The guard's voice had carried through the door like a sealed verdict.
"Supreme requests a private dinner." Not "asks" or "requests"; the way kings "requested" obedience.
Felicity kept her voice soft and compliant.
"I'll be ready."
When the footsteps retreated, she let the sweetness drop from her face like a mask sliding off skin. The room stayed warm and had clean sheets. Heated basin. Soft fabric is folded on the chair. Comfort built like a cage.
Ivan stood near the window, posture casual, eyes anything but.
She moved to the basin and began washing properly, slowly and deliberately. Not because she wanted to be pretty. Because scent started with cleanliness. Old smoke and blood muddied the signal. If she was going to weaponise what she was, she needed her scent sharp, not drowned in ruins.
Foxes didn't just smell; they communicated.
