The alehouse was too damn big for this dust-sneeze of a town. Stone walls, carved beams, actual shutters on the windows. Overcompensating, clearly. Probably built during some long-forgotten border war when someone still thought this place mattered. Now it smelled like boiled turnips, spilled ale, and ambition. Which meant one thing.
Tournament week.
Which meant: mercenaries, gamblers, pickpockets, and half the baronies' population of idiot knights flexing in borrowed armor. So, marks.
My new sandals slapped the floor with just the right rhythm — flappity-flap, like applause for my ass. Silk wrapped around me in layers of indigo and gold, the kind of wrap dress that technically qualified as clothing but only just. One good breeze and I'd be back to temple-standard nudity. And I wouldn't even mind. The bangles on my wrists sang with every step. My hair was up. My smirk was sharp.
I owned that doorway.
Inside, it was all sweat and noise and lute music tuned by someone's idiot cousin. Cheap smoke curled around the rafters. Women shouted from balconies. Coins clinked, dice rolled, and someone somewhere was already halfway through a bad idea.
At the bar.
There he was.
The Dwarf.
Of course.
No fanfare. No shock. I just accepted it like one accepts gravity or hangovers. The Dwarf was simply inevitable. He was part of the furniture of my life — greasy, dented, occasionally helpful, and entirely too familiar with my thighs.
We exchanged nods.
Then—
Her.
She turned toward me.
And the world paused.
The pox girl.
From the oubliette. That pit full of bones and secrets and men who never made it to trial. She was there. Quiet, calm, unnervingly clean. The one with the kiss-of-death crotch. No sores. No glow. Just cursed like a silk-wrapped plague.
I never even hesitated.
The Dragon had a full-blown panic attack about germs, of course — flapping and screeching like I was trying to load his precious scales with syphilis — but I screamed until he doubled back and pulled us both out. She didn't beg. Just took my hand and climbed, like she knew she wasn't dying in a hole.
And now?
Now she was wearing success like perfume.
New tunic. Deep red silk that shimmered like spilled wine. Cut scandalously off one shoulder, tied at the hip with a golden cord. Bare legs. Anklets. Heavy armbands that clinked with casual wealth. Hair brushed and oiled and braided like she had a maid for every limb.
She looked like the kind of woman temples burned witches over. Like she never even heard the word oubliette.
I stopped.
She smiled. Just a little. Just enough to let me know she remembered everything.
And all I could think was: Well fuck me sideways. She's thriving.
Good for her.
She saw me.
And smiled.
Not the fake kind. Not the professional "hello dear client, please sign here before I drain your soul through your cock" smile. A real one. Honest. Warm. And just a little wicked.
"Saya," she said, like a secret I left unlocked.
"Shit," I muttered, and slid onto the stool beside her. "You're alive."
"You're dressed," she shot back, eyes flicking down to the leg slit that practically introduced my hipbone to the bar. "Sort of."
"Modesty's for people without ankles like these."
She snorted. Actually snorted. "Gods, I missed you."
I clinked my cup against hers. "You look… good."
She looked dangerous. That kind of clean, glossy beauty you only get when no one owns you. Hair oiled and braided like a priestess on parade. Gold hoops. Silk like melted blood, the good kind that drapes even when there's a breeze. No chains. No collar. Just her.
"I am good," she said. "Turns out freedom suits me."
"Doing what?" I asked, half-knowing I wouldn't like the answer. "Please don't say embroidery."
She laughed. "I kill people."
I blinked. "Like… like actually kill?"
"Professionally." She sipped her drink, slow and elegant. "You want someone dead, you pay me. I seduce the bastard, curse his insides, and three days later he's moaning like he came wrong and it's crawling up his spine."
I stared.
She kept sipping.
"You're—" I started, then stopped. "You're literally doing the same thing they made you do in chains."
"Yes," she said. "Only now I invoice for it."
I blinked again. "You turned terminal cunt into a business model."
She smirked. "It was either that or get a job folding tunics for some temple widow. I figured I'd stick to what I know."
"That's…" I exhaled. "That's awful."
"It is," she agreed.
"And kind of genius."
She only shrugged, bracelets chiming like casual sin.
"Death solves many things," she said, as if announcing soup of the day. "You got a man, you got a problem. No man, no problem."
I blinked at her. Once. Twice.
"That's… a philosophy," I managed.
"It's efficient," she replied sweetly. Then tipped her chin toward the crowd. "Speaking of problems. My next one should be arriving any moment. I'd better mingle. See if he's already here."
And just like that she slid off the stool, hips swaying, drifting into the drunken chaos of the alehouse like she owned the whole damned night. Silk, perfume, danger. Gone into the sea of bodies.
I took a long, thoughtful swallow of ale.
Huh.
Assassination.
It does sound lucrative. And theatrical. And extremely my style.
For one dangerous heartbeat I actually pictured it: me, but deadlier; coins stacking nicely; morally superior corpses everywhere. Maybe bribes. Maybe jewels. Maybe fanfare. The only problem?
The Dragon.
You can't exactly do subtle murder-for-hire with a twelve-ton ancient lizard having an existential crisis about germs and gout in the background. He is many things. Graceful instrument of discreet, intimate death is not one of them. Too loud. Too shiny. Too… dragon.
"Damn it," I muttered into my mug. "Ruins everything."
I was still contemplating the logistics of stealth homicide with a giant overdramatic fire hazard as a business partner when I caught movement upstairs.
There she was.
Hand on someone's arm.
Smile soft as silk, promise sharp as a blade.
She led him toward the rooms above.
Gods.
Oh gods.
It was him.
Sir Ogden.
Of course it was Sir Ogden.
Golden hair. Smug stride. That stupid heroic jawline like it had never once suffered a consequence. He was letting her lead him. Smiling. Probably thinking with his cock again, which — let's be honest — was the only part of him ever on duty.
Fuck.
Fuck fuck fuck fuck.
I drained my mug like it owed me child support, slammed it on the bar, and bolted.
Up the stairs. Past the tavern girl with too much blush and not enough blouse. Past the toothless man offering "discounts for volume." Past a bored looking bard pretending not to cry.
The horny rooms.
Those creaky little sin-cubicles desperate men rent for ten minutes of groaning and thirty seconds of apology. I'd been in them before. On top. On bottom. Upside-down once, but that was more of a bet.
I kicked open the first door.
Oupsie.
Man. Woman. Second woman. All busy.
"Carry on, darlings," I said, backing out. "Love the enthusiasm. Very acrobatic."
Next door.
Nope.
Too many candles. Smelled like cinnamon and shame. Also someone's mother was definitely crying in the corner.
Third door.
"Oh gods," I whispered. "Is that a goat?"
A pause.
The goat bleated.
"Never mind," I said, backing out quickly.
Stop. Just… stop.
The fourth door.
I didn't knock.
I burst.
And there they were.
Sir Ogden — naked as a sainted sunrise, shirt hanging off one arm, muscles flexing like they'd rehearsed — kneeling between the legs of her, the girl with the death-kiss and the venomous virtue.
"Oh gods, Ogden, STOP!" I shouted.
He jolted like someone had jabbed a torch up his holy grail. "Saya?! What the hell are you doing here?!"
"No, no, seriously, don't touch her! Get away from her! Put your pants back on, or your cock is gonna rot off!"
He squinted at me like I was the one with brain syphilis. "Is this one of your jealousy flair-ups again?"
"No!" I screeched, flailing toward him. "You don't understand—her vagina is cursed! It's like… like weaponized groin plague!"
"Excuse you," the girl hissed, rising like a goddess of wrath and really good contouring. "I prefer the term selective karmic retribution."
"Selective my left tit!" I snapped. "You were about to kill him with your enchanted snatch!"
Ogden yelped — finally — and scrambled backwards, nearly tripping over his own breeches. "You know what? I don't need this. I don't need any of this." He shoved his arms through his half-buttoned shirt, hair flopping wildly. "I'm going to find someone normal. Like a nymph. Or a manticore."
Then he fled.
Barefoot.
I rounded on her.
She was already standing, golden and furious, eyes like lit coals. "He was mine."
"He's an idiot," I shot back. "He once asked if the sun sets because it gets tired."
"Still mine," she growled. "Keep your jealous little claws off my contracts."
"Oh bite me, you walking STD. I'm saving his life, not fighting for his affections. Keep your poison cunt away from him. Understand?"
Her lip curled. "Bitch."
"Cunt."
We stood there.
Breathing hard.
Earrings askew.
Both half-ready to claw and half-ready to kiss.
The room stank of sweat, tension, and scorched opportunity.
I jabbed a finger at her chest. "Ogden is mine."
She raised an eyebrow. "Yours? You just said he's an idiot."
"He is," I snapped. "But he's my idiot. Ok, not mine mine. Not like, property. Not like cuddles and moonlight. More like… if anyone is going to ruin his stupid heroic life, it's me, alright?"
Her eyes narrowed. "You're claiming him?"
"I'm claiming dibs on the sabotage, yes."
She folded her arms, breasts still gloriously unbothered. "He's a contract."
"Then cancel it. Tear it up. Refund the deposit. I don't care if some pissed-off baron paid you in rubies and silk sheets, this one's off the list."
"I don't take orders from jealous ex-hookers with attachment issues."
"Good. Then take it from a fellow professional." I leaned in. "This job's taken."
Not that I care. I don't. Gods, I don't. But if he died, I'd… I don't know. Kick a tree or something.
A long pause.
She stared.
I stared.
The goat from two doors down bleated dramatically, like punctuation.
She clicked her tongue. "Fine."
I blinked. "Wait, really?"
She rolled her eyes. "He's not even top-tier dick. I just liked the cheekbones."
"Same," I muttered. "Infuriating cheekbones."
We stood in silence a moment longer. Then she picked up her tunic with exaggerated grace.
"Next time," she said, slipping into it, "stay out of my bedchamber."
"Next time," I said, turning on my heel, "find a mark that doesn't wander off with his shirt half on and his dignity fully missing."
Door slammed behind me.
Gods.
I need a drink.
And maybe… a leash for Ogden.