Chapter 36: Let’s get Mixing

The room was quiet now, save for the groan of the warped ceiling beams overhead and the faint drip of water somewhere in the back corner.

It was the kind of room that smelled of mildew, blood, and desperation—three of my favorite perfumes.

Brutus began rummaging through the shelves like a drunken badger with a mission while I leaned against the wall, crossing my arms, trying my best to look casual.

Brutus was big enough that his silhouette swallowed half the lantern light, shoulders hunched as he pawed through boxes and crates. He moved slower than I thought necessary, as though savoring the process, like a priest fingering through relics.

I couldn’t help quirking my eyebrows so high I thought they’d launch off my forehead. “What are you looking for in there, big guy? A spare skirt? Because if so, I warn you, I don’t loan mine out unless you’ve got the legs for it.”

He ignored me, which, honestly, was my favorite Brutus response. The man had built an entire conversational style around sighs, glares, and the occasional muttered insult.

Finally, with a grunt, he pulled something free. Not a sword. Not a sack of gold. No, of course not. It was a book. A tome so big I swear it had its own gravitational pull.

Brutus lugged it to the table, and when he dropped it, the whole room jumped. The sound wasn’t so much a thud as it was a declaration: behold, knowledge has arrived, tremble before its binding.

Dust flew up in clouds thick enough to choke a small goat. The lantern flickered as though even it was shocked at the audacity of the thing. I leaned forward, squinting, lips curling into a grin. “What’s this, bedtime stories? You finally admitting you can read, Brutus? Gods, I’m so proud of you.”

He shot me a look that could have curdled cheese, but said nothing. He flipped it open instead, and the pages yawned out in a flurry of yellowed parchment.

Symbols, diagrams, and sprawling lists of names filled every inch, like the fever dreams of a lunatic pharmacist. I tilted my head, trying to decipher the scrawl. All I managed was the vague recognition of a mushroom doodle and something that looked suspiciously like a sneezing rat.

Atticus pounced on the book like it was the last virgin in the city.

His hands trembled as he pushed past Brutus, glasses catching the light as his lips curled into a smile that was—how shall I put it—mildly terrifying.

He flipped through the pages with a reverence usually reserved for holy relics or exceptionally good wine. His voice dropped into a low murmur.

“Incredible. This… this is no common ledger. This is centuries of alchemical knowledge, compiled and preserved. Every compound, every recipe, every forbidden mixture…” He laughed, high and breathless. “Oh, the possibilities.”

I leaned back, arms folded, one eyebrow still cocked. “If you’re smiling like that I’m going to assume this book has the potential to either make us rich or kill us in some sort of spectacular explosion. And honestly, I’m fine with either outcome.”

Brutus ignored me again, turning his attention instead to Freya. “Put Malrick in the backroom and bring the rest of the supplies.”

Freya groaned, long and low, like the sound of a dragon inconvenienced by mortal souls. Her eyes flicked to the shelf at the far wall, and with an exasperated sigh, she shoved it aside. Wood scraped on stone, revealing a hidden doorway yawning into darkness.

Because of course Brutus had a secret backroom. He was full of surprises. One day I half expected him to reveal he’d been hiding a spa and a hot spring all this time.

“Lovely,” I said, clapping my hands together. “The murder pantry. Very chic.”

Brutus rolled his eyes again. “Shut it.”

Freya, muttering curses under her breath, dragged Malrick’s limp, bound body to the hidden room. She plopped him into a chair with all the grace of someone unloading a sack of potatoes.

More rope lashed his limbs, binding him to the seat, before a blindfold smothered his eyes and a gag silenced what would no doubt be a symphony of arrogance if he woke up.

She tugged the knots so tight even I winced in pain.

“Stay,” she muttered to his unconscious form, as though he were nothing but an unruly dog. Then she vanished into the shadows beyond, the scrape of boxes echoing as she began hauling out supplies.

It wasn’t long before Dregan appeared, limping and swearing, to help her. Together they hauled crate after crate into the main room.

The table grew crowded with jars, sprinkled among our stolen sacks, resting alongside bundles of other lesser ingredients. It looked like a goddamn apothecary had vomited across the room.

My grin widened.

Then I whistled low, giving Brutus an appreciative nod. “Well, well. And here I thought you were just a mountain of fists. Turns out you’ve been running a secret alchemy lab as well. Color me impressed. And slightly aroused.”

He chuckled this time, a deep rumble in his chest, the sound rare enough that it made me blink. Apparently my sarcasm finally won him over. I was adding “Make Brutus Laugh” to my bucket list of accomplishments, right between “Survive Malrick” and “Convince Freya I’m Worth Keeping Around.”

Atticus, meanwhile, tore himself from the tome just long enough to whirl on Brutus.

His face was flushed, his glasses slipping down his nose, that unsettling smile still curling at the corners of his mouth.

“Do you understand what this means?” His voice shook with barely contained excitement. “With these supplies and this knowledge, we can create compounds unlike anything this prison has ever seen. Entire markets, entire factions, could be bent to our will. The economy here would crumble and rebuild under us. We could—”

“Or,” I interrupted sweetly, “we could blow ourselves up and spend eternity haunting this storage room, which sounds slightly less profitable but far more dramatic.”

Atticus glared at me, which, on him, looked less intimidating and more like an owl irritated at a mouse. He turned back to Brutus, slamming a hand against the tome. “We must decide. What do we create first?”

Brutus crossed his arms, his bulk looming. “We stick to basics. Painkillers. Stimulants. Things the gangs and merchants can use. Safe, steady profit.”

“Safe?” Atticus’s smile widened, sharp as glass. He jabbed a finger at the book. “Safe is for fools. We didn’t risk our necks for safe. We need something bold. Something unforgettable. Something that will tear this prison’s rotten heart wide open.”

Brutus’s expression darkened. “What are you suggesting?”

Atticus flipped to a page marked with black ink, the writing curling like smoke. His voice dropped to a whisper, but I heard it clear as steel. “I’m suggesting we make Erosin.”

The room stilled. Even Freya paused in the doorway, a crate balanced on one scarred shoulder. Brutus’s face hardened, his jaw tight. “No.”

Atticus blinked. “No?”

“No.” His voice was flat, heavy as an executioner’s blade. “You know what that would do. Distributing it would turn this prison into chaos. It would unravel every balance, every deal, every fragile truce. It’s suicide.”

Atticus’s smile didn’t falter. If anything, it grew sharper. “And yet… it would make us gods. You saw the ingredients Malrick hoarded. He was preparing for this very thing. With Erosin, we can corner the market. Every prisoner, every noble, every warden with a secret itch would come crawling to us. It would be wasteful not to seize such an opportunity.”

I perked up, tilting my head like a cat spotting a dangling string. “Okay, pause. What in the name of all sweaty orgies is Erosin?”

Atticus turned, his glasses gleaming, and for a moment I swore I saw the devil hiding behind his smile. “It’s a substance designed to… enhance. To loosen. To flood the body with desire until restraint is but a memory. It is highly addictive. Impossible to resist once tasted. It doesn’t just sharpen lust—it enslaves

it.”

I blinked. My lips curled. A chuckle slipped out, low and dark, building into a laugh that made even Freya glance at me with suspicion. My grin split wider, teeth flashing, as an idea coiled in my mind like a serpent awakening.

“Oh,” I whispered, savoring the thought as it bloomed sharp and wicked. “Oh, I think I like that.”

Already I could see a plan beginning to form in my mind.

Brutus gave me that long-suffering sigh of his, the one that said, gods above, why am I surrounded by lunatics, before finally nodding to Atticus.

The air seemed to grow heavier the moment those two locked eyes in mutual agreement. It was like watching two priests of very different faiths decide to collaborate on a sermon—one all stone and gravel, the other a sharp gleam of intellect and unsettling glee.

I patted them both on the back like I was their proud little cheerleader, grinning from ear to ear. “Go on, boys. Cook me something sinful.”

Brutus didn’t dignify that with a response beyond rolling his shoulders, but Atticus—oh, Atticus looked like a man on the verge of climax just from turning a page of the tome.

He leaned over the crude table, his thin hands trembling slightly as he began pointing out ingredients with the intensity of a starving man at a buffet.

I perched myself on the corner of the table like the worst kind of supervisor, legs swinging, skirt hiked up just enough to keep everyone distracted.

“Well, this is adorable. A big burly daddy, a silver-haired scholar, and a bratty slut. Honestly, we could start a traveling act. We’ll call it The Brew Crew, sell tickets, maybe a calendar. Brutus, I’m thinking May or June—you shirtless, draped in ivy, holding a barrel of this filth you’re about to make. Atticus can be December, fully clothed, because gods know he’s allergic to fun.”

“Loona,” Brutus rumbled without looking at me, “shut up.”

“Say it again, slower this time.”

He didn’t. Tragic.

Atticus began arranging the equipment with frightening precision. I leaned in closer, fascinated despite myself.

The mixing had begun.

Brutus’s thick hands, surprisingly gentle, ground down roots into powder with a pestle the size of my forearm.

Atticus poured vials of crystalline dust into bubbling water, steam rising in fragrant tendrils that curled through the room like the fingers of some curious spirit.

Freya grunted as she dragged in another crate from the hidden room, Dregan staggering after her with a vat balanced on his shoulder, muttering, “By the gods, what even is half this shit? Looks like troll dandruff and unicorn piss.”

Atticus snapped at him to put it down carefully, then returned to his concoction, whispering names of herbs and minerals like prayers: “Frost-thistle, ground moonleaf, phoenix ash—yes, yes, perfect—Brutus, stir, not crush—good.”

I clapped my hands together, delighted. “This is fascinating. I feel like I’m watching foreplay for nerds. So much grinding, so much pouring, and not a single kiss yet.”

Brutus shot me a glare over his shoulder, sweat already glistening along his temple from the heat of the makeshift burners they’d rigged. “Do you ever shut up?”

“No. But thanks for asking.”

Then it happened—the first shift in the air.

A fragrance began to leak from the bubbling brew, faint at first, then stronger, threading through the cramped room like invisible tendrils of smoke. My chest tightened. My heart stammered, thudding faster, harder, like it had just remembered something important it had forgotten.

Heat flushed across my skin, my thighs pressing together without my permission. Gods above, what was this?

The smell was sweet, almost floral, but with a musky undertone that made my pulse leap. It clung to the back of my throat, made me swallow hard, made me ache in places I shouldn’t have been aching at that moment.

I glanced around in a daze and realized it wasn’t just me.

Brutus’s brow furrowed, his breathing heavier than usual, sweat beading along his neck in rivers. Atticus’s pale cheeks had gone faintly pink, though his eyes never left the brew.

Even stoic, terrifying Freya was affected—her golden eyes hazy, lips parting slightly as her chest rose and fell in sharper heaves.

She leaned back against the wall, and before I could blink, her hand was already sliding down the front of her trousers, her expression twisting into that familiar scowl of defiance even as her fingers worked furiously at herself.

I gawked. “Oh. Oh, wow. That’s—okay, that’s happening.”

Dregan, bless him, let out a hoot of laughter and promptly began clapping like a man at the theater. “Go on, lass! Don’t be shy, give it hell!”

I slapped a hand over my mouth to keep from cackling, but my body was betraying me, heat coiling low, breath hitching, cock stiffening embarrassingly fast beneath my skirt.

The brewing dragged on, every step more unbearable than the last before finally, after what felt like an eternity, Atticus raised the final flask with trembling hands.

Within it swirled a liquid of the deepest violet, glowing faintly as though lit from within. It shimmered when he turned it, catching the light in strange ways, almost as if it were alive.

“There,” he breathed, reverent. “It’s done.”

I didn’t wait. The second he set it down, I snatched it up with a grin sharp enough to cut glass. The glass was cool against my palm, the liquid inside pulsing faintly as though eager to escape. Brutus’s head snapped up, eyes narrowing. “Loona. Put it back.”

“Oh no, darling,” I cooed, holding it up to the light, watching the glow ripple. “You spent all this time making a masterpiece—surely you want me to christen it. You know, like breaking in a new bedframe. With enthusiasm.”

His growl rumbled low, dangerous. “What do you plan to do with it?”

I pressed the flask to my lips, kissing the rim delicately, smirk curling wider. “That’s a secret.”

“Loona—”

“Nope!” I cut him off, hopping down from the table, clutched the glass to my chest like a precious lover. “Don’t worry your pretty head. You two geniuses get started on the next batch. If we’re building an empire, we’ll need more than one bottle of sin-juice.”

Brutus muttered something under his breath about killing me in my sleep, but I just blew him a kiss. Atticus, to his credit, was too caught up in scribbling notes and muttering equations to notice my theft.

I turned on my heel, my heart pounding wild and wicked in my chest.

My body was already buzzing from the scent in the air, the flask warm in my hand, my mind racing with possibilities that made me grin like a devil at prayer. Without a word, I slipped toward the back of the room, past the shelves and the crates, to the hidden doorway Freya had revealed earlier.

The darkness beyond yawned wide like the mouth of some forbidden secret. I stepped through, the smell of dust and stone mingling faintly with the sweet, heavy aroma of the brew clinging to me. My fingers found the lock on the inside of the door as I shut it closed.

Click.

The sound was final. Sharp. Delicious.

Time for the fun to begin.

Source: Webnovel.com, updated by NovelKeep