Submission is Not My Style novel Chapter 35

I roll my eyes. Exaggeration much? 

If she only knew I had held silver with my bare hands and didn’t burn. 

But I don’t tell her. 

Some things are better, left unsaid. 

The moment Jasmine disappears, I let out a slow breath and take the chance to admire the place properly. It’s like a hidden sanctuary–a little piece of heaven carved inside a tree–but then my gaze lands on the real treastire. 

The table. 

Piled high with fresh berries, peaches, apples, and other fruits I can’t even name. My stomach growls in approval. Without a second thought, I grab a handful of berries and stuff them into my mouth greedily. Then another. And another. Their juices burst against my tongue, sweet and tangy, making me ravenous for more. 

Before I know it, I’ve devoured half the table. 

And then it hits me. Shit. 

A violent wave of nausea rolls through me. I slap a hand over my mouth as my stomach churns in protest, barely making it to the nearest door before! feel like I’m going to be sick. 

I shove it open without thinking- 

Only to freeze. 

Jasmine stands in front of a mirror, her back to me, mid–motion of removing her shirt. My mouth opens to apologise, but the words die in my throat. 

Because that’s when I see them. 

As the fabric slides down her shoulders, pale skin is revealed, marred with scars. Long, jagged, brutal. Some fresh and raw, others old and faded, crisscrossing over her back like she’d been torn apart and barely stitched back together. A web of pain carved into her flesh. 

Bruises–red and angry–mark her spine like she’s been attacked by something wild. 

A sharp gasp escapes me before I can stop it. 

Jasmine whirls around, her silver eyes wide with shock. “Shit,” she mutters under her breath, yanking her shirt back on in a hurry. Her hands tremble slightly as she buttons it up, jaw clenched. 

“Who the fuck did that to you?” I demand, my stomach twisting, the nausea from the fruit long forgotten. 

Jasmine glares. “It’s none of your damn business.” 

There’s a flash of defensiveness in her eyes–panic. 

“We’re supposed to be friends, aren’t we?” I throw her words back at her, my voice sharp. 

She flinches. But instead of responding, her irises darken for a split second, as if a shadow passes over them. And then I realise–she’s communicating with someone. 

don’t miss the way her skin pales. 

Or the way fear creeps into her expression, tightening her jaw, stiffening her posture. 

Who the hell is making Jack’s sister–this bold, sharp–tongued woman–look like a terrified little girl? 

Before I can demand answers, Jasmine turns on her heel and bolts. She doesn’t say a word or even look at me. 

I stand there, alone, the silence pressing in. 

Dragging a hand down my face, I groan. “Why the hell did I pry?” I sigh, rubbing my temples. “Why couldn’t I just mind my own damn business?” 

But the question lingers in my mind. 

Does Jack know? 

Does he know his sister is hurting? 

And if he does… who the hell is hurting her? 

My first thought is her mate. 

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