I woke up feeling like someone had taken my spine out, beaten it with a hammer, then jammed it back into my body with all the precision of a drunken mason installing a crooked support beam.
My eyelids peeled open with all the grace of a rusted portcullis, and the first thing I saw was Iskanda. Of course it was Iskanda. The woman was sitting upright in the bed like she’d never needed sleep a day in her life, legs crossed, sheets pooled around her waist.
The shadows clung to her in a way that suggested they were deeply enamored with the privilege, and her dark hair slid over her shoulders with the fluid grace of a midnight waterfall. Meanwhile, I looked like a damp sock that had been abandoned behind a tavern. Fantastic. Excellent dynamic.
In her fingers she was turning something that caught the last breaths of the dying fire. A jewel. A fat, blood-colored ruby the size of a quail’s egg, set in silver so old it looked black save for where the light kissed it.
It pulsed faintly—like it had a heartbeat of its own—and she watched it the way a cat eyes a half-dead mouse, equal parts fondness, analysis, and the distinct probability she would finish it off if displeased.
I opened my mouth to ask the obvious—what the hell is that, why are you stroking it like it owes you money, and do you ever wake up ugly?—but before a single syllable could escape my mouth, she slipped the necklace back into the drawer by the side of the bed like it was nothing more than loose change. The drawer shut. Click. Mystery postponed. Classic Iskanda.
Then came the knock.
Three polite but insistent raps, the kind that said I could kick this door off its hinges, but I’m choosing to have manners today.
I jolted upright with all the coordination of a scarecrow during a windstorm, immediately regretting this angle of vertical life as the entire room spun like it wanted to audition for a carnival ride. I clutched my skull like it might fall off and roll under the bed.
"Who in the nine hells comes knocking like a tax collector at this hour?" I croaked. My voice sounded like I’d spent the night gargling gravel and bad decisions, which, I’ll admit, wasn’t far from the truth.
Iskanda didn’t answer. She merely flowed out of bed the way smoke flows out of a genie’s lamp—lazy, inevitable, and so effortlessly sensual it made me want to file a formal complaint with the universe.
The firelight ran over her features like a caress, highlighting every line and curve I’d become tragically familiar with, and I hated how my brain immediately filed the memory under "replay later, preferably in private."
She moved to the wardrobe with the lazy precision of a queen choosing which kingdom to conquer before breakfast.
After rummaging with soft, methodical motions, she retrieved a nightgown the color of fresh bruises—deep purples and blues that seemed to drink the light around them—before throwing it on like armor.
Then, with a sigh that suggested she already knew the day was going to be made entirely of bureaucratic torment, she padded to the door and opened it just wide enough to be polite yet narrow enough to be a warning.
And there he stood—Dunny.
Sweet, trembling Dunny, arms full of folded towels so high they nearly eclipsed his face, knees knocking together like they were trying to start their own percussion band.
His eyes—huge, watery, the color of weak tea—flicked up to Iskanda before immediately dropping to her bare feet as if looking any higher might turn him to stone. Or worse, give him ideas.
"L-Lady Iskanda," he squeaked, bowing so low the top towel threatened mutiny. "Your morning towels, as requested. Fresh from the lavender press."
Iskanda accepted the stack with the gracious nod of a queen receiving tribute from a nervous vassal. "You have my thanks, child. You may go." Her tone was warm in the way velvet was warm—soft at first touch, but capable of smothering you if it chooses.
Dunny didn’t move an inch. The poor boy stood frozen in the doorway like a taxidermied butler, neck stretching around Iskanda’s hip.
His gaze slid toward the bed—toward me—and I swear his pupils dilated like he’d just spotted the holy grail wrapped in scandal.
Saints help him; I was about to become the reason he needed therapy.
Iskanda shifted, planting one hand on the doorframe and leaning just enough to block his line of sight with the casual efficiency of a bouncer. "Prepare my bath," she said, voice soft as honey. "Now."
"Y-yes, my lady!" Dunny squeaked again, higher this time, and spun around so quickly one of his slippers launched itself off his foot like a disgruntled bird seeking freedom. It hit the wall with a sad, lonely flop, the final note of his dying dignity.
I tried—truly, I tried—not to make a sound, but a giggle bubbled up anyway, high-pitched, ridiculous, and entirely too honest for someone who pretends he has standards. It turned into a full-blown snort when Iskanda shut the door and rolled her eyes so hard I was surprised they didn’t fall out.
"He’s not technically a slave," she said before I could even preheat the question, already dropping to her knees and attacking the rug with one of the towels like it had personally insulted her ancestry. Her movements were fast and practiced, the kind that suggested she’d done this dance many times before. "Not a citizen either. More of an Indentured servant. His family owed a blood debt three generations deep."
She scrubbed at a stain that was definitely not my fault—well, not entirely. "I do have morals, you know. They’re just... selective."
"Selective," I echoed, dragging the bedsheet around me like a toga of shame. "Right. How very noble of you."
She flicked a glance at me over her shoulder, lips twitching in a way that meant danger. "He stays with me until the debt’s paid or until he grows a spine—whichever comes first. Could be never on both counts."
I opened my mouth, closed it, then decided now was the moment I’d been rehearsing in my head since approximately never. The words tumbled out before cowardice could tape them shut.
"You still owe me an explanation."
Iskanda paused mid-scrub. The towel hung from her fingers like a white flag. Slowly, deliberately—because of course she couldn’t do anything without an air of devastating ceremony—she turned to me. Those amber eyes found mine, and she smiled the smallest, wickedest smile in existence.
"A curse," she said.
I blinked at her. Once. Twice. "...That’s it?" My brain waited for more—details, context, a dramatic monologue, anything.
She resumed scrubbing. "I lost a bet to a man. Some bastard by the name of Merlin de Verrasi. The stakes were... creative. He thought it would be hilarious if I spent the rest of my days lugging around a reminder that even I can be humbled."
Merlin de Verrasi. The name pinged something in the back of my brain—like a bell rung underwater—but the echo slipped away before I could catch it. I frowned. "Never heard of him."
"No one important," she said lightly, which was exactly the tone people use when someone was very, very important. "Get dressed, little lamb. Or don’t. Actually, don’t. Quentin’s lessons wait for no man, and I’d hate for you to miss a single thrilling hour of conjugating verbs in ancient valerian."
I launched myself off the bed so fast the mattress probably filed a complaint. Naked, sheet abandoned like a battlefield casualty, dignity already halfway out the window, I flung my arms around her waist from behind and hung to her like a koala with separation anxiety.
"No," I whined into the silk between her shoulder blades. "Please, not Quentin! I’d rather be flayed. I’d rather lick the floor of the barracks latrine. I’d rather—"
"You’d rather spend the day with me?" She twisted just enough to look down at me, eyebrows arched. "Clinging to the woman who ruined you so thoroughly you’re still leaking evidence onto my rug? Please, have some self-respect."
"Self-respect is for people who didn’t have their soul rearranged last night," I muttered. My face was on fire. My everything was on fire. "Please...I’ll be good. I’ll be quiet. I’ll—I’ll polish that wicked bow of yours."
She laughed—actually laughed—low, warm, and entirely unfair. "Tempting. But no. Endure Quentin today. Our real training begins at dusk." With humiliating ease, she pried my hands off and shoved a towel into them like she was arming me for war. "Bath is down the hall to the left. Go. You smell like sex and bad decisions."
I clutched the towel to my chest like a shield. "You say that like they’re two different things."
"Out."
I went.
Three steps into the corridor I realized two things simultaneously: First, I was still naked, and second, I was still dripping.
The realization hit like a bucket of ice water, except the ice water was shame and the bucket was my entire life. I froze, one foot hovering mid-air, debating whether to dash back inside and accept death by teasing or forge ahead and pretend nudity was my natural state of being.
Then I remembered the way Iskanda smirked when she was entertained, and decided dignity was long dead. And so, shoulders back, chin high, I strutted down the hall like I was wearing the finest silks in the city.
A few Velvet ranked slaves passed me—sleek, beautiful, and fully clothed—the bastards. Their eyebrows shot so high they became tiny, judgmental satellites orbiting their skulls. One woman fumbled her laundry basket. Another made a sign to ward off evil.
I offered them my most dazzling grin. "Morning, darlings. Lovely day for a stroll, isn’t it?"
No one answered. Shocking.
The bathhouse was a narrow, steamy closet lit by hanging lanterns that swung gently, scattering gold across the surface of an honest-to-gods copper tub big enough for three. Bubbles floated in lazy constellations and the air smelled of jasmine and sin.
I sank into the tub with a groan so utterly indecent it could’ve been legally classified as foreplay.
Hot water closed over me like forgiveness I didn’t deserve. My spine liquefied. Every muscle I’d abused last night—and there were many—sighed in relief. I sank until only my nose and eyes showed above the surface, blowing bubbles like some sulky alligator.
Okay, brain. Time for the post-mortem.
Last night happened. All of it. Every filthy, glorious, overwhelming second. Iskanda’s hands pinning my head. Her mouth on my throat. That impossible, monstrous, unfairly perfect cock—gods, why was it curved like that? Who designed that? Who looked at anatomy and thought, "You know what this needs? A built-in G-spot homing device." I swear, whoever engineered that thing belonged in a museum, or a prison; I hadn’t decided which.
I shivered despite the heat. My body remembered exactly how thoroughly she’d taken me apart, how she’d laughed when I begged, how I’d cried. And the worst part—the absolute worst—was that I wanted it again. Right now. Preferably on a throne made of Quentin’s lesson plans.
But beneath the lust and the lingering ache, something colder was crystallizing.
Power.
She had too much of it. Power over bodies, over secrets, over curses and jewels that pulsed like hearts. And I—I was a thief. A good one at that. The best, if you believed my own propaganda—and I did. Thieves don’t survive by running from power. We sidle up to it, smile pretty, and pick its pockets while it’s distracted admiring itself in the mirror.
So fine. She’d broken me open. Excellent. Broken things can be remade sharper. I’d stay close. I’d learn. I’d keep my eyes wide and my legs—no, wait, focus—my mind open.
And first, I’d start with the one thing nagging at my mind. That necklace. That jewel. Because if there was one thing I understood better than orgasms—and I understood orgasms very, very well—it was leverage.
That ruby wasn’t just pretty; it wanted something. It meant something. It was a promise. A threat. A keyhole begging for the right thief to slip something clever into it.
I kept replaying the way it pulsed, the way it reacted when she touched it, the way the air seemed to thicken around us like reality itself was leaning in to listen.
Objects like that weren’t ornaments—they were fulcrums. And if I could figure out what it moved, maybe I could move her. Or move myself out from under her thumb. Or, better yet, move us into a position where she didn’t know she was dancing to my tune.
I was just settling into my new life philosophy—something along the lines of "get railed, get rich, get even"—when the door burst open hard enough to slam against the wall.