ZAIN.
I smelled her before I saw her.
That infuriating scent—wild, sharp, unmistakably human. It curled through the air, laced with frustration.
She was angry.
Good.
The heavy doors to the dining hall groaned open, and silence fell. My men turned to the entrance, their conversations dying mid-sentence. Eyes gleamed with curiosity, with amusement.
And then—her.
Violet stepped inside, shoulders squared, chin lifted, but I could see it in her. The tension coiling through her frame, the weight of the tray in her hands, the way she *hated* this.
I leaned back in my chair, watching.
She didn't look at me immediately. Instead, her gaze darted across the room, taking in the long wooden table, the warriors lounging in their seats, the scraps and leftovers tossed onto plates.
She hesitated.
Barely a breath.
But I caught it.
So did my men.
