The dash through the courtyard was less "heroic sprint" and more "panicked scamper," like a herd of drunken chickens trying to cross a highway.
My boots slapped the stone, my skirt flew up with every other step, and Dregan’s laughter bood behind like a battle hymn composed entirely of obscenities.
Freya, who had apparently decided that "armor" was just a synonym for "whatever keeps my tits from causing fatalities," was clothed now—or at least, sothing close enough to pass the censors.
A ragged prison tunic clung to her fra, the neckline plunging low enough to make most n in the courtyard run into walls, while the sleeves had been ripped off entirely to showcase the pale scars slashing across her golden arms.
Brutus, of course, was leading with the kind of grim determination that made wonder if he’d ever once smiled during sex—or if, gods forbid, he frowned the whole way through like a man trying to calculate taxes while being mounted.
We ducked behind a stack of crates, splinters digging into my thigh, the air heavy with sweat, smoke, and the unmistakable stench of n who had gone far too long without washing anything south of their belly buttons. I peeked around the edge like a nosy cat and nearly swallowed my tongue.
There he was.
A tall, thin man with hair so straight it looked like it had been ironed flat with the tears of his enemies, slick black that glead under the torches like a raven’s wing. His cheekbones could’ve sliced bread. His lips curled with that too-smooth smirk that scread, I’ve definitely slept with your sister, and your brother, and possibly your father, too, but you’ll thank for it.
Around him swirled his n, spreading chaos like rats let loose in a pantry—snatching goods from rchants, pawing at won with greasy fingers, overturning stalls just to hear the crash.
One thug stole an old man’s dentures and tried to wear them backwards like so kind of grotesque fashion statent. I would’ve laughed if it weren’t so bleakly disgusting.
Brutus’s hand shot out, pressing firmly against my chest to keep back. Normally, being handled by him like that would’ve sent my imagination spinning into very filthy places, but the look in his eyes sobered .
He was tense, jaw set, ears twitching like they were picking up danger on a frequency only canines and disillusioned boyfriends could hear.
I whispered, "Who the hell is Mr. Razor-and-Cheekbones, and why does he strut like the floor owes him rent?"
Brutus didn’t look at . His voice was low, hard. "That’s Malrick. One of the Boss’s biggest rivals. He runs most of the drug scene here. Kingpin of this cesspit."
Kingpin. Oh, that explained the theatrics. He certainly had the aura. Every inch of him scread, I’m better than you, and I know it.
I leaned closer to Brutus, lips brushing his ear. "Darling, if you’re trying to warn , you should know... I’m already halfway hard. Powerful n who look like they bathe in eyeliner? That’s my brand."
Brutus pinched the bridge of his nose, muttering a prayer to whichever gods hadn’t abandoned him yet. He looked like a man begging divinity for patience, and frankly, if he had any sense, he’d have prayed for earplugs instead.
Because ? I wasn’t about to cower behind a stack of crates like so trembling waif in a tragic opera. Oh no, not . If there was a tall, terrifying bastard making a show in the middle of the courtyard, then I, Loona, was going to give him a show right back. I wasn’t about to let my first rival encounter be spent chewing on splinters and watching Brutus frown.
So, naturally, I popped up from behind the crate like a jack-in-the-box stuffed full of bad decisions and glitter. I smoothed my skirt, tossed my hair, and sauntered out into the open square with all the theatricality of a courtesan on parade.
"Hey mister!" I called, loud enough to turn a few heads.
Brutus made a noise behind , sothing between a groan and a strangled curse, but it was too late. Malrick’s gaze slid to at once. Oh, of course it did. Of course the tall, dramatic bastard with the hair of a cursed prince would lock onto the second I made myself visible.
His lips curved into a smirk, razor-sharp and smug, and he raised one elegant hand—not to snap for my capture, but to still his n, like a conductor halting the orchestra for my solo.
"Ah," Malrick drawled, his voice smooth as honey left out just long enough to fernt into ad. "If it isn’t the little gutterslut I’ve heard so much about." He smiled, slow and venomous. "The one who embarrassed my dear rival with... what was it? Ah yes. Cum cards."
The crowd of thugs snickered. One of them actually shouted, "Slls like spunk in here already!" I made a ntal note to one day track him down and sell his testicles as dice.
I stood a little strighter, brushing splinters dramatically from my skirt, and gave a deep bow, hips swaying like I was introducing myself at a masquerade ball.
"Loona," I purred. "Cum-sniffer, gutterslut, patron saint of sticky situations. And you, darling? Mister Tall, Dark, and Pointlessly Straight-Haired? You must be Malrick. I’d say it’s a pleasure, but you look like you’ve never experienced one without crying afterward."
That pulled a few gasps, and maybe a few laughs as well. Malrick’s smirk faltered just a fraction—enough for to savor the taste of victory before he drew himself up tall. He stepped closer, slow and deliberate, like a predator circling prey.
"Careful, little parasite," he murmured. "You may have clawed your way into whispers and laughter, but I decide who thrives in this courtyard. You and your little...entourage...will either pay tribute or bleed dry. The Boss can’t protect you. Not from ."
I smiled sweetly, batting my lashes. "Oh honey, if I had a crown for every man who threatened with bleeding dry, I could start my own monarchy."
Dregan snorted. Freya rolled her eyes so hard I thought they might fall out and roll under the crates. Even Atticus, that silver-haired statue of professionalism, adjusted his glasses with the faintest twitch of his lips.
Malrick’s gaze darkened. He leaned close, whispering just loud enough for us to hear. "Step into my territory again without paying what you owe, and I’ll make sure your pretty little mouth is the last thing left of you."
I blinked at him. Then grinned wide and wicked. "You promise? Gods, you really know how to flirt."
Brutus moved then—fast, stepping between us, his broad fra cutting off Malrick’s shadow. For a mont, tension thickened like smoke. n shifted, hands went to makeshift weapons. I could feel Freya coiling like a whip, Dregan’s hands twitching for violence, Atticus calculating angles like a bloody assassin.
And then—Malrick pulled back. He straightened his coat, smirked again. "Not tonight," he said softly. "Enjoy your scraps while you can. When the ti cos, you’ll wish you’d bent the knee." With a flick of his fingers, his n withdrew, slinking back into the square like rats dispersing into sewers.
I exhaled, only then realizing how tight my chest had gone. My heart was pounding like a whore’s bedfra on payday, and my grin spread too wide for sanity.
"Well," I said brightly, "he was charming. And tall. I’d do him. Wouldn’t you, Brutus?"
Brutus’s head turned so slowly I thought he might snap his own neck. His eyes promised violence, preferably against .
"Don’t answer," I said quickly. "We both know the truth anyway." Then I clapped my hands together. "Well! That was invigorating. I was going to save this announcent for after dinner and a rimjob, but since we’re all here and brimming with tension—let’s stage a heist."
The silence that followed could’ve been bottled and sold as pure, uncut horror.
Brutus’s eyes went wide, pupils narrowing like he’d just been told I planned on deep-throating a porcupine. "You’re insane," he hissed. "That man will gut you. He’ll gut all of us!"
"Darling," I said, patting his chest fondly, "you already called heavy. Now you’re calling crazy. I think you’re in love."
Dregan barked a laugh so filthy it probably impregnated a nearby crate. "A heist! By the gods, you’re mad. I love it! You’ll get us all killed and it’ll be glorious!"
Atticus tilted his head, adjusting his cracked glasses, his silver hair catching the lamplight. "A heist could secure supplies. Dangerous, yes. But... intriguing." His eyes glinted with the sa curiosity I’d seen in scholars peering at forbidden scrolls—or perverts peeking at brothels.
Freya groaned, running a hand down her scarred face. "You idiots! All of you. This is suicide. Gods, why am I here? I should leave you to choke on your own dicks."
I leaned toward her, fluttering my lashes. "Because, darling, mine’s delicious, and you know it."
She growled low in her throat. I felt myself stiffen under my skirt again. Gods help , I was so turned on.
And that’s when I smiled wide, spreading my arms like so deranged prophet unveiling the word of god. "Yes, supplies my dears! Brutus himself said it—we need more to modify our little herb into sothing worth selling. And where better to get them than from the very bastard who just threatened us? Nothing tastes sweeter than robbery seasoned with spite."
The crew stared at , each with their own brand of disbelief—Brutus seething, Freya fuming, Dregan ecstatic, Atticus...oddly fascinated.
? I was practically leaking with excitent, because this was the fun part. The dangerous part. The part where everything could go horribly, or beautifully, wrong.
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