The mattress is pure torture. Lumpy, scratchy, stuffed with something that feels suspiciously like hay—or broken glass. Every time I shift, the ancient springs groan loud enough to wake the dead, but no position feels right. I lie still, staring up at the cracked ceiling of this undercity hovel, listening to every creak and rustle around me.
The rain stops before the midnight bell.
The inn is alive with noises. Footsteps shuffle down the hall, low voices mutter in strange accents, and from somewhere below, I hear a laugh that's more like a bark, sharp and cruel. Every sound is a reminder that I'm not just far from home; I'm in hostile territory. Somewhere I could disappear, and no one would even blink.
I pull the thin blanket up to my chin, but it does nothing to chase away the feeling that's been prickling my spine all night. Like I'm being watched, even here in the dark. I try to tell myself it's nothing—just nerves—but the air in this place feels thick, almost alive, pressing down on me, filling every shadow with something… wrong.
Then I hear it.
A thud against the door.
My heart stops, every inch of me going cold. It's not an accidental bump; it's purposeful, the kind of sound someone makes when they're testing the door, seeing if it'll open.
Voices murmur outside, too low to make out the words. Another thud—harder this time. My hand reaches out, fingers closing around the iron fire poker I'd stashed beside the bed. It's rough and heavy, solid enough to crack a skull if I need to, and right now, that seems like a distinct possibility.
The door handle jiggles, metal scraping softly, the wooden chair I put there shaking. Someone's trying to get in.
My breath catches in my throat, my grip tightening on the poker. I remind myself I've been trained for this—that I can handle anything they throw at me—but my mind races all the same. First night on the mission, and I'm about to cave someone's head in?
I slip out from beneath the blanket, moving slowly to avoid the creaking floorboards. The faint sound of a chuckle drifts through the door, followed by a rustle that sends my heart into overdrive. Fire poker gripped tight in my hands, I creep closer, positioning myself beside the door, muscles coiled and ready to strike.
I haven't decide whether I'll swing for the head or go for the kneecaps, the door creaks open—my breath hitches.
—and then I stop, blinking, frozen.
A man stumbles backward through the doorway, nearly toppling over the threshold. Tall, lean, with dark untamed hair falling across his forehead and his lips smeared with lipstick, like he knows exactly how good he looks and plans to weaponize it. He's holding onto a woman who's clinging to him like ivy, giggling into his neck as he pulls her close and presses a messy, wine-soaked kiss to her collarbone.
What in the world is going on?
He's half-dressed, his shirt hanging open, silvery muscles visible and he's got that look about him—half wild, half bored, like he's seen too much of the world and found it all mildly amusing. He reeks of alcohol, that sharp, sweet smell mixing with the cloying perfume of the woman tangled around him.
The man's back slams against the door, a low grunt escaping his lips as she takes control, her thighs wrapping around his hips like she's claiming him. Her hands tangle in his dark hair, yanking his head back, exposing his throat. For a moment, I catch the way his lips curl, almost like he's amused by her eagerness before she crushes her mouth against his.
He lets her take the lead, his hands lazily resting on her waist, but there's a predatory gleam in his eyes even as he surrenders. When her teeth graze his jaw and she bites down hard on his neck, he groans—a deep, rumbling sound that reverberates through the room. She's panting, little hiccupped moans slipping out as she grinds against him, and his fingers dig into her thighs, not to restrain, but to encourage. Like he's enjoying being her plaything—for now.
I can feel the heat in my face, my pulse thrumming in my throat. What the hell is happening? My mind races, trying to process the scene unfolding before me, but it's like I've been dropped into a different world, one where inhibitions and boundaries don't exist.
Oh! I forgot, I indeed was dropped.
They're so wrapped up in each other, that they don't even notice me standing there, fire poker gripped tight in my shaking hands. The way she's moving against him, the sounds he's making—like he's savoring every second of it—are making my skin crawl and flush all at once.
But then his eyes open, and he finally notices me.
A flicker of blood red flashes across his irises. The man's dark eyes catch the candlelight, and for a moment, they flicker a deep, unnatural red. Not a trick of the light; it's as if the color bleeds through his irises, a flash of something familiar yet perilous.
Or I am imagining it.
Maybe this whole thing is my wild imagination.
And he doesn't stop kissing.
His dark gaze locks onto mine, holding it as if testing me, daring me to react. Even as she kisses him, sloppily and desperately, his eyes stay on me, glimmering with something wicked. It's like he's feeding off my shock, my discomfort.
My pulse hammers in my throat, each of their moans and grunts twisting my stomach like a vice.
I swallow hard, my throat dry. His eyes seem to darken—or maybe it's just a trick of the flickering light. He keeps his lips on her, moving slow and deep, but his focus is entirely on me now, as if the woman writhing against him is nothing more than a tool for whatever twisted game he's playing.
He finally pulls back, their lips parting leaving the woman gasping, her eyes half-lidded in a drunken daze. She's so lost in him, she doesn't even notice that his attention is elsewhere.
His gaze sharpens, focusing on me, a predator who's just found something far more interesting to hunt. A slow, wicked grin spreads across his lips, and he doesn't even bother to disentangle himself from her as he drawls,
"Well, well... what's your price for the night, sweetheart?"