The thing about silence is that it’s never actually silent.
Oh, sure, people like to throw the word around, usually in poetic little sighs, like "the silence was deafening" or "a silence hung in the air like a shroud." But that’s nonsense.
Real silence doesn’t exist. What exists is the awful, bone-deep sound of everything else. The drip of water sliding down a crack in the wall. The scratch of your own heartbeat as it claws inside your ribs. The way sweat insists on trickling down your temple like it has an urgent appointment with your jawline.
That was what we had now, pressed into this room together, every single one of us holding our collective breath and pretending not to exist.
Then the knocking came again.
Not a polite little tap. Not the kind of knock you give when asking to borrow sugar from a neighbor you’re secretly sleeping with. No, this was a thud. Heavy. Gruff. The sound of someone with authority and no imagination. The kind of knock that said, I’m here, I’m bigger than you, and if you don’t answer me, I’ll kick the door in and rearrange your organs for fun.
"Free time’s up," came the voice, sounding like gravel soaked in whiskey. "Anybody inside needs to clear themselves from the room at once."
My entire body went rigid, like a deer in headlights, like a priest catching me mid-handjob behind an altar. My brain shrieked: Shit!
We weren’t ready to leave. Not even close. Our supplies were all over the place, crates half-open, powders spilling like fairy dust, and oh—yes—me. Half naked, my cock still twitching from the earlier chaos, a sticky little mess that screamed "not innocent, not safe, not prepared."
Panic rose fast, thick as bile, clogging my throat.
We hadn’t even planned how to smuggle this stuff. The whole point had been to figure it out later. And now "later" had apparently sprinted into "right the fuck now" wearing hobnailed boots.
Brutus moved first. He didn’t panic. He never panicked. He just growled low, grabbed the shotgun, and held one massive finger to his lips. His eyes—dark and steady—sliced across all of us with one simple message: shut up.
The guard knocked again. Louder this time, more impatient. "Is anyone in there?"
We froze. Not a whisper. Not a sigh. I clamped my thighs together and prayed my stupid body would stop making little squelching sounds every time I shifted.
Dregan held his breath so long his face turned the color of spoiled milk. Even Atticus stopped muttering to himself, his hands hovering over the tome on the table like he was mid-orgasm and had to hold it back.
The silence stretched.
Then came the grumble. A curse muffled by the door. Heavy boots shifting. The faint scrape of someone turning away.
Relief trickled through me. My lungs loosened. I thought, just maybe, we were about to—
"Achoo!"
The sneeze shattered everything.
Freya. Gods-damned Freya. It wasn’t just a sneeze—it was an event. A thunderclap in miniature. The kind of sneeze that sounded like it had been building for three days and decided to make its entrance right when subtlety mattered most. The kind of sneeze you’d hear across a battlefield and think: oh, that must be the signal.
Every single one of us went wide-eyed. My jaw dropped so hard I think it cracked. Brutus’s head snapped toward her, murder written across his brow.
Atticus looked like he’d just seen a priceless vase topple. And Dregan, bless his idiotic soul, actually mouthed "bless you" before realizing this was a death sentence.
The guard’s boots screeched to a halt outside. Then came the whip of his voice, sharp and certain. "Hey, I heard that! Who’s in there?!"
Panic detonated in my chest like fireworks.
Brutus cursed, low and vicious. He began corking vials in thick, furious motions, stuffing powders and herbs into sacks.
Atticus snapped the tome shut so hard the echo nearly gave us away, shoving it back onto a shelf with trembling hands.
Dregan scrambled after a crate, nearly dropping it on his foot, swearing loud enough that Freya elbowed him in the gut to shut him up, ironic I know. She herself had grabbed a shard of glass from the floor, gripping it like she was ready to carve the world open.
And me? I was stood there, naked, dripping, staring at the door like it had personally insulted my lineage.
"Loona!" Brutus hissed, his massive shoulders hunched as he shoved crates toward the hidden backroom. "Distract them for a while. We’ll hide the stash."
I blinked at him, at his face—stone-set, already shifting toward despair—then I smirked despite the sweat sticking to my skin.
"Fine," I whispered, letting the grin stretch wider. "Guess I’ll give them a show."
The pounding on the door grew louder, more insistent. Each slam rattled the warped beams above, dust raining from the ceiling.
"Open up!" the guard barked. "Now!"
Brutus’s jaw clenched. "Do it now," he snarled.
I bolted, my skirtless hips swaying with theatrical defiance. I reached the door, smoothed down my messy hair, adjusted my boots, and cracked it open just before the next knock landed.
The door swung back.
And there they were.
Three guards. Cloaked in dark robes, their armor hidden beneath thick fabric, faces shadowed beneath their hoods. One of them held a softly glowing lantern, its pale light washing over my bare chest and dripping thighs like some holy spotlight in a temple of sin.
The first guard paused, hand held mid-knock. His eyes dragged up. Then down, landing right on my naked, leaking body.
The guard’s eyes went wide then, a dozen questions no doubt queuing up in his skull like angry patrons outside a tavern.
Questions about why I was naked, why my thighs glistened like I’d just wrestled a bottle of oil, why my smirk looked more like a confession than an explanation. But before his brain could shovel those words into his mouth, I clapped my hands together with all the showmanship of a man one breath away from catastrophe.
"Gentlemen!" I declared, throwing my arms wide, hips cocked, voice pitched somewhere between carnival barker and drunken courtesan. "Welcome, welcome, to our humble rehearsal hall! You’re just in time for the spectacle of the season. Please—do come in. We’ve saved front row seats for the esteemed guards of our fine establishment."
Confusion painted their faces. That lovely brand of confusion you get when someone breaks reality in front of you and you’re forced to either go along with it or admit you’ve lost your mind.
I saw the thought form on their lips—what in the all the hells are you talking about?—but I spun before they could utter it.
And then it happened.
My gaze landed directly on Dregan. Sweet, battered Dregan. Poor bastard was still hauling a crate across the floor, his knees wobbling, his beard crusted with dried blood, and now his entire body frozen like a criminal mid-heist. The crate in his arms may as well have been screaming "contraband here, officers!"
My heart dropped directly into my ass.
Off to the far end of the room, just for a heartbeat, Brutus’s hulking frame appeared at the secret door. I saw his mouth curl into the shape of a curse, sharp and jagged, before he yanked the door shut with a growl that rattled the air.
The sound echoed, sharp and incriminating.
The guard’s head snapped up, brows knitting beneath the shadow of his hood. "What was that?" he barked, his voice thick with suspicion.
My entire soul spun into overdrive. "That?" I gasped, pressing a hand to my bare chest like a maiden scandalized at her own thoughts. "That was—ah—stage directions! Nothing to worry about. Our manager can be a bit gruff, you know, always cursing about lighting cues and the finer points of dramatic timing. Art is agony, after all."
I swept forward before the guard could push further, brushing my hair back, letting the dim lantern light catch the arch of my back, the sharp angle of my hips.
Behind me, Dregan, gods bless his wrinkled little heart, had the good sense to slowly lower the crate to the ground, like a man setting down an infant made of dynamite.
"You see," I purred, flashing teeth, "we were just preparing tonight’s rehearsal when you arrived. How fortunate! How timely! You must join us—it’s a work in progress, of course, but that makes it all the more thrilling."
The three guards exchanged glances, unimpressed, skeptical in every sense of the word. One arched a brow that said, you’re lying and probably insane, while another rolled his shoulders like he’d rather hit me than humor me.
I pressed on.
"Would you like," I said sweetly, leaning forward until my chest nearly brushed the front guard’s armor, "a private demonstration?"
The lantern-bearer nearly choked on his own spit. His breath hitched audibly, and he stumbled a half-step back, the light quivering wildly across the walls.
Ah ha, there’s the crack!
I twirled, clapping my hands again. "Ladies, gentlemen, and deeply confused prison staff, I present to you—" I spun dramatically, arms flaring, nearly toppling a half-empty crate in the process, "—the tragic, erotic, and utterly unmissable tale of Malrick the Magnificent!"
The name hit the air like a thrown gauntlet, and all eyes snapped toward me. Behind me, I saw Dregan’s face pinch in confusion, but when I shot him a look that screamed for the love of every god above, improvise or we die, he nodded before hobbling into position.
I flung myself onto the floor with a moan so theatrical I think even the lantern flickered in embarrassment. Arching my back, I let my body spill across the stone like a dying swan on a very filthy lake.
My hands clawed the air, my lips parting in a moan that was half agony, half ecstasy. "Oh no!" I wailed. "Not Malrick, the most terrible, sexy, devastatingly haired villain in all the land!"
Dregan grabbed the nearest object—a ladle—and brandished it like a sword. He stomped forward, chest puffed out, his limp making him look less like a hero and more like a drunken pirate. "Fear not, fair...uh...Loona," he bellowed, "for I shall strike him down!"
The guards stared. Blank. Silent.
I arched higher, letting the muscles of my stomach stretch, sweat glistening across my chest like I’d oiled myself purely for their benefit. My voice rose to a dramatic moan. "Oh gods! Malrick’s blade—it pierces me! My poor, delicate body!"
And right on cue, Dregan plunged the ladle into my ribs. I yelped, flopping dramatically, legs kicking. "Ahhh! Struck down by soupware! What a cruel twist of fate!"
The first guard blinked. The second coughed into his hand. And the third—oh, the third—began to laugh. A short, sharp bark at first, then louder. The sound spread like fire, until even the unimpressed one was chuckling, shaking his head, muttering, "what the fuck..." under his breath.
Encouraged, I decided it was time to elevate the performance. Literally. With a dramatic grunt, I hopped up onto the center table, scattering a few suspicious vials and nearly slipping in the process—but I recovered with all the grace of a ragged peacock and threw my arms wide.
"Behold!" I thundered, puffing out my chest, tossing my hair like it was spun silk instead of prison grease. "I am Malrick the Magnificent, scourge of the courtyard, prince of powders, breaker of bones, and—most importantly—man with the straightest hair in all of Prismillya! Tremble before my cheekbones!"
The guards blinked, caught between suspicion and bewilderment.
Dregan, to his eternal credit, or damnation, caught on instantly. He snatched up the ladle again, puffed his chest like a wounded rooster, and charged at me. "Begone, Malrick, you fiend!" he bellowed, plunging the ladle into my hip with all the conviction of a man stabbing soup.
I staggered dramatically, clutching my side, spinning in circles atop the table as though skewered by divine lightning. "Oh no!" I howled, collapsing to my knees, arching backward like a martyr in a fresco. "I am undone! Woe, woe unto me—the sluttiest of martyrs!"
The guards were clapping now. Yes, clapping. Their palms smacking together with glee, laughter spilling out of their mouths like cheap ale. One actually bent double, wheezing, tears creeping in his eyes.
For a shining, ridiculous moment, I thought we’d done it. I thought we’d pulled the wool over their eyes with nothing but sweat, lies, and interpretive erotica.
Then Dregan stumbled. Just one step.
His boot knocked the crate he’d set down earlier. The lid slid. Just a few inches. But enough. Enough to spill the truth.
Inside, shimmering faintly in the lantern glow, lay a grand mix of powders. Bundled and bagged, gleaming with illicit promise.
The laughter stopped.
The guards’ eyes went wide, wider than they’d been at the sight of my leaking cock. One of them sucked in a sharp breath, his face twisting in fury.
"Contraband!" he bellowed, voice cracking like a whip. "Seize them at once!"