The knock came again. She didn't answer it.
Jasmine sat on the edge of the bed, arms crossed tightly over her chest, her gaze sharp and unmoving on the door. She had no interest in playing dress-up for a monster. She didn't care how fine the silverware was or how grand the plates looked. Nothing about this place felt real. Or safe.
But the door creaked open anyway.
Three maids entered quietly, heads bowed as though they expected her to attack. The first one—a girl with a long braid and trembling hands—held a gown in her arms. It was a soft burgundy, with gold embroidery curling up the sleeves like flames. The kind of thing she might have loved once, when she was still free. When her body wasn't aching and her cheek wasn't swollen from Leviathan's slap.
Jasmine's lips pressed into a tight line.
She didn't speak. She didn't have to.
