Jasmine moved slowly, deliberately, each step echoing down the long marble hall as if the stones themselves remembered desire. Her gown... if it could be called that... clung like a lover’s tongue. Bare-backed, slit high enough to scandalize saints, it was black velvet cut into sin, dripping off her hips in heavy, deliberate waves. No jewelry. No perfume. Just skin... scented by instinct.She didn’t knock at the great door.She didn’t ask for permission.She pushed it open.And walked into the room like a lit match dropped in a drought.It wasn’t a party.It was a ritual.Laughter, moans, the low growl of wolves who hadn’t shifted, who clung to human form only because flesh allowed more access. Cushions scattered across the floor. Torches flickering. Silk sheets hanging from beams like captured ghosts. And in the center of it all—power.Naked, glowing,

The forest was thick with scent and silence.Moonlight poured like liquid bone through the canopy, washing the clearing in silver so bright it made the shadows seem alive. Jasmine stepped barefoot through the tall grass, her silk robe trailing behind her like smoke, her skin kissed by dew and the echo of unsatisfied hunger.She had run until the house vanished. Until the walls of Solace became a memory stitched into lace and velvet. Now there was only air. And trees. And him.Roger was already waiting.Leaning against an old stone outcropping like a beast who knew every inch of the territory he ruled. Shirtless. The long column of his throat gleaming in the light. Hands at his sides, not fisted—but still dangerous. The kind of danger that didn’t bark.The kind that hunted in stillness.Jasmine didn’t stop walking. Didn’t blink.She’d danced for them all. She’d moaned for the court like her body was music, like every sigh had teeth. But none of that had been real. Not like this.Roger w

The moon was full but shy, veiled behind bruised clouds that barely parted as morning cracked open like a ribcage.By the time the sun bled gold across Blackfang’s stone courtyard, the summons had already been issued. A gathering. A formal audience. The kind Jasmine had grown used to watching others endure, but never standing at the center of. This time, she was the center.And the wolves were hungry.The hall had been prepared. Silk banners in silver and blood-red swayed gently overhead, and the dais was polished until it gleamed like a throat just before the bite. Elders lined the curved walls in ceremonial coats, their eyes shining with curiosity, calculation, and desire.They wanted to see the girl who had upset their hierarchy.The Omega who didn’t kneel.And Roger stood waiting for her. Not in his usual black, but something close to regal—wolf-dark armor, burnished leather, silver threading at his cuffs. He looked like war dressed as royalty.But Jasmine didn’t come like a bride.

The morning after Jasmine’s refusal rippled through Blackfang like a fever that refused to break.The walls of the keep held it tightly—this tension, this knowing. The scent of her still clung to the feasting hall, layered beneath spiced wine and sweat. The table had not been cleaned. The silk she’d torn from her body still draped the head of the table like a flag in a conquered land.Some called her queen.Others called her dangerous.But no one said nothing.The pack was splitting—and it began with a moan.In the sparring yards, blades clashed harder than usual. Warriors fought without training rules, without rhythm. Some bore the marks of restraint—teeth nearly sunk into throats. Others had already snapped. Blood speckled the stones.They were restless. Hungry. Caught in that maddening place between reverence and rage.And she hadn’t left her chambers since dawn.Inside, Jasmine stood naked at the window, her breath fogging the glass.She could feel them.Down below, Blackfang puls