Chapter 10: Communal Degeneracy

I sauntered over to Julius like I’d just murdered the world, forged the will, and lit a cigarette on its smoldering crown.

He was crouched beside Verrin’s limp, blood-matted body like a couture buzzard at a crime scene—humming something wildly off-key while winding rope around Virren’s wrists with the casual flair of someone gift-wrapping trauma.

Not just any rope, either. This stuff shimmered—subtle, suggestive, with that quietly cursed gleam of something stolen from the bottom drawer of a retired dominatrix’s nightstand. It looked expensive. It smelled faintly of sweat, sorrow, and vintage leather polish.

Verrin was starting to stir, letting out the kind of groan only a man freshly neutered and half-conscious could manage—wet, bewildered, and vaguely obscene, like a slug realizing it’s rolled through salt. His eyelids fluttered. His lips twitched. He muttered something low and slurred, thick as molasses and just as slow—the same broken tone he’d used when ordering me to kneel and debase myself. Pity for him that the only thing getting tied down now was his reputation. And also his arms. And ankles. And, if Julius had his way, probably his dignity.

I didn’t bother sparing him a glance. He wasn’t my problem anymore. He was just a rug stain that happened to breathe.

Instead, I leaned in and tapped Julius lightly on the shoulder. “Julius darling,” I purred, “do you happen to have a shower? I seem to have developed a light glaze of pig grease and noble splatter.”

Julius paused mid-knot, glancing up at me with one of those guilty, too-wide grins that meant he’d either just done something unholy with a wine bottle or was about to hand me a gift I absolutely should not open in public.

“Well… sort of?” he giggled, like that should be reassuring. “There’s a public bath fitted for the rental suites. Down the hall, take a left. It’s a bit… communal.”

Communal. That lovely little word people used when they really meant, “Hope you don’t mind someone getting railed three feet from a soap dish!”

I raised a brow. “Is there at least hot water, or do I have to warm it with the friction of my thighs?”

“Depends who you sit next to,” he said, looping a rope behind Verrin’s knees with what could only be described as erotic efficiency. The knots were practiced. Elegant. One too many symmetrical loops to be innocent.

“Don’t you want to know what I’m planning?” I asked him, cocking my hip before giving him a suspicious once-over. “Also—why do you tie knots like you’re on a first-name basis with every beast handler in this prison.”

“Because I am,” Julius beamed, tying one last flourish and giving the bound Verrin a cheerful pat. “And darling, if I knew what you were planning, I’d probably have to change my underwear.”

I leaned in. Close enough for him to smell the blood still drying on my collarbone. “Good,” I whispered, sliding my arms around his neck and letting my breath tickle his ear. “Because if I told you… you’d ruin it.”

“Try me,” he murmured.

So I did.

And when I was done, his smile didn’t just grow—it erupted, wild and wicked, like someone had dropped a match into a pool of perfume and told it to make art.

He twirled away like a ballroom dancer high on hallucinogens, flounced across the room, and began digging through a lacquered armoire the color of spilled wine. There was a clatter, a hiss, a scream that might’ve been the furniture, or a mouse, or an imprisoned bard, I didn’t care to check, and then he returned with a sleek, lacquered wooden box clutched in both hands, reverent as a priest at a buffet of sin.

“For you,” he said, offering it up like a sacrifice at an alter.

I took it with a curtsy I absolutely didnot mean and motioned for Felix to follow. He hesitated—half-boy, half-shadow, all eyes. But when I reached out my hand, he took it. Gently. Blushing so hard I was afraid he’d vaporize on contact.

His fingers curled around mine with that quiet, trembling determination that twisted something deep in my gut.

We slipped out the door like naughty children with a stolen dessert. And walked into a den of naked, dripping chaos.

The common room at the end of the hall was halfway to ruin and twice as beautiful because of it. Cracked tile floors stretched under pools of warm, misty air. The overhead lanterns flickered like dying stars. Scents drifted: steam, sweat, incense, and sex. The sounds were worse. Moans. Splashing. Giggles. The slap of flesh on flesh somewhere behind a curtain. One noble walked by in nothing but pearls and bruises. A slave woman trailed behind, licking his shoulder like it was the rim of a cocktail glass.

Felix made a sound like he’d just swallowed a live mouse and it was asking for directions to his pancreas.

I grinned and gave his hand a reassuring squeeze. “It’s like hell, but with exfoliation!”

We drifted past heaps of bodies, lounging like fallen sultans sprawled across the crumbling ruins of their empire. Slaves fed nobles grapes. Nobles fed slaves fingers. One woman lay draped across a couch like a corpse in silk while three men took turns washing her feet in what I sincerely hoped was water. At the center of the chaos was a desk. Yes, a desk of all things.

Behind it sat a woman who looked like she’d stabbed every man she’d ever loved. Her dark hair was scraped back into a bun so tight it might’ve been holding in her rage. She wore a monocle—because of course she did—and had the permanent scowl of someone who was constantly two seconds from smacking someone with a clipboard.

She fixed her monocle on us with bureaucratic disdain.

“Where’s your master?” She asked us.

“Dead,” I said brightly.

Felix coughed. She narrowed her eyes.

I tried again. “Sorry, I meant drunk. Dead-drunk. In a corner. Covered in—” I glanced down at my stained tunic, “—evidence.”

Her scowl deepened. “Rentals are not permitted without being registered by a highblood escort. And by the looks of it,” she gave me a slow, clinical once-over—pausing just long enough at my bare legs to make it insulting—”you are not registered,” she finished, voice clipped, like a guard barking orders to unruly livestock.

“I’m also not wearing any underwear,” I replied, voice smooth and effortless, like I was quoting from some forbidden, scandalous poetry, propping myself against the desk with effortless grace, my hand sliding to my hip in that exact way that made anyone, from guards to highborn nobles, momentarily lose their train of thought.

However, her face refused to twitch. Not a muscle. Not even a flicker.

“And?” She questioned.

Oh, she’s tough. I think I’m liking her already.

“Your rules are so very strict,” I murmured, letting my voice drop two octaves and rolling my shoulder like I was presenting a cut of meat for auction. “Are you always this rigid, or are do doing this just for me?”

Her lip twitched. Just barely. And then—under the desk—her hand twitched as well. A little too suspiciously.

My eyes lit up with mischief. “Because I can smell when someone’s enjoying themselves,” I added silkily, dragging one fingertip across the dusty wooden surface of the desk, leaving a glittering trail like a secret signature. “Even when hiding behind a monocle. Even when hiding behind rules. Especially when they’re hiding something beneath the desk.”

She froze, caught in the act like a schoolgirl sneaking a forbidden kiss.

Gotcha.

I smiled sweetly and bent a little closer. “Ohsweetie, touching yourself on the job?”

A flicker of red bloomed across her cheeks. Her jaw clenched tight enough to threaten a sprain. Her hand moved again, faster this time, almost defiantly.

“You know that’s not very professional,” I purred, biting my lip with mock seriousness, tracing a slow circle across my collarbone. “But I won’t tell a soul. Not if you let me and my precious orphan into the shower hall. He needs a bath. I need a rinse. And you? What do you need? Mhm I know…perhaps a little push?”

She growled low and dark, the kind of sound that promised trouble.

I winked. “Don’t be shy. Touch yourself harder.”

What came out of her next wasn’t words, just a raw, strangled noise—half-snarl, half-whimper—like a wolf caught in a trap and trying not to like it. Behind me, Felix made a small, slightly horrified squeak.

“Do you want to cum for me, Miss Monocle?” I whispered, voice dropping to a velvet purr. “Want to ruin your precious little uniform? Want to press your forehead to this desk and scream into the wood like a good, nasty little receptionist?”

Her groan was louder now, ragged, desperate, and utterly humiliating in the best possible way. Her hand worked furiously now, fingers dancing across places I could only imagine.

“F-Fuck,” she gasped, high and breathy, riding the high of the moment.

The air thickened, heavy with heat and tension—as if an invisible wire was being stretched so tight it might snap.

“Go on then,” I breathed, low, dark, and victorious. “Make a mess of yourself. Make this job worth it. Cum for me. Now.”

She screamed—a sharp, messy, beautiful sound—before slamming her forehead into the desk like it owed her a lifetime of apologies. Then she stayed there, panting, broken and magnificent.

I straightened with a playful salute. “Well then. I think we’ll just let ourselves in.”

My tunic came off in one clean motion. I didn’t even look back, just tossed it over the desk and let it slap wetly against the stone floor. The box tucked under my arm was warm now, almost humming with anticipation.

Felix stopped, stared into the hall beyond, and shivered.

I turned, smiling softly.

He clung to the edge of his tunic like a drowning man gripping a sail, knuckles white and trembling. His cheeks blazed so hot they could’ve boiled water. His knees looked like they were reconsidering their career path. And his eyes—wide, frantic, innocent—darted everywhere but me, as if direct contact might cause spontaneous combustion.

So I walked right up. Gently. Slowly. And lifted the tunic off him like a magician revealing a hidden dove. He gasped. I didn’t give him a second to retreat, just took his hand again, grabbed the box, and yanked him through the next archway into the bathhouse proper.

The bathing hall beyond was darker than the common room, as if someone had dimmed the sun and hung a sheen of red velvet to mourn it. Dividers lined the right wall—wooden, half-rotted, and wholly useless at obscuring sound or sin. Groans and soft moaning echoed off stone. The scent of sweat, soap, and musk tangling like vines.

Washbasins and mirrors lined the left wall, each cracked in just the right way to make you doubt yourself and question whether the warped reflection was a trick of the glass or something rotting beneath your skin.

Felix clung to me like a boy about to drown. His breath came in short, panicked puffs. His pupils were dilated. And every single person we passed glanced at us, almost like they could smell the innocence bleeding off of him.

Some looked with curiosity. Some with hunger. Others—especially the slaves—with open, naked jealousy.

I let them look. I let them burn.

Because in this hell of flesh and filth, I had a boy on my arm, a box full of secrets, and enough sass to make bathing look like a private performance.

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