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 boomed behind me 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, something close enough to pass the censors.
A ragged prison tunic clung to her frame, the neckline plunging low enough to make most men 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 me 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 men 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 gleamed under the torches like a raven’s wing. His cheekbones could’ve sliced bread. His lips curled with that too-smooth smirk that screamed, I’ve definitely slept with your sister, and your brother, and possibly your father, too, but you’ll thank me for it.
Around him swirled his men, spreading chaos like rats let loose in a pantry—snatching goods from merchants, pawing at women 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 some kind of grotesque fashion statement. I would’ve laughed if it weren’t so bleakly disgusting.
Brutus’s hand shot out, pressing firmly against my chest to keep me 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 me.
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 me. 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 screamed, 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 me, you should know... I’m already halfway hard. Powerful men 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 me? I wasn’t about to cower behind a stack of crates like some trembling waif in a tragic opera. Oh no, not me. 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 me, something between a groan and a strangled curse, but it was too late. Malrick’s gaze slid to me at once. Oh, of course it did. Of course the tall, dramatic bastard with the hair of a cursed prince would lock onto me 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 men, like a conductor halting the orchestra for my solo.
"Ah," Malrick drawled, his voice smooth as honey left out just long enough to ferment into mead. "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, "Smells like spunk in here already!" I made a mental 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 me 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 me."
I smiled sweetly, batting my lashes. "Oh honey, if I had a crown for every man who threatened me 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 frame cutting off Malrick’s shadow. For a moment, tension thickened like smoke. Men 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 time comes, you’ll wish you’d bent the knee." With a flick of his fingers, his men 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 bedframe 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 me.
"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 announcement 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 me heavy. Now you’re calling me 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 same 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 me, I was so turned on.
And that’s when I smiled wide, spreading my arms like some deranged prophet unveiling the word of god. "Yes, supplies my dears! Brutus himself said it—we need more to modify our little herb into something 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 me, each with their own brand of disbelief—Brutus seething, Freya fuming, Dregan ecstatic, Atticus...oddly fascinated.
Me? I was practically leaking with excitement, because this was the fun part. The dangerous part. The part where everything could go horribly, or beautifully, wrong.