I’ll be honest, gods above, the next few days went by so smoothly I started to wonder if I’d accidentally died during training and was now drifting through some private version of heaven—albeit one with more knives, narcotics, and sweaty men than the hymns ever promised.
Our little empire, stitched together from scraps and lunacy, was thriving. Yes, thriving! Men I once wouldn’t trust to carry a piss bucket without tripping were now striding through the courtyard and beyond with smug little smirks, pockets bulging with coin, and eyes gleaming with the sort of reckless hope that made me both proud and terrified in equal measure.
Our product had spread like a plague of rats carrying the world’s most profitable disease. It slithered into every crevice of the prison: from the mud-smeared drudges lapping it up behind latrines, to the makeshift courtesans whispering its name into their noble clients’ ears, to the guards who thought nobody noticed the slight glitter of substance coating their breath.
I didn’t even have to lift a finger anymore. Not really. No, I had graduated—if you could call it that—to a life of dignified supervision. I became what every bratty femboy succubus dreams of becoming: a manager.
I drifted through the courtyard, rotating between duties, pretending to check for efficiency while actually focusing on whether the lighting made my cheekbones look sharp enough for the job.
Keep a low profile, that was the goal—or so I told myself. And yet somehow I always ended up perched on crates or leaning against railings like some tavern diva awaiting her cue. Subtlety was never my gift.
Still, I liked to think I played the part of shadow-queen rather well. I’d wink at the guards who glanced my way, blowing kisses if I was feeling particularly brave, which always ended with Brutus groaning into his fist like a man being force-fed vinegar.
But in the back of my skull, something buzzed. Too easy, I kept telling myself. Too quiet. Rival gangs don’t just roll over and play dead while you build a pretty little castle from beneath their feet.
And yet, no knives came in the night. No whispers reached our ears. No sudden fires burned our supplies. Saints, it was suspiciously clean—like the calm in a brothel just before someone realizes the wine’s been poisoned.
Still, I brushed it aside for now, instead focusing on maintaining my image for the time being.
Some time passed until one day I was trudging toward the mining caverns for our morning shift, part of Section Twelve’s daily shuffle of bodies. The line dragged along in its usual miserable slump, men and women coughing dust from their lungs, guards snapping whips for the joy of hearing someone squeal.
I’d been half-dreaming, half-humming to myself about whether I should invent a uniform for our men, something daring, something that screamed "yes, we sell drugs, but with style."
And then I saw him.
The sight sent my heart plummeting straight into my ass.
At the very bottom floor of the prison, where the shadows pooled thickest, stood Yolmear, the Sectional Warden. His presence alone was enough to still the air: tall, rigid, hands clasped behind his back with all the patience of a saint sculpted from iron.
He didn’t so much glance around the chamber. He didn’t need to. Instead, his gaze was pinned directly on the central cage.
And saints preserve me, that cage. The same one I’d once been thrown into like a toy tossed in a pit, left to be pawed at by beasts. My skin prickled with old shame and hunger all at once.
But that wasn’t all.
Six men strained at six separate chains, dragging along a creature that was barely contained by the metal throttling its throat.
The Warden’s pet.
Gods, I remembered it well. A hulking slab of flesh and fury, muscles knotted like ropes beneath a loincloth that shimmered with sweat, twitching wolf’s ears flicking at every sound.
His eyes burned red in the torchlight, cutting through that ragged mask of his, wild with unchained rage, as he thrashed against his captors. They dug their heels in, faces purple with the effort, and still the beast lunged forward, nearly tearing them off their feet with each savage jerk.
He roared. A sound that shook me to my core. My knees wobbled. My lungs forgot how to breathe. Gods, I swear it wasn’t just noise—it was the promise of death rattling through my bones.
They dragged him, inch by inch, toward the cage. The chains clanged like funeral bells. And Yolmear—oh, Yolmear didn’t even flinch. He watched it all with that calm, carved expression of his, like a man counting coins rather than wrangling a monster that could tear the world apart with its jaws.
He never once looked my way. Which, if I’m being honest, was worse. Because if he had, I could’ve read something in his eyes. Pity, malice, curiosity. Anything. But no—his gaze was a locked door, and I was too afraid to even knock.
For half a heartbeat, instinct told me to call out. To shout something—anything—just to break the silence pounding in my ears. But before I could, the correctional officer yanked my hair from behind, dragging me along like a misbehaving pup.
"Keep walking," he hissed, his breath sour through is metal jaw.
And so I did.
Not yet, I thought to myself. I stumbled forward, casting one last glance at the beast as the cage slammed shut around him. My skin crawled, my heart hadn’t quite climbed back from my bottom, and for the rest of our shift, every clang of someone’s pickaxe in the caverns sounded like the chains being rattled in that godsforsaken cage.
The days passed again, slower this time, heavier. I laughed when I had to, smiled when needed, but inside I felt the weight of those eyes staring even when they weren’t.
And then—because fate enjoys her little performances—Mia returned.
It was late, the warehouse humming with the low murmur of men tallying their coin and supplies. She slipped inside like a shadow, cloak drawn, steps quick. Her face was different this time. Gone was the trembling girl we’d mocked and dismissed.
In her place was someone sharper, steadier. Her chin lifted higher. Her gaze no longer darted to the ground but met ours square. A survivor’s eyes.
I arched a brow, lounging lazily across a crate. "Well, well. Look who’s come back from her little sleepover. Did you bring us sweets, darling? Or just some more bad news?"
She didn’t flinch at my tone. Instead, she nodded once before reaching beneath her cloak. When her hand emerged, it clutched a scrap of parchment, yellowed and fraying at the edges.
Brutus stepped forward immediately, snatching it from her hand with all the delicacy of a man grabbing bread after a famine. His eyes scanned the page, lips moving silently as he read. Then came the curse—low, heavy, the kind of curse that drags out of a man’s gut when he realizes the mountain he’s about to climb is taller than he once thought.
"Well," he sighed, rolling his shoulders as though the weight of the world had just settled there. "That’s all of them."
My head tilted, lips already curled into a smirk. "Oh, saints, let me guess. It’s a list of ex-lovers who want me dead. Happens more often than you’d think."
Atticus took the parchment from Brutus, adjusting his spectacles with that maddening little ritual of his before reading aloud.
One by one, the names rolled off his tongue. Each one heavy, sharp, dripping with history I only half-understood. And with every name, the room shifted. Freya’s jaw tightened. Dregan grunted under his breath. Even Brutus’s eyes darkened, like ghosts had climbed out of the parchment to leer at him.
I didn’t know all the details between them, but I knew enough to understand that these weren’t some random thugs. These were leaders. It had to be them, the top dogs of the other sections. Ten in total. A coalition promising pain.
Hah, exactly as I’d expected.
I leaned back, hands folded behind my head, and let a little laugh slip through my lips. "Oh, lovely. A rogues’ gallery. Should we send them flowers now, or wait until they’re at our throats?"
Brutus’s gaze cut to Mia, hard and searching. "You’re sure?" he asked, his voice like a boulder grinding against stone. "That they’re working together?"
Mia’s chin lifted higher. "I’m sure. My boss, Victor, he told me himself."
Her voice didn’t waver. Not once. And then, slowly, deliberately, she began to recount the night with her boss. The words. The whispers. The promises.
Mia’s voice faltered as she finished her recount, words slipping into silence like embers dying on stone. The warehouse felt heavier then, thicker, as if her revelation had stolen the air from our lungs and locked it up in a chest we couldn’t pry open.
Freya, arms crossed, eyes sharp as blades, was the first to slice through the stillness.
"That’s it?" she demanded, tone flat but dangerous in its presence. "You sneak back in here, cloak full of secrets, and all you’ve got is a list of names? You’ve got to have more than just that."
Her eyes bored into Mia like golden drills, and for a moment I half-wondered if Freya meant to wring more names out of her by force, which would’ve been quite the show but also terribly inefficient.
Mia didn’t so much as blink. Instead, she gave a small nod, slow and coaxing, as though bracing herself before stepping into deeper water.
"I do," she said simply. "I know how they plan to strike."
And oh, my darling, let me tell you—those words lit a fire straight under my ribs. My head snapped up, every ounce of lazy arrogance evaporating in an instant. If there’s one thing I adore more than being adored, it’s being handed the script to a play before anyone else knows their lines.
I leaned forward, chin in my palm, lips curling into a grin I couldn’t suppress. "Oh, do go on, lovely. Tell me more. Spare not a single dramatic flourish."
She hesitated, just a flicker, before delivering the dagger’s edge. "My boss plans to approach you as a potential ally. He’ll offer a trade, giving up one of his most guarded secrets: a way to disable the gutterbrand."
For a heartbeat, I forgot how to breathe. The gutterbrand—the collar shackled around my neck, burning its filth into my skin, whispering in every moment that I was still Guttermeat, still nothing but scraps to the higher world.
Impossible, my mind spat immediately. And yet—my pulse quickened, a traitor to reason. What if? Just maybe, what if? My eyes flicked back to Mia, narrowing, searching.
Could Victor have gotten to Yolmear first? Could he have bribed the Sectional Warden into spilling his secrets before me? The thought sent a shiver crawling up my spine like a spider drunk on sacramental wine.
I scoffed aloud, shattering my own moment of weakness before anyone else could see it. "Well, look at him," I sneered, waving my hand dramatically in the air. "Seems like he realizes why we’re building our stash in the first place. Clever. Almost enough to make me proud."
I let the silence hang for just a beat before tilting my head, letting a dagger-sharp smile slice through the air. "But tell me, darling, why in the nine hells would I risk my empire on the word of such an unreliable source?"
For the first time, Mia’s lips twitched—not into a smile, no, but into something deeper, laced with a quiet sense of resolve. "Because he was going to offer you something else as well," she said softly. "Another secret. One he and the other drug lords have been building together. A way out of this prison."
Saints help me, my heart stopped. Just for a moment, just for one precious beat, the world went quiet and I stared into the space between her words. A way out.
The one dream I never dared speak too loudly. Not just surviving, not just thriving in this pit, but gone. Free. Past the walls, past the chains, past the endless cycle of blood and lust. A path toward ascension. The words glimmered in my skull like jewels dangling just out of reach.
My lips parted, but the only thing that fell out was a whisper. "What does he want in return?"
Mia’s eyes hardened. "Everything. Your current earnings. Your men. All of it."
I sat back, letting a low chuckle tumble from my throat. "Smart. Very smart indeed." Victor’s cunning was undeniable—he’d dressed the bait perfectly. He dangled not what I already had, but what I truly wanted.
My goal was never to rot here atop a pile of silver, never to rule this broken cage like some petty king. My goal had always been to escape, to climb higher, to turn this entire prison into nothing more than a forgotten stepping stone beneath my heel. Oh yes, Victor had understood that much about me. And yet—he’d made one fatal mistake.
I tilted my head, eyes glittering as I met Mia’s steady gaze. "But none of this is true, is it?"
She hesitated. Just for a fraction of a breath, but it was there. Then she shook her head, slowly. "His plan to escape might be true, I’ve heard the whispers. But the offer to work with you? That was never true, no. His proposal is a lie. His plan is to lure you into a meeting, ambush you, and take your coin. From then, they would use it to carry out your original goal—to bribe the Sectional Warden into given them a way to banish the brand."
"Of course," I sighed, dragging a hand down my face as though exhausted by the sheer predictability of it all.
Dregan’s laughter split the heavy air, loud and crude, bouncing off the warehouse walls like thrown knives. "Hah! So what now, eh? What’s our darling little Loona gonna do, knowing every shark in this pit’s got his teeth aimed right at his pretty throat?" His grin gleamed, wild and toothy, like a wolf savoring the promise of blood.
I smirked, leaning back on the crate until it groaned beneath me, my fingers drumming thoughtfully against the wood. My mind wandered—unbidden—back to days prior. To the cage. To the beast waiting there. To his ghosting breath, his twitching ears, and the way Yolmear’s gaze hadn’t so much as wavered. My skin prickled all over again, the phantom of that roar rattling through my chest.
I let the grin widen, slow and wicked, until even Freya’s eyes narrowed in suspicion. "Oh, no need to worry, darling," I purred, voice dripping with mischief. "I’ve got a plan."