You ever walk into a place knowing you're either getting kissed, kicked out, or carried to a hayloft? That was this tavern.
Three nights later and I'm still here, still broke, still stupid enough to walk back into The Frothy Goat like nothing happened. The bruises from last time have faded to a nice yellow. Time for round two… or three. Who's counting?
My bare feet slap the warped wood floor of The Frothy Goat like I own it. Bells on my anklets tinkle like they've got something to say. I've got that dress on—you know the one. The one that's just a rectangle of linen pinned at the shoulders and cinched at the waist so it doesn't fly off and expose the whole situation. Again. Gods forbid.
The belt's a piece of rope I stole from a fishmonger's drying line. Smells faintly of crab. Adds to the charm.
Heads turn. Of course they do. The neckline's loose. My shoulder's bare. I give them a flash of hip when I lean against the counter and crook one toe in the air like I'm a bored courtesan and not an aggressively unemployed disaster trying to scam her way into a dinner.
"I'll have an ale," I purr. "And put it on…"
I squint. Who's dumb and drunk enough?
"...his tab," I finish, pointing at a sweating merc in a rusted cuirass who absolutely thinks he recognizes me. From where? No idea. Probably the bathhouse I definitely didn't work at.
He blinks, uncertain. Then shrugs and nods. Got him.
One mug down. Now what?
Option A: Find someone with loose coin and looser morals. Alley quickie, half a dinar, maybe a sausage if they're feeling generous.
Option B: Pickpocket. Dangerous. I'm cute, not subtle.
Option C: Look so tragic and gorgeous someone feels compelled to rescue me with their wallet.
I do all three at once.
Pro tip for working girls: if you're scouring seedy taverns at night and you've got any brand marks on you—flaunt them. Seriously. Hike up the hem, shrug the strap off your shoulder, stretch just enough to let that little crescent scar peek out over your hip bone. Better they assume you belong to someone. Some someone mean, rich, and invested in your continued existence.
Because the truth is, no one gives a shit about a free agent. Free means disposable. Free means no one's watching. Free gets you dragged into alleys and nobody comes asking.
But if they think you're property? Property has value. Property might have thugs. Might have a pimp with a knife collection or a jealous noble patron with a temper and soldiers on retainer. Might have a demon who shows up late but still burns the place down eventually. (Gregory, if you're listening: you still owe me two goats and a bottle of rose oil. Bastard.)
I shift on the bench so the mark on my inner thigh shows just a little. Temple brand. Old, faded, but still recognizable to the right kind of bastard. I catch one watching. He notices. Looks away fast. Good.
I ain't got a handler, not anymore. Just got stories. Half lies, half truths, all dangerous in the right lighting. But the trick is—they don't need to know that. They just need to wonder: what if she's not alone?
What if someone cares if she disappears?
So I smile.
The kind of smile that says: yes, I've bitten before. Yes, I'll do it again.
And maybe—just maybe—I've got someone watching from the shadows.
(He's not. The dragon's probably off soaking his tail somewhere and complaining about the humidity. But they don't need to know that either.)
***
Shit.
No light. No way out.
The alley stinks of piss, spoiled beer, and sweat thick enough to chew. Four of them. Maybe five. I lost count after the second one pinned my wrist to the stone. My back hits the wall. Hard. My toes scrape grit. Anklet bells jingle one last useless little chime.
"No," I snap. "Back the fuck off."
They laugh. One grabs my chin, hard. Another starts hiking up the hem of that dress. The one with pins that are already coming loose.
I kick. Scream. They don't care.
No dragon. No wings blotting out the moon. He can't help. Not in towns. Too many torches. Too many looky-loos with crossbows and inferiority complexes.
I reach for my knife. Gone.
My stomach knots. Breath turns cold. Heart thumps like it's trying to claw out of my ribs.
Shit.
The pendant.
Fucking shit.
It's warm against my chest. Always is. Feels like a heartbeat that's not mine. Gregory's last little "gift." A bone-carved thing with veins of obsidian and a tiny, obscene little sigil that winks at you if the light hits it wrong.
He said to only use it in dire emergencies. That it's "highly temperamental" and "might summon him with an erection or a vendetta, depending on the hour."
Well. I'll take either.
I tug the cord free with shaking fingers, press the charm to my lips, and mutter the words he made me memorize.
"…phallos invocatus, goatfather grant me favor—"
The world snaps.
Air goes heavy, like the alley's been dunked underwater. Torches gutter. Shadows twist.
And then—squelch.
A wet sound. A sloppy, unpleasant sound.
Something arrives.
He's behind them. Or in them. Or through them. The biggest one freezes. Blinks. Looks down. His chest opens like a fruit rind.
The others scream. Too late.
Gregory stands there, naked as sin and twice as smug, blood on his horns, smiling like a butcher at a clearance sale.
"Did someone call for dick... or death?"
He cracks his knuckles. His cock is half-hard. His eyes are glowing.
I slump to the ground, shaking. Dress torn. One tit out. No time to care.
He turns to me, mock-offended. "Sweetums, you summoned me with this crowd? I thought we agreed: only if it's a gangbang I get to be in."
I wheeze. "Greg… I was gonna die."
He softens. Just a flicker. Demon-style. Which means he licks some blood off his forearm and grins even wider.
"Well. Can't have that, now can we?"
He winks. Steps forward.
"And anyway—" he says, grinding a boot into a twitching groin, "—no one fucks my girl for free."
He turns to me slow. Covered in gore. Naked. Still half-hard. Still Gregory.
And gods help me—still hot.
He steps in close, palms my face like I'm a chalice he's about to drink from. I'm still shaking, but not from fear now. It's the aftermath. It's adrenaline. It's the way his claws press just light enough not to cut.
"You alright, sweetheart?" he murmurs, voice low and sticky.
I nod. Lie. "Fine."
Then I grab his neck and pull him down into a kiss.
Hard. Desperate. Filthy.
He tastes like blood and smoke and old sins. His tongue's hot. His fangs graze my lip. I bite back.
The wall's cold against my back. His body is not.
I grind up against him and hiss into his mouth, "Thanks, Greg."
He hums. "Always a pleasure, sugarcake. Especially when it's a pleasure."
We're still tangled when I shove a hand between us and palm his hipbone. "Where's my goat, you smug bastard?"
He pulls back just enough to look amused. Eyes glowing. Fangs bared.
"That depends," he says. "Do you want it alive, or already seasoned?"
I laugh.
Gods help me, I laugh.
Because of course he would say that.
***
He chuckles low, filthy, right against my neck.
"I missed you," he murmurs, dragging his lips along my collarbone, "like a plague misses a city."
I yank him closer by the horns. "Less poetry, more cock."
And that's it. No more teasing. No more quips.
I hike up what's left of my dress. No underwear. Never was. He lifts me like I weigh nothing, presses me against the wall, stone rough under my bare thighs. His hands grip under my knees, claws digging just enough to remind me he's not human.
Good.
I'm sick of human.
His hips slam into me like a promise kept late. The alley echoes with it, wet and loud and absolutely undignified. I moan straight into his mouth, bite his bottom lip, rake my nails down his back as he fucks me like he's been summoned from the pits of lust—and he has.
He's hot. Everywhere. Skin radiating hellfire.
Each thrust bruises. Each gasp fogs the air.
Blood on his chest. My bells jingling. Somewhere in the dark a rat watches us in scandalized silence.
He snarls, "You're mine, you little gutterwitch."
I arch, wrap around him tighter. "Only on Thursdays."
He grins through bared teeth, slams in harder. "It is Thursday."
I come.
Hard.
Fast.
Clawing at his shoulders like I'm trying to climb out of my body.
He follows with a groan like a collapsing chapel, shuddering into me with one final, brutal thrust.
We stay like that for a beat. Breathing. Sweating. Tangled in each other and the smell of death and filth and victory.
Then I nudge his chest. "So. Goat."
He laughs. Wipes blood from my cheek with his thumb. "You'll get your damn goat, princess."
"Better be cute."
"It'll be cursed."
I grin. "Even better."