The hut Brutus led us into looked like the kind of place even cockroaches had given up on. The door barely hung from its hinges, the floor groaned like an old whore with bad knees, and the air smelled faintly of mold, piss, and regret.
Which, coincidentally, was also the smell of most of my past relationships. Brutus shouldered the door open, muttering something about "it’ll do," while I fanned myself dramatically with both hands, gagging on the sheer romance of it all.
Of course, he’d called it one of his "old storage rooms" from back when he was still a dealer, which only meant one thing to me: at least three dead bodies had been hidden in here at some point, and I wasn’t about to sit on anything without checking for suspicious stains first.
Inside, the place was a disaster, but in that oddly charming way that makes you think, yes, someone probably got fingered against that wall once, and now it echoes with memories.
The shelves sagged under the weight of old crates and dusty bottles, the table in the center looked like it had been carved out by an angry drunk with a spoon, and in the corner sat a pile of rags that may or may not have been alive.
Dregan immediately claimed the table, sprawling into the single surviving chair like a dwarf king on his throne, while Freya crossed her arms and leaned against the wall with all the grace of a goddess who had accidentally wandered into the wrong dive bar. Atticus moved like he owned the place—calm, smooth, silver hair catching the dim lantern light—and I watched, fascinated, as he plucked something from one of the top shelves.
For a second I thought it was another dead rat, but no—he unrolled it across the table with a flourish, revealing a yellowed, brittle map.
And not just any map. A map of the bloody courtyard.
I leaned forward instantly, eyes sparkling like a teenager presented with their very first sex toy.
"Ooooh. A treasure map. Tell me, does X mark the spot where Malrick keeps his massive cock collection? Because I’d pay good money to steal one of those."
Atticus gave me a look. The kind of look an overworked parent gives a toddler who’s just shoved crayons up their nose. A small smile, pitying almost, as though I were a premature child pretending at adulthood.
"It marks his warehouse," he said simply, tapping the edge of the paper with one long finger. His cracked glasses slipped down his nose as he leaned further. "Three stories. Reinforced. Patrolled heavily."
Brutus grunted and crossed his arms. "It’ll be suicide to go in headfirst."
"Darling," I purred, sliding up onto the edge of the table so the map crinkled beneath my ass, "headfirst is the only way I know how to go in. You should see me at parties."
Dregan howled with laughter, pounding his fist against the wood until the chair beneath him looked ready to give up. Freya rolled her eyes again. Honestly, one of these days they were going to roll right out of her head, and I’d scoop them up and keep them in a jar as trophies.
Atticus ignored me entirely, his voice steady. "We start here." He tapped a smaller building east of the warehouse, narrow, tucked away between alleys. "We use it as a stakeout. Observe Malrick’s movements. Wait for an opening. Then, and only then, we infiltrate."
I tilted my head, legs kicking. "A stakeout? Do you have any idea how dreadful I am at waiting? I get bored if an orgasm takes longer than a minute. Can we at least bring snacks?"
"Loona," Brutus said, his tone sharp enough to cut through steel.
I clutched my chest dramatically. "Gods, you’re so stern. Say it again. No—say it slower. With more growl."
Atticus continued as though I hadn’t spoken, bless his patience. "Roles. Brutus, you’ll lead the breach if it comes to that. Dregan, you’ll be the distraction. You thrive in chaos. Freya, you’ll act as suppression—if things get ugly, you’re the one who holds them back. I’ll handle timing and coordination. And Loona..." He paused, those pale eyes flicking up to me. "You talk."
I grinned. "Oh, finally someone recognizes my true talents. Talking, moaning, and occasional light thievery. Perfect résumé."
"Perfect liability," Brutus muttered.
Freya snorted. "More like perfect idiocy."
Dregan raised a hand. "I say we let the pup talk. Better him wagging his tongue than me losing mine."
I blew a kiss at him. He pretended to catch it and shove it down his pants.
The plan sprawled out in slow, agonizing detail. Atticus explained angles, timings, patrol schedules he’d memorized just by watching the flow of men outside the lair.
Brutus poked holes in everything, growling about weaknesses. Freya interrupted only to call us fools. Dregan tried to add in an idea about greasing ourselves naked and sprinting past the guards, which everyone ignored but me, because frankly I thought it had potential.
I sat there, legs crossed, chin propped in my hands, listening like a child at storytime, giddy with excitement.
And then Atticus reminded us: we didn’t have the luxury of time. "Free time ends at the crack of dawn," he said flatly, rolling the map back up with deliberate care. "If we wait, Malrick will act first. Tonight is our only chance."
My heart thumped. Tonight. Gods above, I could already feel the adrenaline fizzing in my veins like cheap wine. I wanted it. No, I needed it. The thought of sneaking into Malrick’s warehouse, of thieving from the smug bastard who had threatened me—it sent shivers down my spine, made me grin like a madman.
"Well then," I said brightly, hopping down from the table. "Let’s go rob the handsome villain before he has time to slick his hair again."
We slipped back into the courtyard, hugging shadows like lovers, weaving past stalls, drunkards, and the lingering stench of piss-soaked stone. The building Atticus had pointed out loomed tall and crooked, its second floor half-collapsed, its windows broken like jagged teeth.
Brutus led us inside without hesitation, his big frame moving quieter than a man his size should. We clambered up broken stairs, dust clinging to our boots, until we reached the second floor—a nest of shadows overlooking Malrick’s lair across the square.
The warehouse loomed, a beast of stone and rusted iron. Three stories tall, lamps burning inside, silhouettes of guards pacing the balconies. It was beautiful in that way only dangerous things are—like a dagger’s edge, or a dominatrix’s grin. I pressed against the window ledge, peering out with hungry eyes.
And then we waited.
And waited.
And gods, waiting is boring.
At first it was exciting. Every flicker of shadow made my heart race, every distant laugh made me tense. But then the minutes dragged. My eyelids grew heavier, my thoughts wandered. Beside me, Freya leaned back against the wall, arms folded, her golden eyes half-shut. Even she was fading.
Brutus murmured, "This may take a while. Best if we take turns sleeping."
"I don’t sleep," Dregan boasted, puffing out his chest. "I can go all night. Ask any tavern whore."
"Shut up," Freya muttered—and then promptly slid down the wall and collapsed, asleep before her ass even hit the floor.
I blinked at her. Then yawned. My body sagged toward Brutus instinctively, like a cat curling to warmth. "Wake me if anything explodes," I whispered, letting my eyes flutter closed.
Sleep didn’t last. It never does for me.
I woke to a sound—soft, wet, rhythmic. My eyes blinked open, hazy, my heart skipping when I realized Freya was right next to me. Too close. Her golden hair spilled over her face, her scarred arms tense, and her pants were—oh gods. Oh gods. Down around her thighs.
She was touching herself. In her sleep.
I froze, breath catching, my cock twitching so hard beneath my skirt it was a miracle no one else noticed. Her fingers glistened in the dim light, sliding slick through her folds, the smell of it faint but sharp in the air. She grunted, low, needy, her muscles rippling, and gods help me I couldn’t look away.
Brutus sat across the room, oblivious, his eyes scanning the warehouse. Dregan, for all his boasting, was snoring like a dying goat. Atticus simply didn’t care.
But me? My heart hiccupped, every beat louder, hotter. Watching her, listening to her ragged breaths, the tiny wet sounds—it was torture, exquisite torture. My body ached with it.
And then—she came. Hard. Her back arched, a ragged grunt tearing from her throat, her cum spilling onto the dusty floor. My mouth went dry, my head spinning.
Her eyes snapped open.
She sat up with a jolt, muttering under her breath, "Fuck, I’m bored."
I nearly screamed. I clutched at my chest, heart threatening to escape. However, before I could say anything, her hand shot out, gripping mine tight, yanking me upright with terrifying strength.
"I’m going to the bathroom," she growled, her voice sharp.
Brutus merely grunted in reply, not even bothering to glance over. Gods damn him.
And just like that, I was dragged downstairs into the darkness of the first floor, dust swirling, broken furniture looming. Freya released my hand, turned her back to me, her shoulders tense. I opened my mouth to speak, but she cut me off.
"I command you to have sex with me," she said, her voice low and demanding. "Now."