Chapter 59: Final Preperations

I knew that silhouette the instant it cut across the smoky tavern air, a shadow skimming along the floorboards like a cat sneaking back after curfew.

Saints above, of all the people to storm in on me when I was halfway welded to Brutus’s lap, it had to be her. Mia. My little red squirrel with freckles, nerves, and that damned hood she thought made her look mysterious.

My stomach dropped into my boots, my ass clenched out of sheer reflex, and before I could squeak out a single syllable, Brutus had already moved. The bastard grabbed me by the hips like I weighed nothing—though to be fair I’m not exactly a sack of coal—and hoisted me off with a sticky pop that made the whole bar tilt its head like dogs hearing a whistle.

Of course, me being me, I panicked in the most dignified way possible: I snatched the nearest napkin like it was a holy relic and immediately starting scrubbing at the mess with all the subtlety of a priest trying to wash away sins with vinegar.

Saints help me, the napkin wasn’t doing anything at all, leaving me with nothing but a streaky smear of evidence and a bar full of gawkers.

Every last person in the tavern turned to look at us, and not in the polite, “oh, how quaint, young love” kind of way. No, these bastards stared like we’d just performed a dress rehearsal for the main event of tonight’s entertainment.

My face went crimson, hotter than the lantern flames swaying overhead, while the others—gods curse them—burst into laughter and cheers, slamming their mugs on the tables in a chorus of approval.

And then there was Mia, peeling back her hood with a raised eyebrow so sharp I could’ve used it to shave my legs. Oh, the judgment in her gaze. I wanted to crawl under the table and melt into a puddle of shame-water.

Instead I flashed her my most innocent smile, the one that always says, “yes, I’m guilty, but don’t I look pretty while doing it?” She didn’t look impressed.

“Well then,” I said, my voice a little breathless, “I don’t suppose you’ve burst in here just to ruin my evening snuggle. Tell me, darling, what’s the news?”

Her lips twitched and I could sense her facade breaking into pieces with each passing second. “Victor agreed to your proposal,” she said simply, her tone the very definition of quiet restraint.

I nearly leapt to my feet in surprise, though I was already standing, so instead I just twitched like someone had plucked a string through my body.

“He’ll meet you at the place you named. But…” she paused, because saints know nothing good ever comes without a pause, “…he has conditions.”

“Of course he does,” I purred, because really, I’d have been offended if he didn’t. “What are we talking here? He wants me naked? He wants me to wear bells? He wants me to juggle sacks of coin while whistling the Warden’s anthem?”

Mia’s eyebrows twitched dangerously, a little blush spotting her cheeks, but she soldiered on. “He says, for his own ’personal safety’ you have to come alone.”

I snickered, the sound bubbling up like champagne fizzing out of a cracked glass. “Oh, how precious. Alone. As if that’s not the oldest trick in the book. Next he’ll be asking me to wear a sign that says ’stab me here.’”

She ignored me, bless her patience, and continued. “He also insists you bring all of your current earnings. On site. He’ll assign some of his men to help carry the load.”

Now that made me whistle. Clever, yes, very clever. Keep the transaction where everyone can see it, leave no opportunity for sly little Loona to hide away a sack or two for a rainy day. If things went sour, everything would be right there in the open. He thought he had me cornered. Saints above, I almost wanted to applaud him.

“And?” I asked sweetly, because I could tell there was more.

Mia fiddled with the hem of her cloak, then added, “He’s worried about how we’ll get there in the first place. The guards. The locks. The Warden. He says if they can’t even arrive, there’s no point in negotiating.”

I waved my hand dramatically, brushing aside her concerns like cobwebs. “Darling, I’ve already secured a set of keys. The question isn’t if we’ll get there, it’s whether we’ll look good while doing it. And I always look good.”

Mia nodded, though her eyes lingered on me as though she suspected half my words were sugar and lies—which, to be fair, they usually are.

With that, Brutus, myself, and Mia slipped out of the tavern, leaving behind an extra coin for the mess. Call it penance. Or bribery. Or maybe just payment for the bartender’s trauma. Either way, it clinked on the wood as we stalked back into the air of the courtyard.

The walk back to the warehouse was hushed, our footsteps echoing through the stone alleyways, the air thick with the stench of sweat, ale, and secrets best left unspoken. I kept my tone casual, of course, because that’s my way of keeping everyone from realizing how much my heart was hammering inside my ribs.

“The meeting should happen tonight,” I told Mia, spinning my words like silk. “When free time’s up, sneak out with us and make your way to my cell. I’ll hand you the keys, and you’ll trot off to free your darling boss and the rest of the lords. Think you can manage that without tripping over your own nerves?”

Her chin lifted, freckles catching the light, and she gave the faintest of smiles. “No problem.”

I smirked. Gods, confidence looked good on her, even if it was stitched together from scraps and bravado.

Night came quicker than I expected. Free time dissolved in a blink, stolen away by the heavy boots of guards and the crack of whips. Our bribes slipped like butter into greedy hands, buying us silence, permission, and the rare luxury of freedom.

It was almost funny, watching the guards pretend they didn’t see us hauling sacks of coin out through the entrance. Almost.

It took several trips—more than I cared to count. Each sack bulged with silver and promise, the burlap biting into our shoulders as we lugged them from the warehouse to our cell. Brutus bore his load without complaint, a mountain carrying pebbles.

Freya scowled and cursed with every step. Atticus muttered under his breath, as though calculating the precise angle at which his spine might collapse.

Dregan, bless his filthy soul, cackled the entire time, like hauling our fortune through the bowels of the prison was the best joke he’d ever heard.

I floated along, offering witty commentary that nobody asked for but everyone secretly enjoyed. Mia stayed close, her eyes flicking nervously to the guards, to the shadows, to me. Always back to me. I pretended not to notice, though inside I felt the weight of her stare like a coin pressing against my tongue.

By the time the last sack was stacked in my cell, the others had slunk back to their own bunks, leaving me and Brutus alone with Mia and the mountain of silver dreams. I didn’t hesitate. I pressed the keys into her palm, cool metal clinking softly, and whispered, “Go.”

And like that, she was gone, her cloak vanishing into the dark like a drop of ink in water.

Time stretched. Saints, it stretched like taffy pulled by impatient children, sticky and endless. I paced my cell, back and forth, back and forth, the walls pressing in closer with every step.

My mind raced in spirals. What if she’d betrayed us? What if Victor slit her throat the moment she arrived? What if this was all a play staged by the Warden himself, watching me unravel from behind iron bars?

But then, at last, the faintest whisper curled into the room. “They’re waiting.”

I turned, and there she was, shadows clinging to her cloak, her eyes steady despite the tremor in her voice. Relief and dread collided in my chest.

We stepped out onto the walkway, the silence heavier now, broken only by the shuffle of boots. A line of prisoners waited, ragged men with faces carved from stone, eyes hollow, bodies taut with desperation. Victor’s men. One by one they stooped, each hefting a sack of coin onto their shoulders. The weight dragged at them, but their gazes never faltered.

Brutus, ever the immovable voice of reason, glanced at me with genuine concern. “Are you sure about this?” he rumbled, his voice low, his brow furrowing like a crumbling cliff face.

I met his gaze with a quiet look of determination. “Of course I am.”

He snorted before his gaze drifted past me, heavy as a landslide, toward the corner of our cell where the battered shotgun leaned against the wall. Oh, how his eyes lingered on it, like a starving man eyeing bread. Subtle as a falling boulder, that one.

I shook my head. “No, I wouldn’t want to use that thing again. At least not in this situation. I reckon its drawbacks would become a liability when facing such a large crowd. Besides, I have a weapon far more powerful in mind.”

Brutus didn’t protest my words this time, a flicker of curiosity gracing his face instead. I turned back to Mia then, holding out my hand. “The keys. Now.”

Without hesitation—though I swore I saw her fingers tighten around them at first—she pressed them into my palm. Cold, heavy, and final. I twirled them once in my fingers before stuffing them tight into the folds of my boot.

And so we walked. Down, down, down to the lowest floor of the prison, the air thickening with each step, the torches guttering, the stones sweating with damp. The silence was suffocating, a funeral procession without music.

Until finally, we reached the cage.

There, leaning against it with all the ease of a man who’d been born to command the underworld, was a figure. Tall, ragged blonde hair spilling wild over his shoulders, tattoos sprawling across his skin like maps of forgotten sins.

His prison rags clung to him in tatters, but his presence… oh, his presence was like iron wrapped in velvet. Behind him, the Warden’s pet snarled, chained and twitching, eyes burning with a hunger that made my blood run cold.

The sacks of coin were set down, one by one, ringing hollow against the stones.

And the man—Victor, it had to be Victor—lifted his head, his lips curling into a grin that promised ruin.

“My, my,” he drawled, his words drifting through the air like smoke from a slow-burning cigar. His voice was smooth, yes, but with that acrid bite at the edges, like poison dressed up in perfume, meant to go down easy and kill you later.

He straightened from the cage with a lazy grace, tattoos shifting like restless serpents across his skin, and his grin widened to show teeth that had seen more than their share of blood.

“I’ve been waiting for you.”

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