She Got Cucked and So Did I

Location: The Rusty Antler, Thornhaven Time: Late Morning

The Rusty Antler was its usual self—dim, noisy, and smelling of spilled ale and old wood smoke. You stood at the bulletin board near the back wall, scanning the contracts pinned beneath Helga's iron-fisted organization system. Beside you, her shoulder brushing yours, was your girlfriend.

Blue eyes scanned the board with the sharp focus that had drawn you to her in the first place. She wore her favorite red tunic today—soft, worn, the color bright against her skin. It hugged her curvy figure, the fabric pulling just slightly across her chest, the sleeves pushed up to her elbows. No armor yet. Just her. Just the two of you, picking a job together like you used to before she started taking contracts alone.

You had missed this.

"There's nothing good," she muttered, tapping a finger against her lips. "Just the same scraps Helga's been trying to pawn off for weeks."

You looked at the board. Three contracts stood out among the old, yellowed parchments.

The Goblin Den Pay: 50 silver each Location: Ashwood Fringe, two hours east Details: A small goblin nest has been harassing trappers along the eastern trail. Nest estimated at 6-8 goblins. Simple extermination. No confirmed survivors.

She wrinkled her nose. "Easy. Boring." She nudged you with her elbow, grinning. "But we'd be back before dark. Plenty of time to spend that silver on something fun."

The Bandit Gang Pay: 200 silver each Location: North road, half a day's ride Details: A gang of twelve bandits has been ambushing merchant caravans near the old North Bridge. Leader is a former soldier named Garrick. Well-armed. Dangerous. Multiple contracts have failed. The guild is offering a bonus for confirmed kills.

She tilted her head, studying the parchment. "Twelve bandits. Former soldier leading them." Her voice was thoughtful, excited. "That's a real challenge. Good pay, too." She looked at you, her blue eyes bright. "We'd have to be smart about it. Work together like we used to."

The Orc Hunting Party Pay: 500 silver each Location: Ashwood Fringe, deep in the eastern hills Details: A hunting party of six orcs has been spotted near the old logging road. They are well-armed, heavily armored, and have already killed three hunters who strayed too close. Do not engage without preparation. This is a high-risk contract.

Her eyes lingered on this one the longest. You watched her bite her lip, her fingers drumming against her thigh.

"Five hundred silver each," she breathed. "That's... that's more than we'd make in half a year." She turned to face you, her expression caught between excitement and nervousness. "The orcs are dangerous. Six of them, heavily armored. But together—" She reached for your hand, her fingers lacing with yours. "Together, we could do it."

She squeezed your hand, her smile softening.

"So? What do you think? Which one are we taking?"

Location: Crimson Vale, Abandoned Kingdom Ruins Time: Dusk

The ruins of the old kingdom stretched before you, half-swallowed by creeping vines and crimson-hued foliage that gave the vale its name. Crumbled towers pierced the twilight sky like broken teeth. The air was thick with the scent of decay and something sweeter—something that made your head feel light, your thoughts slow.

You had come to hunt a succubus. You had walked into a trap.

Vines—thick, pulsing, alive—coiled around your wrists, your ankles, your chest, pinning you against a crumbling stone pillar. No matter how you strained, they held. Beside you, just out of reach, Grizel was bound the same way. Her blonde hair was tangled with leaves and dirt, her red tunic torn at the shoulder, her blue eyes wide with fear and fury as she fought against her restraints.

She was not screaming. You knew her well enough to know she was saving her breath for when it would matter.

Before you, rising from a throne of woven roots and bone, was Queen Lythia.

She was tall, impossibly so, her skin pale as moonlight, her hair a cascade of soft pink that seemed to glow in the dying light. It fell past her shoulders in waves, strands catching the crimson glow of the vale, turning shades of rose and blush. Her body was curved and dangerous, draped in scraps of black silk that did nothing to conceal. Her eyes were the color of fresh blood, her lips stained dark, her smile the most terrible thing you had ever seen.

She moved like smoke. One moment she was on her throne. The next, she was before you, close enough to touch.

Her hand rose. Cool fingers cupped your jaw, tilting your face up to meet her gaze.

"A knight," she purred, her voice honey and poison. "And his lady. How sweet." Her thumb traced your lower lip. "Do you know how long it has been since I have had a man? A real man, with fire in his blood and fear in his eyes?"

Behind you, Grizel snarled.

"Touch him and I'll—"

Lythia did not even look at her. A vine shot from the ground, wrapping around Grizel's mouth, muffling her words. The succubus's smile never wavered.

"Pretty," she murmured, her pink hair brushing your cheek as she leaned closer. "But noisy."

She circled behind you, her fingers trailing across your shoulders, your neck, your jaw. And then she pulled you—vines and all—closer to Grizel. So close that your shoulders nearly touched. So close that Grizel's wide blue eyes were inches from your face. So close that you could feel the heat of her breath, smell the fear and fury rolling off her.

Lythia positioned herself between you, one hand on your jaw, one hand tilting Grizel's chin up. Her pink hair fell around both of you, a curtain of silk trapping you together.

Her lips brushed your ear.

"Watch," she whispered. Then she turned to Grizel. "Watch closely, little rabbit."

Her face leaned into yours. Her lips hovered a hairsbreadth away—close enough that Grizel could feel the heat of your breath mingling. Close enough that your girlfriend could see every detail: the way Lythia's red eyes half-lidded, the way her pink hair cascaded across your shoulder, the way her tongue darted out to wet her lips before she pressed them to yours.

The kiss was slow. Deliberate. Her mouth moved against yours with practiced ease, her tongue tracing the seam of your lips, coaxing them open. She tasted of wine and something darker, something that made your mind swim and your blood burn. Her fingers slid from your jaw into your hair, gripping, holding you in place. Her body pressed against yours, the vines binding you both, trapping you against her.

Grizel's breath was hot against your cheek. You could hear her muffled cries, feel the vibrations of her screams through the vine across her mouth. Her body strained against her bonds, trying to reach you, trying to pull you away. But she could not move. She could only watch. Inches away. Close enough to feel the heat of Lythia's kiss. Close enough to taste the air between you.

Lythia smiled against your mouth. She pulled back just enough to look at you, her red eyes half-lidded, her lips slick, her pink hair brushing against Grizel's cheek as she moved.

"Delicious," she breathed. Her gaze slid to Grizel, her smile widening. "Do you feel that, little rabbit? The heat of his breath? The way his heart races?" She pressed closer, her lips finding your throat, her words vibrating against your skin. "He tastes like yours. But soon—" Her teeth grazed your pulse. "—he will taste like mine."

She pulled back, just enough to look at Grizel. The vine around your girlfriend's mouth loosened just enough for her to speak.

Grizel's voice was raw, shaking, her face wet with tears, her blue eyes burning.

"Get your hands off him." Her breath came in ragged gasps, her chest heaving.

Location: The Rusty Antler, Thornhaven — Harlow's Back Room Time: Late Evening

The Rusty Antler was packed tonight. Every table was full, every stool at the bar claimed, the air thick with smoke, laughter, and the sharp tang of cheap ale. You had lost track of Grizel somewhere between the third round and the fourth, the crowd swallowing her up in a sea of leather and wool.

You found her eventually. At a corner table. Alone with Old Man Harlow.

Harlow ran the boarding house on the north end of town—a wiry, bald of a man with yellow teeth and hands that always seemed to be reaching for something he should not touch. He had been trying to get Grizel alone for months. Offering her cheaper rooms. Better contracts. Favors she never asked for and never took.

Tonight, she had taken the drinks.

Her blonde hair was mussed, her blue eyes glassy, her red tunic riding up where she had slumped against the wall. She was laughing at something Harlow said—too loud, too loose, the kind of laugh that meant the ale had won. Her hand was wrapped around a tankard that looked like her third. Or fourth. Or fifth.

Harlow's hand was on her knee.

You watched from across the room, your jaw tightening, your fists clenching. But you did not move. Not yet. You knew Grizel. She could handle herself. She had handled worse than Harlow. She had handled orcs and goblins and bandits who would eat this man for breakfast. She did not need you charging in like some jealous fool.

You turned away. Headed for the restroom. Splashed cold water on your face. Tried to steady your breathing.

She was fine. She was fine.

When you came back, the table was empty. The tankard was still there. Harlow was gone.

Your stomach dropped.

You scanned the room. The bar. The stairs. The hallway leading to the rooms upstairs.

The door to the back room—Harlow's room—was slightly ajar.

You moved without thinking. Past the bar, past the stairs, down the narrow hallway. The door creaked as you pushed it open, the candlelight spilling out into the corridor.

And you stopped.

Grizel was on the bed. But not how you left her.

Her red tunic was gone—discarded on the floor, crumpled against the wall. Her breast band was gone too, leaving her bare from the waist up. Her full chest was exposed, her nipples hard in the cool air of the room. Her belt was undone, her trousers unfastened, hanging low on her hips. Her boots were kicked off somewhere you could not see. Her short blonde hair was fanned out against the pillow, her cheeks flushed, her blue eyes half-closed and glazed with drink.

She was straddling Harlow.

He sat with his back against the headboard, his grey hair mussed, his shirt hanging open over his thin chest. His yellow teeth were visible in a smile that made your stomach turn. His hands rested on her bare hips, fingers pressing into her skin, guiding her.

She was on top of him. Her thighs were on either side of his waist. Her hands braced against his shoulders, her fingers curling into his open shirt. Her body rocked—slow, unsteady, the movement of someone who could barely keep her eyes open.

She was drunk. Blind drunk. The kind of drunk where the room spun and the walls breathed and faces blurred together until you could not tell who was holding you.

Her head lolled forward, her forehead pressing against his shoulder. Her lips moved, soft and slurred.

"Mmm... finally..." she breathed. "Took you long enough..."

She thought he was you.

Harlow's hands slid up her bare back, slow and savoring, his fingers tracing the curve of her spine. His head tilted back against the headboard, his eyes half-closed, his mouth open in a satisfied sigh.

"That's it," he murmured, his voice low, rough. "That's a good girl."

Grizel giggled—a loose, drunken sound. Her fingers curled into his shirt, pulling herself closer.

"You always take forever..." she slurred, her cheek rubbing against his shoulder. "I've been waiting... waiting so long..."

Her body rocked against him. Her bare chest pressed against his open shirt. Her breath came in warm, uneven puffs against his neck.

Harlow's hands gripped her hips, guiding her rhythm.

She sighed, soft and breathless.

"Yeah... just like that..." she whispered. "Don't stop..."

She did not know. She could not see. The ale had taken her somewhere far away, somewhere Harlow did not exist, somewhere the only man who would ever hold her like this was you.

You stood frozen in the doorway. Your hand gripped the frame. Your breath came shallow, fast.

Harlow's eyes slid toward the door. Toward you. His smile widened—slow, knowing, triumphant.

He had known you would come. He had wanted you to see.

Grizel's head turned. Her glassy blue eyes found yours through the haze of alcohol. Her brow furrowed. Her lips parted.

Location: Forest Path, near Thornhaven Time: Late Afternoon

The forest path stretched ahead, dappled with late afternoon light filtering through the canopy. You had been walking for hours, the weight of the completed contract still heavy in your pack—two hundred silver for clearing out the bandit camp. Not bad. Not great. Enough to keep you both fed for another month.

Grizel walked beside you, her hair still tucked behind her ears, her red tunic stained with dirt and what might have been blood. She was in good spirits, humming something under her breath, her step light despite the long day.

The man stepped out from behind a tree.

He was tall, broad-shouldered, with the easy confidence of someone who had never been told no. His armor was too clean for a man who spent time in the woods. His smile was too wide for a man who had just stepped out to greet two armed mercenaries.

"Well, well," he said, leaning against a tree, his arms crossed. "If it isn't the prettiest mercenary in Thornhaven."

Grizel's humming stopped. Her hand drifted to the knife at her hip.

"You lost, friend?" she asked, her voice flat.

The man laughed. He had a name—Varek, you remembered now. A gambler. A card sharp. The kind of man who hung around the Rusty Antler when he had coin and disappeared when he did not.

"Not lost," he said, pushing off the tree, falling into step beside her. "Just bored. Thought I'd offer a little entertainment for the road."

He pulled a deck of cards from his coat, shuffling them with practiced ease. The cards moved between his fingers like water, smooth and fast.

"Three hundred silver," he said, nodding toward the pouch on his belt. "One hand of Hi Lo. You win, the silver is yours. I win—" His grin widened, his eyes dragging down her body. "—you put that pretty mouth to work. Right here. Right now."

Your hand went to your sword.

Grizel's hand shot out, stopping you. Her blue eyes narrowed, studying Varek's face, his hands, the deck.

"You deal," she said flatly. "How do I know you're not cheating?"

Varek's smile never wavered. "You don't. That's the gamble, sweetheart."

She stepped forward.

It happened fast.

Varek held up a single card, face down.

"High or low," he said. "Ace is high. Everything else is what it is. Guess right, you win. Guess wrong—" His eyes slid down her body. "—you lose."

Grizel stared at the card. Her jaw tightened. Her fingers curled at her sides.

"High," she said.

Varek turned the card over.

Six of clubs. Low.

Her face fell. Her hands curled into fists. She had guessed wrong. Fair and square. No tricks. No marked cards. Just bad luck.

Varek's smile widened. He gestured to the ground before him.

"A bet's a bet," he said, his voice low, expectant.

Grizel hesitated. Her blue eyes flicked to you—something there, something that looked like shame, like fear, like the first threads of understanding pulling through the fog of exhaustion. Then she looked away.

She knelt.

Her knees pressed into the dirt. Her hands rested on her thighs. Her blonde hair fell forward, framing her face, hiding her expression. Her fingers reached for his belt—

Varek's hand moved to her hair. His fingers threaded through the short blonde strands, slow, savoring. He looked down at her with the satisfaction of a man who had won exactly what he wanted.

"Good girl," he murmured.

Grizel's hands trembled. Her breath came shallow, uneven. She did not look up. She did not look at you.

Varek's other hand moved to his belt. The buckle clinked. The leather shifted.

Your hand was on your sword. Your heart was pounding. The card—the six of clubs—lay face up on the stump, fair and square. She had lost. No cheating. No tricks. Just a bad guess and a worse bet.

Grizel had not seen you move. She did not know you were still standing there, watching, your hand shaking against your sword hilt.

Varek's hand tightened in her hair. He tilted her head up, making her look at him.

She did not resist.

You had a moment. One breath. One choice. You could step forward. You could pull her away. You could stop this before it went any further.

Or you could watch.

Grizel's blue eyes were wet, unfocused, her lips parted, her body already leaning into his touch like she had already accepted what was coming.

Varek's belt came undone.

Location: Ironheart Forge, Thornhaven Time: Midday

The heat of the forge hit you like a wall the moment you stepped through the door. The air was thick with smoke and the sharp smell of hot metal, the ring of hammer on steel echoing off the stone walls. Racks of swords, axes, and spearheads lined the walls, their edges gleaming in the orange glow of the furnace.

Grizel was at your side, her blue eyes wide as she scanned the blades. Her current sword was a battered thing—notched, chipped, the hilt wrapped in old leather that had gone slick with sweat and blood. She never complained about it. She never complained about anything. But you had seen the way her grip slipped last contract, the way the blade wobbled when it should have been steady.

You were going to fix that.

The blacksmith emerged from the back room, wiping her hands on a leather apron. Her name was Rika—you had heard it whispered around town, always with a certain edge, a certain knowing. She was tall, broad-shouldered, with arms corded with muscle and dark hair pulled back in a tight braid. Her eyes were sharp, grey, knowing. They flicked between you and Grizel before settling on you with something that looked like interest.

"Afternoon," she said, her voice rough from years of breathing smoke. "Looking for something specific?"

You pointed to a longsword on the middle rack. Good balance. Good weight. The kind of blade that would last her years if she took care of it. The kind of blade she deserved.

"That one," you said. "How much?"

Rika pulled it down, laid it across the counter. Grizel's breath caught—you heard it, soft and surprised, her fingers reaching out to touch the hilt before she stopped herself.

"Eighty silver," Rika said.

Your stomach dropped.

You had forty. Maybe forty-five if you counted the coppers jingling at the bottom of your pouch. Not enough. Not nearly enough.

You kept your face still. You had learned that years ago—never show your hand, never let them see you sweat. But Grizel knew you. Her eyes found yours, and something flickered in them. Disappointment, maybe. Or understanding. Or the beginning of that look she got when she was about to say it was fine, she did not need it, her old sword was good enough.

You could not let her say that.

Rika's grey eyes had not left your face. She had seen it—the shift, the tightening at the corner of your jaw, the way your hand had gone still at your side. She knew.

She leaned across the counter, close enough that her breath brushed your ear. Her voice dropped to a whisper, low and rough, meant only for you.

"You're short, aren't you?"

You said nothing.

Her lips curved. Not quite a smile. Something slower. Something that had been waiting for this moment.

"It's rare," she murmured, her eyes flicking to Grizel for just a moment before returning to you, "for a handsome mercenary to walk through my doors. Most of them are half-dead or half-drunk. But you—" Her knuckles brushed your wrist, light, deliberate. "You've got good hands. Steady."

She straightened, just enough to look at the sword on the counter, then back at you. Her voice dropped even lower.

"I'll make you a deal. You come to the back room. Please me. Just you." Her grey eyes held yours, unblinking. "And the sword is yours. Eighty silver, free and clear. No one has to know."

The forge fire crackled. The heat pressed against your back. Grizel was standing right there, close enough to touch, her hand still hovering over the sword she wanted, her blue eyes watching you talk to Rika in whispers.

She had not heard. She did not know.

Rika's hand slid the sword closer to Grizel, an invitation, a promise. Her eyes never left yours.

"She'd look good with a blade like that," Rika breathed. "Strong. Capable. Safe." Her fingers brushed yours beneath the counter. "All you have to do is say yes."

She leaned back, just enough to let you breathe, just enough to let the weight of the choice settle on your shoulders. Her arms crossed over her chest, the leather of her apron creaking. She was waiting.

Grizel looked at you, her brow furrowed.

"You alright?" she asked, her voice soft, confused. "What's she saying?"

Rika smiled. A slow, knowing thing.

Location: Thornhaven Town Center Time: Midnight

The bed shifted. A weight pressed against the mattress. Soft lips brushed yours—quick, warm, familiar.

You stirred, half-asleep, your hand reaching for her.

She was already gone.

The door clicked shut. Bare feet padded down the hallway. You lay in the dark, her kiss still warm on your lips, her side of the bed already cold.

You should have followed her sooner.

The town center was empty at this hour—no merchants, no children, no women. Just the cold stone fountain in the middle of the square and the shadows of the surrounding buildings. The moon hung low, casting pale light across the cobblestones.

Varek stood by the fountain, surrounded by five men. Their trousers were undone. Their erections were out, hard and waiting in the cold night air.

Grizel walked toward them. Her short blonde hair was messy from sleep. She wore only her red tunic and a pair of thin shorts. No armor. No boots. Just bare feet on cold stone.

She stopped in front of them. Her blue eyes swept over the line of men, cold and unimpressed.

Varek smiled.

"Fifteen hundred silver," he said. "Just your face. That's all. No sex. No oral. Just facial."

Grizel's jaw tightened.

"Fine."

She knelt.

Her knees pressed against the cold cobblestones. Her hands rested on her thighs. Her chin tilted up.

"Get on with it," she said flatly.

The first man stepped forward. He was nervous, his hands shaking. He stroked himself once, twice—

And came.

The shot went wild. Thick white landed on her cheek, her eyelid, her hair. She flinched but did not close her eyes.

She did not wipe it away.

Her voice was sharp, biting.

"Worse than a whore you think I am. At least I know what I am. You? You're just sad."

The man's face reddened. He stepped back.

The second man stepped forward. Better aim. His load hit her lips, her chin, dripped down onto her chest. The third man aimed for her mouth. Some made it. Most landed on her neck, her collarbone, the gap between her breasts.

Grizel's voice was ice.

"Your aim is pathetic. I've seen drunk archers do better."

She wiped her eye with the back of her hand, smearing white across her cheek.

Varek laughed.

"Feisty tonight," he observed.

Grizel glared at him. Her face was painted with their release—her cheek, her lips, her eyelid, her hair, her neck, the hollow of her throat.

"Three down," she said. "Two more. Then the other three. Hurry up. I want my silver."

The fourth man stepped forward. He was larger than the others, broader, his erection thick and veined. He did not stroke himself. Instead, he circled behind her.

Grizel's brow furrowed.

"What are you—"

A hand grabbed her hair. Fingers twisted into her short blonde strands, yanking her head back. Her chin tilted up. Her throat exposed. Her blue eyes widened.

From behind, something pressed against her neck. A small vial. A needle. A quick pinch.

She gasped.

Liquid fire shot through her veins. Her body jerked. Her hands flew to her neck, but it was too late. The aphrodisiac was already spreading—through her blood, her chest, her belly, her thighs.

Her pupils dilated. Shifted. Changed.

Pink. Heart-shaped.

Her breath came faster. Her lips parted. Her tongue darted out, wetting them.

The man behind her released her hair. Her head lolled forward, then back up. Her eyes were different now—hungry, desperate, clouded with need.

Varek's smile widened.

"The deal changed," he said softly. "Not just facial anymore."

The large man stepped in front of her. His erection loomed before her face, thick and heavy. He rested the tip against her cheek, dragging it across her skin, leaving a trail of moisture.

Grizel did not pull away.

Her breath fogged against his shaft. Hot. Quick. Desperate. Her pink heart-shaped pupils fixed on it like she had never seen anything so beautiful.

Her hands came up. Slowly. Trembling. Her fingers cupped his balls, feeling their weight, their warmth.

She moaned—soft, involuntary, broken.

The man's hand found her hair again, guiding her face toward him. The tip of his cock pressed against her lips.

She opened her mouth.

Varek watched, his arms crossed, his smile sharp.

"Fifteen hundred silver," he reminded her. "For all of it. Every drop. Every man."

Grizel's pink eyes flicked toward him—just for a moment. Then back to the cock in front of her face.

She leaned forward.

There were still five men left. Five erections waiting. Five loads she had not agreed to.

But her body did not care. The aphrodisiac had stolen her choice.

And you stood in the shadows of the building behind her, watching.

Location: Harlow's Boarding House, Thornhaven Time: Late Evening

The Rusty Antler was quiet tonight. Too quiet. Grizel had kissed your cheek an hour ago, said she was picking up a shift at a tavern across town. Easy silver, she said. Don't wait up.

You didn't believe her.

You followed her through the dark streets of Thornhaven, staying in the shadows, keeping your distance. She walked quickly, her head down, her arms crossed over her chest. She was not wearing her red tunic.

She was wearing a maid uniform.

Black and white. Short skirt. Low-cut top. The fabric strained across her chest, her breasts pushing against the thin material, threatening to spill out with every step. The ribbons at her back were tied in a neat bow, holding the whole thing together.

She turned onto North Street. Harlow's boarding house loomed ahead, grey and sagging.

She knocked. The door opened. Harlow's yellow teeth gleamed in the candlelight. He stepped aside, and she walked in. The door closed behind her.

You crept around the side of the house. The back window was dirty, but there was a gap in the curtains.

She was on his bed. Sitting on his lap. Leaning back against his chest. Her short blonde hair was mussed, her blue eyes half-closed, her cheeks flushed. The maid uniform was still on, but the skirt had ridden up, exposing her thighs.

Harlow's hands rested on her hips, his fingers tracing lazy circles on the fabric.

"How much again?" he murmured.

Grizel's voice was quiet, tired.

"Two thousand silver."

Harlow chuckled. His fingers found the ribbon at her back, slowly pulling it loose.

"And what does two thousand silver buy me?"

Her jaw tightened.

"An hour."

The ribbon came undone. The top of the maid uniform loosened, slipping down her shoulders. Her breasts strained against the fabric, barely covered.

Harlow's hand slid up her back, pushing the uniform down further. His lips brushed her ear.

"Good girl," he whispered. He inhaled deeply, his nose pressed against her hair. "You smell like him. Your knight. Your broke, useless knight."

Grizel's hands curled into fists.

"Don't talk about him like that."

Harlow smiled. His hand slid around to her chest, cupping her breast through the thin fabric.

"Then stop letting me touch you while you still smell like him."

She did not pull away.

His fingers squeezed. Her breath hitched.

"You're such a good girl," he murmured, his voice low, satisfied. "Letting me touch you. Letting me undress you. All for a few coins."

Her eyes closed. A tear slipped down her cheek.

Harlow's other hand slid down her thigh, pushing the skirt higher.

You stood frozen outside the window, your hand pressed against the cold glass, your breath fogging the grime.

The ribbon hung loose. The uniform was falling. And Grizel was not stopping him.

Location: Forest Clearing, near Thornhaven Time: Night

The clearing was dark, lit only by the pale glow of the moon filtering through the trees. You and Grizel were tangled together on a bed of moss, her red tunic pushed up, your hands on her hips, her breath warm against your neck.

It had been weeks since you had a moment alone. Weeks of contracts, of exhaustion, of watching her slip away. Tonight, she was yours. Tonight, you were going to remember that.

A flash of light exploded through the trees.

Grizel gasped. You jerked back, reaching for your sword.

Rika stepped out of the bushes.

She held a polaroid picture in her hand, still developing, the image slowly emerging from the grey. Her grey eyes were bright, her dark hair loose around her shoulders. She wore her leather apron, her arms crossed over her chest, her smile slow and knowing.

"Nice night for a stroll," she said. "Didn't expect to find you two fucking in the woods."

Grizel scrambled to cover herself, her face flushed, her hands shaking.

Rika held up the picture.

The image was clear now. You and Grizel. Tangled together. Her tunic pushed up. Your hands on her bare skin.

"Pretty," Rika murmured. "Would be a shame if this ended up on the bulletin board. Or Helga's desk. Or pinned to every door in Thornhaven."

Your blood went cold.

Grizel's voice was raw. "What do you want?"

Rika's smile widened. Her eyes slid to you.

Him.

She walked closer. Her boots crunched on the fallen leaves.

"You," she said, stopping in front of you. "Right here. Right now. For the night."

Grizel's breath caught.

Rika's hand found your chest, pushing you back down onto the moss.

"And you—" She looked at Grizel, her grey eyes glittering. "—are going to watch. And when I'm done, when I'm dripping down his thighs, you're going to clean it up. Every drop."

Grizel's face went pale.

Rika straddled you, her weight settling on your hips. Her hands pressed against your chest.

She looked down at you, her smile sharp.

"Say no," she whispered, "and everyone sees what you two did tonight. Every mercenary. Every merchant. Every old man at the Rusty Antler."

She leaned down, her lips brushing your ear.

"Say yes, and the picture burns. No one ever knows."

She pulled back. Her grey eyes waited.

Grizel sat frozen beside you, her hands covering her mouth, her blue eyes wide.

Rika's hips rolled against yours.

"Well?" she breathed. "What's it going to be?"

Location: The Rusty Antler, Thornhaven — Upstairs Room Time: Late Evening

The key turned in the lock behind you. The bolt slid home. The room was small—a bed, a washbasin, a window looking out onto the dark street below, the walls thin enough to hear the muffled laughter from the tavern—but tonight, it felt like home.

Arms wrapped around you from behind. Soft. Warm. Familiar.

Grizel.

Her body pressed against your back. She wore a black small tanktop—thin, stretched, barely holding her breasts, the fabric straining at the seams. The hem rode up, exposing the soft skin of her stomach. Below that—

Nothing. No panties. Just her bare hips pressing against you, warm and smooth.

Her hair was soft against your shoulder, still slightly damp from washing. Her bare skin was warm through your tunic, her breasts pressing into your back through the thin tanktop.

She inhaled. Deep. Slow. Her nose traced along your spine, breathing you in.

"You smell," she murmured against your back, her voice low, almost a whisper, "like sweat. And blood. And the road."

Her arms tightened around you.

"I love it."

She pressed her face between your shoulders, her lips brushing your skin through the fabric. Her fingers curled into the material of your tunic, holding you like she was afraid you would disappear if she let go.

The room was quiet. No tavern noise below. No contracts waiting on the bulletin board. No Harlow. No Varek. No Rika. Just her. Just you. Just the soft sound of her breathing and the distant creak of the old building settling.

She held you for a long moment. Her thumbs traced small circles on your stomach through your tunic. Her forehead rested between your shoulder blades.

You could feel her heartbeat. Steady. Slow. Real.

She turned you around.

Her blue eyes were soft, tired in a way that had nothing to do with exhaustion. The kind of tired that came from months of scraping by, of saying yes to things she should have said no to, of coming home late and washing herself in the dark so you would not see.

But tonight, there was none of that. Tonight, her eyes were clear. Present. Yours.

Her hands slid up your chest, pushing your tunic off your shoulders. The fabric fell to the floor. Her fingers traced your collarbone, your chest, the lines of muscle she knew better than her own.

The black tanktop clung to her, the thin fabric doing nothing to hide the shape of her breasts, the dark outline of her nipples pressing against the material. Below, there was nothing—just bare skin, bare hips, the dark triangle between her thighs.

She did not try to cover herself.

"Tomorrow morning," she said, her voice low, steady, "I'm coming with you. To the bulletin board."

Her fingers paused over your heart.

"We're going to find a quest. Together. Like we used to."

She looked up at you. Her jaw was set. Not asking. Telling.

"No more working alone. No more late nights. No more—" She stopped. Swallowed. Her eyes flickered, just for a moment, with something that looked like shame. "No more of any of it."

She stepped closer. Her body pressed against yours—soft and warm, her breasts flattening against your chest through the thin tanktop, her bare hips fitting against yours. Her hands slid around your neck, fingers threading through the hair at the nape.

She rose onto her toes. Her lips brushed your jaw, feather-light.

"Tonight," she whispered, "I just want you. All to myself."

She pulled back just enough to look at you. Her blue eyes were wet, but she was not crying. Not anymore.

She had done enough crying. Enough kneeling. Enough letting men touch her who had no right.

Tonight, she was yours. And you were hers.

Her hand found yours. Her fingers laced through yours, squeezing. She pulled you toward the bed—the old, creaking bed with the thin mattress and the lumpy pillow, the one she had slept in since she was sixteen, the one she had shared with you for years.

She sat on the edge. Looked up at you. The black tanktop slipped lower, revealing more of her chest. Her bare thighs pressed together.

She did not care.

"Come here," she breathed. "I've missed you."

The candle flickered. The shadows danced on the walls. Somewhere below, someone laughed. Someone shouted. Someone started singing a slurred song.

None of it mattered.

Write your own