I was on my knees in the Rose Suite, scrubbing like a man possessed. The room reeked of sex and cheap perfume: used condoms knotted and tossed in every corner, sticky patches of dried cum on the headboard, squirt stains blooming across the sheets like abstract art. A half-empty bottle of love-oil had leaked onto the rug; someone's silk stocking was still knotted to the bedpost. I stripped the bed, flipped the mattress (because gods only knew what was soaked into the other side), and remade it with fresh crimson sheets while humming to keep from gagging.
Torren, surprisingly, was actually working. For once in his life he was being a good boy: sweeping the hallway, whistling, even wiping down the banister with a rag. Every time a working girl walked past in nothing but a robe, he'd give a polite little bow and keep scrubbing. I almost didn't recognize him.
Ten minutes later, though, the saint phase ended. Torren decided he owned the place. He started strutting around with the broom over his shoulder like a battle standard, greeting drunk customers with "Welcome to my humble establishment!" and trying to flirt with a giggling half-elf courtesan by flexing the one muscle he has (his mouth).
Madam Seraphine watched from the counter, arms crossed under her massive chest, amused but letting it slide. "They're still kids," she murmured to one of the girls.
Then fate, being fate, sent a gift.
A mountain of a man (some mercenary thug with a scar across his lip and breath like a brewery) came lumbering down the stairs, still buckling his belt. He shoulder-checked Torren hard enough to spin him halfway around.
Torren stumbled, caught himself, and looked up.
The thug sneered, leaning in so close his spit flecked Torren's cheek. "The fuck's your problem, brat? You wanna catch these hands?"
Torren wiped the saliva off with the back of his hand, blinked once, then leaned in until their noses almost touched.
"Ohhh, big bro, you wanna hit me?" he mocked, voice dripping fake sweetness. "Come on, big strong man, show me those scary fists!"
The thug puffed up. "Keep talkin', I'll—"
Torren cut him off by hawking the loudest, wettest loogie imaginable and firing it right back, splat, dead center on the guy's chin.
The thug returned fire with a glob that landed in Torren's hair.
Within seconds they were practically French-kissing with spit, snarling and posturing like two alley cats in heat, each trying to out-disgusting the other.
That was when Madam Seraphine had enough.
She glided over like a panther, grabbed both idiots by the ear (one in each hand), and CRACK! CRACK! Two open-palmed slaps, perfectly synchronized. The sound bounced off the walls like thunderclaps.
The thug and Torren flew in opposite directions, hit the rug at the exact same time, and kissed the floor with identical dazed expressions, tongues out, eyes swirling.
I dropped my cleaning rag and doubled over laughing so hard I wheezed. Tears streamed down my face. I had to lean against the wall just to stay upright.
Seraphine dusted her hands, looked down at the two groaning heaps, then over at me.
"Eren, darling," she said sweetly, "be a dear and drag your idiot brother to the back before I murder him. The big one can crawl out on his own."
Still giggling, I saluted. "Yes, ma'am.
The front doors slammed open so hard the red lanterns rattled.
Ten men poured in, real bandits this time. Not the usual drunk mercenaries looking for a quick lay, but the Black Boarclaw gang, scarred faces, mismatched armor, blades openly displayed. The leader had a boar's tusk necklace and a missing ear. The entire hall went dead quiet in the space of one heartbeat. Glasses stopped halfway to mouths. The lute player's fingers froze on the strings. Even the half-naked courtesans pulled robes tighter and shrank back.
Torren's bravado evaporated. He squeaked, dropped his broom, and bolted behind Madam Seraphine. I was half a step behind him. We both ducked behind her wide skirts like frightened ducklings, clutching the fabric and whispering in unison, "Big Sis, who the hell are these guys?!"
The air felt thick enough to choke on. You could hear hearts pounding.
Madam Seraphine didn't even blink. She stepped forward, hips swaying once, and planted herself between the bandits and the rest of the room.
"Gentlemen," she said, voice calm and flat as a frozen lake, "state your business."
The leader grinned wide enough to show three gold teeth. "Simple, sweetheart. We want your three best girls for the night. And we ain't payin'." He flicked a copper coin at her feet like trash. His men laughed, hands already drifting to sword hilts.
Seraphine tilted her head. "No."
The leader's smile vanished. "Wasn't a request."
He lunged, meaty hand reaching for her wrist.
What happened next was pure art.
She caught his wrist mid-grab, twisted, and the seven-foot brute flipped over her hip like a rag doll, crashing onto a table that exploded into splinters. Before the others could react, she was moving: a blur of black corset and silver-streaked hair.
One bandit swung a shortsword; she sidestepped, drove her elbow into his temple; he dropped unconscious before the blade hit the rug. Another tried to grab her from behind; she stomped his instep, spun, and delivered a palm strike to the nose that sent him staggering back in a fountain of blood. A third raised a crossbow; she flicked her wrist and a hidden stiletto appeared, slicing the string clean. The bolt clattered harmlessly to the floor.
Ten men. Thirty seconds.
The last one standing tried to run. She hooked his ankle with a broom (Torren's abandoned one), yanked, and he face-planted. Then she calmly placed one high-heeled boot on the back of his neck.
"Payment," she said sweetly, "is non-negotiable."
The hall erupted in cheers, but Torren and I just stared, eyes sparkling like we'd seen a goddess descend. Hearts in our pupils, jaws on the floor, identical dreamy sighs escaping our lips.
Seraphine glanced over her shoulder at us, wiped a spot of blood from her cheek with the back of her hand, and winked.
"Still waiting on those floors to be spotless, little brothers."
"Dude," I hissed to Torren as the groaning bandits were dragged out by their ankles like sacks of rotten potatoes, "top floor. Now. I need to see what kind of legendary shit happens up there after that massacre."
Torren's eyes were still cartoon-heart shaped. "Bro. Did you see how she flipped the big one? I'm pretty sure my soul left my body and came back just to watch it again."
We bolted for the stairs, trying (and failing) to look casual. The whole way up we couldn't shut up.
"That elbow to the temple? Clean. Instant lights out."
"Forget that, the broom trip at the end? She used your broom, man! Your broom is a holy relic now!"
"I'm framing it. I'm actually framing it."
"She didn't even ruin her lipstick. How?!"
By the time we reached the third-floor landing we were giggling like idiots, replaying the fight beat by beat in ridiculous slow-motion narration.
The top floor was quieter, more luxurious: thick carpet, scented candles, soft moans coming from behind ornate doors. The working ladies and a few staff smiled at us like we were adorable puppies. Nobody told us to leave.
We started sweeping the hallway (mostly pushing the broom back and forth while whispering).
That's when two of the house's top courtesans drifted over. Both gorgeous milfs in their late thirties, the kind of women who make your brain stutter.
One was Lady Amara: raven hair down to her waist, golden skin, wearing only a sheer sapphire robe that hid literally nothing.
The other was Lady Celeste: platinum blonde curls, ice-blue eyes, crimson silk wrapped loosely around curves that could start wars.
They leaned against the wall, watching us with amused smiles.
Amara tilted her head. "So, boys… still talking about Madam's little demonstration?"
Torren, red as a beet, tried to play it cool and failed. "I-I mean, it was the most beautiful thing I've ever seen. Like a dance. A violent, sexy dance."
Celeste laughed softly. "She does love an audience. Tell me, which part made your knees weakest?"
I swallowed. "When she caught the crossbow string with the knife. One flick and it was over. I felt that in my soul… and somewhere lower."
Amara stepped closer, trailing a finger along my broom handle. "Mmm. A boy who notices the details. I like that."
Celeste mirrored her, brushing imaginary dust off Torren's shoulder. "And you? What made your heart race?"
Torren, voice cracking: "The boot on the neck. I… I think I saw the face of god."
Both women burst into warm laughter, not mocking, just delighted.
Amara leaned in until her lips almost touched my ear. "You know… Madam told us to take special care of her 'little brothers' once the floors were clean. She said you earned a proper reward for being so brave and staying to watch."
Celeste finished the sentence, breath hot against Torren's cheek, "and for not running away like the rest of the boys in this village do when things get exciting."
I nearly dropped the broom. Torren actually squeaked.
Amara took my hand, Celeste took Torren's, and together they tugged us gently toward the double doors at the end of the hall—the Emperor Suite, reserved for only the most generous (or in our case, apparently, the most entertaining) guests.
"Floors look spotless to me," Celeste purred.
"Come on, heroes," Amara added with a wink. "Let's show you what happens on the top floor when Madam's in a generous mood."