I open the door. The gold-painted surface throws the light back so harshly that we both flinch, half-blinded.
A man stands just inside. He’s imposing, broad-shouldered, with a bald head gleaming with sweat. His nose is thick, but almost absurdly small compared to his skull, like some sculptor ran out of clay halfway through.
I let my gaze drift past him, scanning the interior. It’s simple. Tasteful in the way the upper class likes to pretend is humble. The floor is polished wood. The walls are freshly painted.
But I know the truth. The interesting part is beneath us. The hidden rooms. The underground no one talks about.
I incline my head slightly.
“New?” I ask, my voice casual but cold.
He grunts, squinting at me. “And who are you? A customer?”
No, I want to say. But I bite that back and let a smirk twitch my mouth.
“Well. You could say that.”
He tilts his head back a little, trying to make himself look taller. It’s pathetic.
Behind him, I see two men and a woman lounging on a worn couch, cups of steaming porcelain in their hands. Tea. Always tea. The safe drink of cowards and schemers alike.
I breathe out slowly. My arm shifts, adjusting her weight on my hip. She clings to me like I’m the last piece of solid ground in a rising flood.
“I want her safe,” I say. Each word is deliberate. Heavy. “At all costs.”
My eyes catch on a book tucked in the corner shelf among a hundred others. A lie of civility.
The man in front of me snorts, loud enough that the tea-drinkers glance over.
“She’s a red,” he says. He doesn’t even try to keep his voice down.
His mouth curves in a sneer. “You want to tell me—a noble—is caring for a slave?”
He says it like it’s a joke. Like it’s absurd.
The others put their tea down, watching now.
He studies me, eyes narrowing. I feel the girl’s grip tighten so hard it hurts. She feels their gazes crawling over her like roaches.
“You’re making her uncomfortable,” I say.
“Tell them to look elsewhere.”
His eyes lock onto mine, and I see the green glow hidden in their depths. Like mine.
“Or what?” he breathes.
My fist snaps out. Not hard. I don’t even put weight into it. But it still sends him sprawling like a sack of wheat, crashing into the wall.
The others leap up. One of the teacups shatters on the floor, splattering the low table with brown stain.
They look at me. At her.
“Don’t—” I say softly, pulling her behind me.
But they don’t listen.
Their steps pound the floor like war drums.
I don’t need to move.
I could break them without stepping forward. I could dishonor them all with nothing but the weight of my presence and a flick of my wrist.
But then the door bursts open behind them.
No bell. This place has no need for polite warnings.
One woman stands just inside the threshold, glaring at me from three feet away. Another man halts around five feet back, arm half-raised in threat. The rest stumble to a stop, too slow.
“What in Apollo’s name happened here?”
The voice hits me like a memory dug up from a grave.
“Two hours,” he growls. “Two hours I’m away, and you idiots start trouble?”
He’s broad-shouldered, built like a warhorse that learned to talk. His gaze sweeps the room like a blade, cutting through excuses before they form. Then his eyes land on me.
“You’ll get your wages cut next mission,” he says, voice iron.
The men who attacked me go pale. Their posture sags. They drop the tension like broken puppets.
His gaze turns back to me, evaluating.
He says it like a challenge.
I raise my fist to my left chest and strike it three times. On the last, I flatten my palm against my heart.
It takes a breath. Two.
Then he steps forward and pulls me into a rough embrace.
He leaves the others frozen, blinking at the sudden intimacy.
Three faces I don’t know. Two I know too well. And two more I remember with grim clarity.
There’s Grim, the scar-faced bastard with his twitching smile.
Vis, tall and thin as a dying tree.
Dellin, the other brute. And one whose name slips through my fingers like water.
And two new ones. Blues.
But none of them matter now.
Because Harmon is here.
He claps my shoulder so hard it rattles my bones.
“Long time, Erik.” He never says my name right.
I breathe in his scent of sweat and old leather.
“Long time,” I manage.