I didn’t even get the chance to scream "wait, let’s talk this out over drinks!" before all three of them lunged at me in perfect unison.
It was almost elegant, like synchronized swimming, except instead of glitter and nose plugs, I got daggers, fists, and a gleaming hooked blade that looked like it belonged in a sadist’s wet dream.
My body reacted before my brain could, because let’s be honest, my brain was still hung up on the fact that I’d just been caught red-handed in a warehouse full of drug thugs while sniffing around like a horny raccoon.
One duck, two sidesteps, and suddenly I had one of them slamming face-first into a crate of grain that exploded into a sad, dusty parody of fireworks. I swear the rats watching from the rafters clapped politely.
The second one went for my throat with a dagger, and I did the only reasonable thing I could: I screamed like a diva about to hit a high note, then kicked him square between the legs.
Look, I’m not proud of it. Okay, that’s a lie—I’m extremely proud of it. The sound he made was a cross between a dying pigeon and a broken accordion, a sound that, in all honesty, should’ve been bottled and sold for comedic effect.
He dropped to the ground clutching himself, tears pooling in his eyes as I laughed like a madman.
The third thug though, he was sharper—literally. He didn’t grab at me like some desperate drunk pawing for a free feel. No, he slashed. His hooked blade sang through the air, the curve of it catching the light as it scythed toward my hip.
I felt the bite of cold steel graze fabric, a whisper away from cutting flesh, and I twisted so fast my spine nearly filed a complaint. My skirt snagged for a breathless instant, threads pulling taut, before I wrenched myself free and shoved an elbow into his ribs hard enough to make him wheeze like an asthmatic walrus.
For about three glorious seconds, I thought, Well damn, you might actually win this fight. Then all three regrouped, fury in their eyes, and lunged again, clearly offended that a scrawny brat in a skirt was making them look like complete clowns.
I didn’t wait for the encore. Nope. I spun on my heel and bolted, my boots slapping against the stone floor so loud I was certain the entire warehouse knew where I was now.
The corridors stretched out before me like some drunken architect’s fever dream—left, right, another left, then a set of stairs that led to a dead end where I smacked face-first into a locked door.
"Perfect!" I hissed, spinning back as their footsteps thundered after me, echoing like a stampede of very angry elephants.
I tore down another hall, weaving between leaning crates and dangling chains that rattled like they were cheering for my impending doom. The air was thick with dust and the metallic tang of oil, and every shadow seemed eager to reach out and trip me.
One of the men shouted behind me—something about carving me open and feeding me to the rats—but I was too busy nearly twisting my ankle to care.
The halls narrowed, widened, twisted again. Sweat stung my eyes, my lungs burned, and still I kept running, heart pounding out a rhythm that screamed: you’re screwed, you’re screwed, you’re so, so screwed.
And then—blessed light.
I burst out of the twisting labyrinth into a long hall that stretched ahead in a glorious straight line. At the far end, railing gleamed faintly under the torchlight, like salvation itself had been forged out of cheap iron.
I picked up speed, heart hammering against my ribs, the sounds of their boots slapping against the floor right behind me just before I vaulted over the railing with more confidence than sense, skirt flying up around my waist in a very undignified curtain reveal.
The world tilted, spun, and the next thing I knew I was plummeting from the second floor with all the grace of a drunken swan.
I hit the ground hard, using my natural agility to break the fall with a roll—thank you, childhood acrobatics classes, you finally paid off—before staggering upright, brushing splinters off my thighs.
The three men loomed above, glaring down at me from the railing, their hesitation written clear across their scowls. Seems they weren’t in any rush to break their own spines.
I grinned up at them, waggled my fingers in a taunting wave, then flipped them off with both hands.
"Oh, don’t be shy, boys! Jump! The water’s fine—if by water you mean unforgiving stone and the sound of your legs snapping like breadsticks."
They snarled something I didn’t catch over the blood pounding in my ears. I turned on my heel, satisfied with my little display of bravado, and then promptly realized I had just monumentally fucked myself.
The room I’d landed in wasn’t empty. Oh no. It was cavernous, stretching out into shadow, filled with oddly marked crates stacked to the ceiling, vents hissing faintly along the walls, and long iron chains dangling from the rafters like some kind of nightmarish butcher’s decoration.
Surrounding me—because of course I couldn’t just catch a break—were a dozen or more men, each armed, each grinning, each very clearly delighted to tear me limb from limb.
I froze, sighed, and muttered under my breath, "Well shit."
The first one rushed me with a club, and instinct kicked in again. I sidestepped, tripped him with my heel, and sent him sprawling headfirst into one of his companions.
Another lunged, blade gleaming, but I grabbed one of those dangling chains and swung it with all the grace of a mad trapeze artist, catching him square in the jaw.
For a few moments, it was glorious chaos—me ducking, weaving, improvising weapons out of anything that wasn’t nailed down. I even managed to slam the lid of a barrel into one man’s face like I was auditioning for a circus slapstick routine.
But sheer numbers will always win, no matter how much sass you throw into the mix. Hands grabbed me from every angle, dragging me down into a writhing pile of sweat, fists, and angry curses.
I thrashed, kicked, bit—yes, I bit, don’t judge—but there were too many. My cheek hit the cold stone, my arms wrenched behind my back, knees digging painfully into my thighs as they pinned me down.
My chest heaved against the floor, breath ragged, and for the first time in a while, genuine panic licked at the edges of my mind.
Suddenly, a sound sliced through the din—the shriek of metal on stone, high and grating, like the walls themselves were screaming. The men holding me stilled, tension rippling through their grips.
I lifted my head just enough to see him. The man from earlier, tall and skeletal, with short grey hair slicked razor-straight, his hooked blade dragging along the wall as he descended the staircase one slow step at a time.
The sound was unbearable, each scrape digging into my skull like claws. His smile stretched too wide, too thin, eyes glittering with a madness that made my stomach drop.
"Pretty little rat," he purred as he reached the floor, voice oily, soaked in mockery. "Squirming in my nest."
"Oh, great," I wheezed. "The dramatic entrance guy. What’s next, you going to monologue about your tragic backstory while I die of boredom?"
A heavy boot pressed into my back, shoving me down harder. His laugh was thin, high, scraping. "Name’s Needleback Nox. Malrick’s right hand. And you, gutterslut, are going to learn what it means to cross us."
I grinned weakly, though the stone was scraping my cheek raw. "Needleback Nox? Gods, did your mother hate you, or did you just lose a bet?"
The men pinning me snickered, though they quickly fell silent when Nox’s gaze cut toward them. He crouched down, close enough that I could smell the rancid wine on his breath. "You’ve got a tongue that needs trimming. Perhaps I’ll start there."
"Oh please," I muttered, "if I had a crown for every man who’s said that—"
My words were cut off as the pressure increased. One of them began presses a hand against my ass, another trailing fingers along my thigh, their breath hot and damp against my ear as they leered.
Disgust and fury coiled in my gut, but I refused to give them the satisfaction of a whimper. My grin may have faltered for a second, but my voice did not. "Careful, boys," I drawled, forcing a smirk even as bile crept up my throat, "if you keep touching me like that, I’m gonna have to start charging by the minute. And trust me—your boss can’t afford my premium package."
Nox’s boot shifted, slamming onto the back of my head, grinding my face into the floor. His voice was a hiss above me. "Strip him. Let’s see what kind of filth this little rat’s hiding."
Panic flared white-hot in my chest. My body jerked against their grip, frantic, desperate, but they held fast, fingers tugging at my skirt, at my waistband. And just as I was about to lose it completely—
CRACK.
The sound split the air, sharp and final. Weight shifted off me. I twisted my head just enough to see men stumbling back, one clutching his face in horror. And then—oh gods—I saw her.
Freya.
She stood there, golden eyes blazing with fury, her hand twisted in the mess of Nox’s hair. His neck bent at an angle no neck should bend, face frozen in shock as his body went limp. She held him for a heartbeat longer, then dropped him to the floor like garbage, his corpse crumpling with a sickening thud.
I blinked, my grin returning with all the speed of a cockroach scuttling out of the dark. "Well. Took you long enough."
One of the men roared before charging at her, blade raised. Freya barely glanced his way before grabbing his wrist mid-swing and snapping it clean with a sound that made my stomach twist and my cock twitch in the same horrible moment. He howled, cradling the twisted limb. She shoved him aside like he was nothing.
That was my cue. I slammed my head backward into the nose of the thug pinning me, felt the crunch and the warm spray of blood, then twisted free of their loosened grip.
I scrambled upright, chest heaving, and in an instant we were back-to-back, me and Freya, surrounded but no longer outmatched.
The fight was chaos incarnate. Her fists were hammers, breaking bones with every swing, her movements sharp, efficient, brutal. I, on the other hand, was all flailing limbs, dirty tricks, and shrieks of improvised confidence.
Together, somehow, it worked—we were storm and spark, thunder and lightning, scattering bodies in our wake. By the time the last thug dropped, the chamber was littered with groaning, broken men, and I was doubled over, gasping for breath, sweat dripping down my face.
My eyes flicked toward those strangely marked crates, stacked tall and ominous. Those had to be them, the very supplies we’d risked everything to find. Relief bubbled in my chest. "Well, good news is we found the treasure."
And then it came.
A sound. Soft at first. Whistling.
High, jaunty, and casual—like someone taking a stroll through a garden rather than stepping into a slaughterhouse. It echoed down the main hallway, accompanied by the slow drip of liquid, steady and deliberate. Blood.
Every muscle in my body froze. Freya stiffened beside me, her eyes locked forward.
And then he emerged.
Malrick himself.
Tall, thin, long hair sleek and dark as oil, his smile sharp enough to cut glass. In one hand he carried a body like it weighed nothing at all—Dregan, limp and unconscious, his face a battered ruin of swollen flesh and blood. Malrick’s boots left red smears across the floor as he dragged him along.
He looked at us, smile twisting wider. "Ah. The little rats in my walls. And look, they’ve brought me a storm."
His eyes landed on me, and my heart plummeted.
"Let’s have a little chat, shall we?"