Chapter 191: A Long Night

Dregan jumped—truly, spectacularly jumped—his sturdy frame rising a full six inches off the floor as if the ground itself had decided to give him a playful shove from below. He spun around with such exuberant force that his beard whipped through the air in a grand arc, narrowly missing a nearby worker’s face.

His eyes widened, his mouth parted, and for the span of three suspended seconds he regarded me as though I were some kind of ghost chosen to manifest solely for the purpose of disrupting inventory and common sense alike.

Then his expression rearranged itself into something exquisitely unstable, balanced somewhere between pure joy and the kind of immediate fury that promised a very loud, very colorful reaction.

“You absolute fucking bastard!” he bellowed, and before I could react, he’d closed the distance between us, wrapping his arms around my waist in a tackle-hug that lifted me clean off the floor. “You beautiful, cock-sucking, chaos-generating little shit! I thought you’d gotten yourself killed in some spectacular fashion by now! Or at least arrested! Or possibly married to nobility through some convoluted scheme involving your mouth and someone’s poor decision-making!”

“It’s good to see you too, Dregan,” I wheezed, mostly because his grip had decided I only needed a fraction of my usual air supply, and partly because his beard was conducting an aggressive campaign against my face that made coherent speech an ambitious goal at best. “Can’t breathe though. Oxygen. Important.”

He dropped me—no ceremony, no warning, simply released his grip and allowed gravity to finish the conversation—then stepped back to inspect me with an expression that suggested he was cataloging all the ways I’d changed since we’d last seen each other.

“Look at you!” he announced to anyone unfortunate enough to be listening. “All polished and well-fed, not a trace of prison grime left! Almost don’t recognize you without the stench of desperation and questionable life choices clinging to your skin!”

“The questionable life choices are still there,” I assured him, brushing myself off. “I’ve just upgraded their quality. More expensive disasters now. Very upscale.”

“Course you have,” Dregan said with obvious pride. “Wouldn’t expect anything less form ya!”

Brutus stalked up then, his massive frame adding fresh shadows to a space that had already reached its recommended daily limit.

“And there’s the big man himself!” Dregan crowed, thrusting his hand upward for a shake that required Brutus to incline himself slightly, like a monument humoring a pedestrian. “Still built like someone tried to carve a monument out of muscle and kept going past the point of reason!”

They shook, and I watched with quiet amusement as Dregan immediately pivoted—without pause or warning—into a line of aggressively invasive questions about Brutus’s recent sexual exploits, delivered with the sort of offhand vulgarity that tended to unsettle polite company and which Brutus absorbed with the patient endurance of a man accustomed to the weather.

I watched the exchange with quiet amusement, a slow smile curving my lips as the questions grew bolder and more explicit, each one laced with just enough playful curiosity to make the air between them hum with unspoken possibility.

“You been keeping our boy here out of trouble?” Dregan added suddenly, jabbing his thumb in my direction. “Or at least making sure the trouble he finds doesn’t kill him completely.”

“The latter,” Brutus said.

“Excellent! That’s the spirit! Can’t stop him from finding disaster, might as well make sure he survives—” Dregan’s eyes suddenly caught on something over my shoulder, his expression rearranging itself into a configuration best described as manic delight paired with catastrophically bad judgment. “Well,” he said slowly, savoring the moment, “what do we have here?”

I turned to follow his gaze and immediately knew exactly what had captured his attention. There, lingering near the entrance where we’d left the others, stood Grisha—seven feet of sculpted jade muscle wrapped in effortless confidence, her presence cutting through the warehouse shadows like a beacon carved from living emerald.

“Dregan,” Brutus said, his tone edged with the kind of warning reserved for situations already beyond saving. “Don’t—”

But Dregan was already in motion, striding—then outright sprinting—across the warehouse toward Grisha with the focused enthusiasm of a man who’d just identified his preferred flavor of chaos and decided deliberation was a hobby for lesser minds.

I sighed, long and heavy, because experience had taught me that trying to stop Dregan once he’d set his sights on something was roughly as effective as halting a landslide using nothing but concern and strongly worded suggestions.

The distinctive clatter of gold coins carried through the warehouse then as the men Dregan had been directing began setting down their crates, stacking them with a care that made it clear the contents were both valuable and very much capable of causing problems if mishandled. The sound was almost musical—metal kissing metal in steady, measured rhythms that spoke of wealth in its most tangible form.

Atticus appeared at my side as though summoned by the moment, his presence calm in that quietly infuriating way that always implied control, even when the surrounding evidence argued otherwise.

“We brought it,” he said simply. “All ten thousand crowns, as promised. Counted, verified, and ready for transport.”

Relief and joy settled through me in a perfectly even measure, a precise fifty-fifty split that felt improbably balanced yet entirely earned.

“Thank you,” I breathed, turning to face him fully. “Seriously. Thank you so much. You have no idea how much this means, how much you’ve saved us by—”

“I have some idea,” Atticus interrupted gently, that slight smile playing at his lips again. “You explained the situation fairly clearly over the radio. Just know we’re happy to help.”

He adjusted his glasses again, a small, habitual gesture that nonetheless managed to lend him an air of authority, as though even his casual movements had been formally approved.

“I’ll assign some of our men to carry it back to your establishment for you—can’t have you trying to transport all this money through the city streets without protection. Too many opportunistic thieves who’d see that as an early retirement fund.”

He paused, his expression shifting to something more business-like. “As for the drug operation expansion you mentioned, we’re still importing the necessary materials and instruments. The warehouse here will serve as our main distribution point for the Velvet Chambers, but we need specialized equipment to maintain quality control. Should take us until the end of the week before we’re fully operational and ready to begin regular shipments.”

“That’s perfect timing,” I said, my mind already working through logistics. “By then we’ll have started renovations, attracted some initial clientele, and can begin integrating the drug sales into our regular business operations without drawing too much attention.”

Julius and the others joined us then, emerging from the shadows where they’d been observing with varying degrees of interest. Julius’s eyes found Atticus before widening with a flicker of recognition that quickly settled into respect.

Then, without hesitation, he straightened and bowed—smooth, practiced, and deep enough that his golden hair swept the warehouse floor in a graceful arc that almost certainly violated several standards of hygiene.

Atticus laughed—genuine amusement lighting his angular features—then shook his head with obvious delight. “A noble bowing to me,” he said, his voice carrying that particular quality of irony he wielded like a weapon. “That’s a first.”

Julius straightened, his face flushed with a blend of enthusiasm and embarrassment, as though he hadn’t quite decided which emotion deserved priority. “Julius Ficklebottom,” he introduced himself, extending his hand. “Minor nobility, current theater owner, and absolutely honored to meet someone with your organizational capabilities.”

“Nice to meet you,” Atticus replied, shaking Julius’s hand firmly, “And I appreciate the compliment but please, don’t bow. I spent enough time in prison being treated like property—I’d prefer not to recreate that dynamic with the power structure reversed.”

“Of course, my apologies. I just—I have so much respect for people who can turn impossible situations into opportunities, and from what I understand you’ve done exactly that.”

While Julius dove into an animated tangent about organizational theory and strategic resource allocation—Atticus hanging on every word with the rapt attention of a true connoisseur—I seized the moment to survey my delightfully wayward crew.

Nara had already drawn a small constellation of admirers, three men who’d evidently decided that duty could wait when a soft, crimson-eyed bunny-girl was smiling in their direction.

She looked pleasantly flustered, ears twitching at each murmured compliment, her gaze flicking between them with the wary sweetness of someone weighing charm against potential mischief—and perhaps deciding a little of both might be worth the risk.

Willow, predictably, had flipped the script entirely. She leaned against a stack of crates, surrounding herself with a cluster of inventory workers who’d abandoned all pretense of productivity. With a low, velvet laugh she described—in slow, explicit detail—exactly what her sinuous tail was capable of, letting the tip curl suggestively with each heavy word.

The men stood transfixed, pulses visibly racing, hearts no doubt lodging formal protests with their upper management. Willow’s smile curved sharper, wickedly pleased, as she leaned just a fraction closer.

Felix, meanwhile, had drifted to one of the open crates brimming with gold. He stared into it with hushed, wide-eyed wonder—the kind usually reserved for sacred relics or the first bite of a truly transcendent cake.

Slowly, reverently, he reached out and brushed a single coin with his fingertips, tracing its edge as though convincing himself it were real and not some beautiful mirage that might dissolve if he dared believe too hard.

And Grisha—

I facepalmed so hard the sound echoed.

Grisha and Dregan were already going at it.

Grisha stood gloriously, unapologetically naked—seven feet of verdant muscle and absolutely zero inclination toward modesty—her heavy breasts cradled around Dregan’s cock like the world’s most decadent offering.

Dregan, ever resourceful, had claimed a nearby crate to bridge the considerable height difference, thrusting between that lush green valley with the fervent, almost reverent enthusiasm of a man who’d waited far too long for this particular indulgence.

A loose circle of workers had formed around the spectacle, their murmurs and encouraging whoops turning the whole affair into impromptu theater—less a breach of workplace decorum and more a private performance they’d all quietly agreed was the best break they’d had in weeks.

“That’s it, you short-stacked fuck!” Grisha growled, “Show me that legendary dwarf stamina I keep hearing about! They say you lot can go for hours—something about being built low to the ground, all that hot blood not having far to travel.” She grinned wide, tusks glinting, and rolled her hips in deliberate challenge. “Prove it! Make me believe those stories aren’t just bullshit spread by optimistic miners!”

“My people were carved from stone by gods who knew what they were doing! We don’t do anything halfway! When a dwarf fucks, it’s not some delicate noble lovemaking—it’s geological! I’m gonna reshape your landscape! Create new formations! Make you forget what horizontal meant before you met proper dwarven dedication!”

He reached his peak with a roar that could have rattled the warehouse rafters and probably owed the city a noise violation fine. His release erupted in thick, gleaming ropes across Grisha’s face and throat, painting her green skin in generous, pearly streaks that caught the dim light like fresh veins of ore.

The watching crowd exploded into cheers, as if their favorite champion had just claimed victory in the coliseum. Coins arced through the air—tossed in raucous tribute, or perhaps in hopeful bid for an encore.

Grisha’s low, rolling chuckle vibrated through her chest, utterly satisfied. She drew her tongue slowly across her lips, gathering a taste of Dregan’s offering with deliberate relish, her eyes half-lidded in wicked contentment.

Atticus caught sight of this scene mid-conversation with Julius, his words cutting off abruptly as his brain processed what his eyes were reporting. For exactly three seconds he stood frozen, his expression cycling through disbelief, resignation, and what looked to be the early stages of a migraine.

Then he was rushing over, his grey robes billowing behind him with the dramatic flair of someone who’d had enough of this nonsense and was prepared to end it through sheer force of organizational authority.

“Absolutely not!” he announced as he approached the crowd. “This is a warehouse, not a brothel! We have inventory to manage! Shipments to coordinate! Basic workplace standards to maintain! Everyone back to work right now or I’m docking pay and assigning you to the worst possible tasks I can imagine!”

The crowd melted away with surprising haste, workers scattering back to their posts like revelers fleeing a raid, grumbling under their breath about how joy was apparently contraband and management having no sense of priorities.

Dregan remained atop his crate, gloriously unrepentant, chest still heaving and skin glistening with the evidence of his exertions. He flashed Atticus a broad, unapologetic grin—the easy, self-assured smile of a man who knew his talents were far too rare and valuable to risk any real punishment.

“Just establishing diplomatic relations with our new associate!” he announced cheerfully. “Very important for inter-organizational cooperation! Building bridges! Creating connections! Literally in this case!”

“Get dressed,” Atticus said flatly, pinching the bridge of his nose beneath his glasses. “Both of you. Immediately. Before I decide that managing a criminal empire is less stressful than managing whatever this is.”

I watched the whole glorious debacle unfold with the quiet, bone-deep resignation of someone who’d long ago surrendered to the fact that my life was destined to be a never-ending parade of beautiful chaos—and that resisting it only led to fatigue and a vague sense of missing out.

I turned to Julius, who was staring at the scene with an expression caught somewhere between fascination and existential alarm, then offered him my brightest, most reassuring smile.

“Welcome to the team,” I said, voice light and warm with affection. “This is actually pretty tame compared to some days.”

Julius made a sound—half laugh, half the soft, strangled noise of a man watching his carefully ordered worldview gently unravel at the seams.

I knew, in that moment, that the night was going to be deliciously, exhaustingly long. And honestly? I wouldn’t have it any other way.

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