It’s hot. It’s loud. And this saffron wrap is a delicious lie.
You know the one—that bright stolen-sunshine scarf I looped around myself like a half-hearted toga, one shoulder bare, the rest clinging to my hips by prayer and friction. One good tug and the whole thing will pool at my feet like a sunset that gave up. I left the fancy slippers in a ditch twenty steps out of camp (Dragon was right, damn him), so I’m barefoot again, anklets jingling, little bronze bells announcing every sway of my hips like I’m a one-woman parade of poor decisions.
I lean against the splintery tavern pillar like it owes me money. Scan the room. It smells like beer, sweat, and ambition. A good combo.
Mission? Simple. Get someone to either:
Pay me,
Lay me,
Or fail to do either and get their purse lifted.
Preferably all three. Depends on timing.
The first guy’s a bust. Local merchant type. Greasy curls, sweaty palms, heart fluttering like a caged sparrow the second I brush his arm and purr something filthy in half-Seebulban. He twitches. Then mumbles something about his fiancée. Bitch please. I am the fiancée now. Just not yours.
Next.
Ohoho. Jackpot. A trio of guards slouched around a table like off-duty meat sculptures. Red sashes, bronze bracers, smug faces. They’re sipping cheap ale like it’s wine, laughing at some joke about spears and virginity. I slink over.
Lap chosen: the one with the pretty lashes and zero interest in tits.
Oh, I know he’s gay. That’s the point.
“Hey there,” I purr, dropping myself into his lap like an overdue tax. “This seat taken?”
He freezes. The other two look up, startled and already suspicious. I drape my arms around Pretty Lash’s shoulders, nuzzle the side of his neck, feel the tension crawl up his spine like a guilty priest.
“You boys look bored,” I coo. “Wanna see something scandalous?”
Before they can stop me — kiss. Full lips on Pretty’s mouth. Just long enough for the wet smack to echo. His eyes go wide. His soul evacuates. I swear the guy hiccups in Morse code.
His two friends?
One knocks over his mug.
The other makes a sound like a stepped-on chicken.
All three are confused, aroused, and mildly terrified.
Perfect.
I slide off his lap, wink, and jingle my way toward the bar, hips doing the talking. Ten heartbeats later, the prettiest one stammers over with a shaky coin pouch and buys me the biggest ale on tap.
He doesn't sit down. He just blushes and bolts.
Gods, I love this job.
***
The alley behind the tavern stinks of spilled ale, fish bones, and someone’s broken dreams — perfect ambiance.
Rough cold stones bite into my back as I press him there, tucked between cracked barrels and a stack of crates that probably once held turnips. Or corpses. I don’t ask. Never ask.
His hands hover, not sure if he’s allowed to touch yet. How sweet.
I lean in, brushing my lips against the shell of his ear.
“Three silver,” I whisper. “Buys you half an hour, spear boy.”
He freezes. Swallows. Then nods like a priest at a funeral. I can feel the weight of the coins in his belt pouch. I can hear them. Better than a love poem. Better than a serenade.
I nibble his earlobe — not gentle. Just enough to make him groan.
He smells like sweat and sandalwood, and something a little desperate. My favorite scent. He’s nervous. That makes it fun. They always start off like this — uptight, trembling, respectful. Then something snaps. Always does.
His hands find my hips. I guide them. No rush. Got twenty-seven minutes left and a solid wall behind me.
Dress up. Belt off. Pin loosened. One shoulder bare.
He gasps when he sees the rune.
Yes. That one. The one that says I am absolutely not someone you bring home to mother.
And then we’re kissing like it’s a crime, and I’m the mastermind.
The stone is rough on my thighs. His bracer digs into my ribs. I don't care. This is steamy. This is sweaty. This is satisfying.
And by the end, it’s lucrative.
He pants. I stretch. I take my time refastening the belt and smoothing down the wrinkled linen like some noble lady after tea. He tries to say something — probably tender. I hold out my hand.
He pays. Wordless.
Good boy.
I blow him a kiss, pat his cheek, and disappear into the shadows with three silver heavier and a smug little smirk on my lips.
Half an hour well spent.
***
The morning sun pokes its nose where it doesn’t belong — straight into my eyelids.
I groan and burrow deeper under the blanket, dragging half of it over my head like a disgraced duchess fleeing a scandal. My thighs are sore. My shoulder pin is missing. My dress — yes, that shoulder-pinned treacherous thing — is rumpled, twisted around my hips, and clinging to yesterday’s sweat and sin.
I smell like ale, sex, and alley gravel.
A deep sigh rumbles beside me like a storm cloud with opinions.
Great. The lizard’s awake.
I peek out from under the blanket. The Dragon is stretched out like some ancient monument to judgmental disapproval. One lazy golden eye open. Tail flicking like a bored cat.
He takes one look at me and scoffs.
“Charming,” he mutters, voice thick with contempt and sleep dust. “You look like you were rolled down a hill of elbows and bad decisions.”
I yawn, stretch. Hair’s a rat’s nest. One anklet’s missing. Blanket smells like him, smoke and old scales. Kinda nice, actually.
“I was foraging,” I say sweetly, batting my lashes at him from beneath the cover.
He makes a sound like he’s choking on the concept.
“Foraging,” he repeats. “Is that what we’re calling it now?”
I grin, slow and wicked.
“It’s a craft, darling. The only one I ever truly mastered. Some girls take up embroidery, others knitting…” I wiggle my fingers in the air. “I tangle souls and pockets in the dark.”
He rolls his eyes so hard I worry they might get stuck in his skull.
“Faux virgin by daylight… absolute depravity by night.”
“You say that like it’s a bad thing,” I purr, crawling out from under the blanket and grabbing for the skin of water. “And for the record, I did scout the village.”
He arches a brow ridge, skeptical and somehow already exhausted with me.
“Scout? Or sample?”
“Both,” I say cheerfully, taking a long swig. “I’m very efficient.”
He groans and covers his face with a wing. “Just once, I’d like to meet a priestess who doesn’t smell like alley rut and fermented barley.”
I plop down beside him, water still in hand, dress barely held up by willpower and friction.
“You met me,” I say, smirking. “Count your blessings.”
He mutters something about curses and moral decay.
I lean against his warm side anyway. He doesn’t shove me off.
Victory.