A few days had passed since Thomas and Marla began piecing together the final parts of their plan. Marla had whispered the information in hushed tones during the late hours at the cookhouse, her words quick and careful as she detailed every route, every transaction, every hand that passed money to the boss. The supplies came from a moderately wealthy merchant, a man with enough sway in Flea Bottom to snuff out lives with a single word. And the boss, arrogant and careless, had been skimming his cut, padding his pockets with stolen goods from his own supplier.
Thomas and Marla had watched, waited, and when the right moment came, they made their move. It was all too easy—Thomas slipped into the kitchen late one night, taking a few crates of vegetables and scattering them through the alley. Then, a few quick words to the merchant's guards about who they'd seen lurking near the storeroom. Suspicion and fury were easy to stoke in Flea Bottom, and soon, the merchant's men were banging on the boss's door, dragging him out into the street.
Marla and Thomas stood at a safe distance, watching as the boss, red-faced and blustering, was thrown to the ground, his protests drowned out by the clinking of armor and the sharp commands of the guards. The merchant himself appeared, his face twisted in disgust as he surveyed the evidence laid at his feet—fresh, ripe vegetables that should have been locked up tight. The accusations flew fast, and the boss's defiant sneers quickly turned to desperate pleas.
Thomas leaned closer to Marla, whispering, "This is it. Just like we planned." She nodded, her expression tense, eyes locked on the scene unfolding before them.
The guards did not waste time. A swift decision, a snap of the merchant's fingers, and the boss was dragged away, his shouts fading as he was hauled off toward the dungeons. Thomas felt a rush of satisfaction, watching the man who had once sneered at him now groveling in chains. But as the crowd began to disperse, one of the guards, a burly man with a scar cutting across his cheek, stepped forward, blocking Thomas's path.
"Any relatives? Anyone who'd claim the place?" the guard asked, his tone flat and uninterested, as if this were a mere formality.
Thomas shook his head. "No. He was alone."
The guard grunted, glancing over his shoulder at the empty cookhouse. "Then it's ours now."
Thomas bristled at the guard's tone, the underlying threat clear. "I don't want trouble," he said, trying to keep his voice even. "Just what's fair."
"What's fair is what we decide," the guard snapped, stepping closer, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword. "You want this place? You pay for it. Otherwise, it's not yours to keep."
Thomas's mind raced, weighing his options. He slipped a hand into his pocket, fingers brushing against the cool metal of a gold dragon. He pulled it out, holding it up between his thumb and forefinger. "Eighteen years of work to earn this," Thomas said, his voice steady but laced with urgency. "You could be done with this place and never look back."
The guard's eyes flickered to the coin, the greed all too obvious. He snatched it from Thomas's hand, pocketing it with a sharp, practiced motion. "Don't fuck this up," he muttered, stepping aside. Thomas nodded, his heart pounding as he watched the guard disappear into the night.
Marla's laughter broke the tension, light and breathless, tinged with the exhilaration of their victory. "We did it," she said, her voice husky with triumph. "This place is ours now."
Thomas grabbed her hand, pulling her toward the boss's old room, the one place they'd never dared to touch before. The bed was plush, covered in fine sheets that were out of place in Flea Bottom, a reminder of the wealth that had passed through the cookhouse under the table. Marla's eyes gleamed as she pulled Thomas onto the bed, her hands already tugging at his clothes, the thrill of their newfound power driving them into a fevered frenzy.
They fell into the bed, Marla straddling him, her ample curves pressing down as she rode him with a desperate hunger. The mattress creaked under their weight, the plush bedding soft and unfamiliar against Thomas's back as he thrust up into her, matching her rhythm with eager, rough movements. Marla's moans filled the room, louder than usual, her voice a triumphant cry that echoed off the walls.
Thomas grabbed her hips, driving into her with a renewed vigor, spurred on by the feel of the plush bed beneath them. Marla's breasts bounced with every thrust, her head thrown back as she ground against him, her fingers digging into his chest. Thomas lost himself in her, the rush of their success mingling with the raw, physical pleasure of having her, right here, right now.
When they were done, Marla collapsed beside him, her breath heavy and uneven. Thomas brushed a lock of hair from her face, smiling up at the ceiling. "One of the rooms is yours," he said, still catching his breath. "Clean it up, make it yours. You deserve it."
Marla's eyes softened, and she nodded. "I'll bring my daughters here," she said quietly. "Give them something better than what they've had."
Thomas squeezed her hand, feeling the weight of their shared ambition settling over them. It wasn't just about survival anymore—it was about making something, even in a place as wretched as Flea Bottom.
By the time Thomas made it home, the sun had dipped below the horizon, casting the alley in shadows. He pushed open the door, eager to tell Lyra about the day's events, but the words died on his lips the moment he saw her. She was lying on the bed, her body curled in on itself, dark bruises marring her pale skin. Her lip was split, a nasty purple welt spreading across her cheek.
Thomas's heart clenched, anger and concern battling in his chest as he rushed to her side. "Lyra," he whispered, kneeling beside her, his fingers hovering just above her battered skin. "What happened?"
Lyra looked away, her eyes red-rimmed and tired. "Just… get it over with," she muttered, her voice rough and strained. "I just want to sleep."
Thomas's anger flared, but he kept his voice gentle. "I know what I am, Lyra. But I'm not a monster. I'm not going to touch you when you're like this." He cupped her cheek, tilting her face toward him, his touch light. "Tell me what happened."
Lyra sniffed, her eyes glistening as she fought back tears. "I was getting water from the well… fourth trip today. One of my old customers saw me. He asked if I was still working. I told him no." Her voice wavered, each word heavy with frustration and exhaustion. "He got mad. Pushed me. Hit me a few times. Said I was worthless now."
Thomas's jaw clenched, his fingers curling into fists. "And no one helped?"
Lyra laughed bitterly, a harsh, broken sound. "No one cares, Thomas. Not unless someone's trying to take something they own. Hurting doesn't count."
Thomas's vision blurred with rage, his thoughts narrowing to a sharp, focused point. He leaned in close, his voice low and cold. "Do you know where he lives?"
Lyra nodded, her eyes meeting his, a flicker of fear and something else—hope, maybe, or resignation. She knew what Thomas was capable of, and for the first time, she didn't try to dissuade him.
"Good," Thomas said, his voice a growl. "Rest. I'll handle this."
He kissed her forehead, gently, and stood up, his mind already racing with thoughts of what he'd do when he found the man who had dared to lay a hand on what was his. The cookhouse was theirs now, and Thomas had tasted what power could do. Now, he would show this city what happened when you crossed a man who had nothing left to lose but his anger and a growing desire to protect the few things he called his own.
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