Chapter 63: Dealing with the Devil

The second Yolmear’s eyes landed on me, I braced myself for fury. For cold, hard malice sharpened into blades. For a bellow that shook the stones and rattled the marrow of every man left standing in this chamber. Instead… what I got was worse.

Exhaustion.

Not righteous fury, not searing contempt, not even the cold calculation of a man measuring my neck for the noose. Just… exhaustion.

He dragged a hand down his face in a slow, weary motion, fingers digging into the creases beside his mouth, muttering under his breath. It was the sort of mutter that spoke of migraines, of paperwork, of children crying in the night, of too many years stuck in a prison that chewed men alive.

And saints above, the sight of it was delicious.

“Gods preserve us,” he groaned at last, his hand falling back to his side as he straightened. His eyes, those tired, iron-forged eyes, fixed on me again. “What happened here?”

I blinked once, startled by the sheer stupidity of the question, then rolled my eyes so hard I feared they might vanish into the back of my skull and leave me blind.

“What happened here?” I echoed, throwing my hands up in mock disbelief. “Darling, is it really necessary to ask? Do the corpses not provide sufficient illustration? Shall I draw you a little diagram in blood? Gods above, I thought you were supposed to be the clever one.”

The silence that followed was heavy, broken only by the steady drip of crimson and the beastman’s low growl thrumming through the chamber. Yolmear’s gaze drifted slowly, almost painfully, across the wreckage—over the twitching remains of Victor’s men, the splintered bones, the slick pools of gore. His jaw flexed, muscle twitching, but still he said nothing.

And me? Well, of course I couldn’t just leave the silence alone.

“Honestly,” I continued, gesturing around me with all the flair of a stage magician presenting his final trick, “you should be thanking me. Look at the money I’ve saved you. Less mouths to feed, fewer complaints to hear, no more tedious gang rivalries cluttering up your perfectly bureaucratic schedule. Efficiency, Warden. You’re welcome.”

One of his guards coughed. Not laughter, no, not quite, but something dangerously close to it. Yolmear didn’t move, didn’t blink, but the poor bastard stiffened like a man who’d just realized he’d accidentally kissed his mother in public.

Finally, Yolmear exhaled, long and low, before muttering, “You’re a plague.”

“Oh, flattery,” I purred, pressing a hand to my chest as though I’d just been serenaded. “Careful, Warden, you’ll make me blush.”

His eyes cut back to me, sharp again. “You’ve undone months of order in a single night. You’ve set my beast loose. You’ve spilled more blood than I care to account for.”

“Oh, don’t be so dramatic,” I sniffed, though of course it takes one to know one. “If anything, I’ve simply… rearranged the furniture. Gave the place a fresh coat of crimson. Very stylish, don’t you think?”

The beastman rumbled beneath me again, his chest vibrating under my palms. I stroked his jaw idly, like one might pet a favored dog, though in truth my fingers trembled faintly at the raw, primal heat of him.

Saints, how could someone so brutal look at me like that, wide-eyed, slavering, half-entranced, as if I were both his doom and salvation?

And then Yolmear’s gaze slid to him at last. His little Pet. His eyes softened, not warm, never warm, but thoughtful, heavy with emotions I couldn’t quite place.

“I gave him everything,” He said at last, voice a low rumble, as if the words themselves were reluctant to leave. “Food. Women. Fights enough to sate a hundred beasts. More chances than any other creature in this pit has ever earned.” His hand twitched at his side, fingers curling like claws half-restrained. “And yet… after meeting you…”

I arched a brow, leaning lazily back against the beastman’s chest, my grin carving across my face like a knife. “Ah,” I cooed, drawing out the syllable until it slithered into mockery. “You’ve noticed it too, then. His… infatuation.”

The beast growled again, low and guttural, almost pleading in its presence. My thighs clenched instinctively around his lap, and saints preserve me, if I didn’t nearly giggle from the sheer audacity of the situation. Here I was, bruised and bloodied, perched like a courtesan on a monster’s lap, while his previous owner all but admitted he’d been cuckolded by a gutter rat.

“Infatuation,” Yolmear repeated flatly, though his jaw twitched harder.

“Oh, don’t pout,” I teased, tracing a finger along the beast’s collarbone before lifting it to wag in Yolmear’s direction. “It isn’t your fault. Some of us simply have… a certain effect on men.” I tilted my head coyly. “And beasts. And anyone else with a pulse, really. Occupational hazard.”

His silence stretched long enough I half-expected him to order his guards to cut me down on the spot. But instead, his gaze flicked to the ground, to one of the sacks strewn half-open in the blood. His brow furrowed.

I smiled wider. Hook, line, and sinker.

“Oh, you’ve noticed my little present,” I said sweetly, gesturing lazily toward it. “Go on, don’t be shy. Have a look.”

Yolmear’s gaze flicked to one of his men. “Open it.”

The guard hesitated—because saints above, who wouldn’t?—but at the Warden’s nod, he stepped forward. The drawstring was tugged loose, the mouth yawned open, and a shimmer of silver spilled into the torchlight. Coins. Dozens. Hundreds. A fortune so out of place in this pit that for a moment even I had to admire the absurdity of it.

He reached in, pulled out a fistful, and let them cascade through his fingers. The clink of silver on stone was like music, sharp, clear, and impossible to ignore. He gasped.

And Yolmear’s eyes, oh gods, his eyes. They blew wide, greed flashing like wildfire across that carefully stoic face. For the first time since he entered, the exhaustion cracked and what spilled out instead was an undeniable sense of hunger.

I smirked, sharp as a blade. “There’s about a dozen more sacks where that came from.”

Yolmear’s head snapped toward me, disbelief etched within his gaze. “How,” he hissed, his voice stripped of restraint, “how in the saints’ names did you obtain such a preposterous amount?”

I waved a hand dismissively, as though brushing off a fly. “Details, darling. Trade secrets. What matters is that I have

it.”

His eyes narrowed, then widened again as though the greed itself was fighting to claw free. I could almost see it dripping from his pores, staining his every thought.

“Ah ah ah,” I said lightly, wagging my finger again. “Don’t even think of running off with it. Because if you do…” I turned, pressed my lips to the beastman’s thick, meaty neck, and left a kiss that made him whimper like a scolded pup. “…I’ll have him take care of you. Isn’t that right, darling?”

The beastman groaned, his cock twitching violently beneath his loincloth, and saints help me, the sound that left him was halfway between a growl and a plea.

Yolmear’s face contorted into disgust, bewilderment, and a touch of something else I couldn’t quite place. But he didn’t move. He didn’t order my death. He didn’t even blink.

Instead, his voice came low and ragged. “What do you want?”

And there it was. I leaned forward, my grin softening into something silkier, deadlier. “Simple,” I purred. “I want a way to disable the gutterbrand.”

The silence that followed was suffocating. Yolmear’s lips parted, then snapped shut. His nostrils flared, his hands curled into fists. At last, he spat, “Impossible.”

“Oh, don’t be such a pessimist,” I chided. “Impossible is just what cowards call difficult. And you, Warden, are no coward. You’re a man of ambition. A man who knows opportunity when it sits in front of him, bloody, beautiful, and dripping with silver.”

His jaw tightened. He shook his head. “The brand is law. It’s meant to be unbreakable.”

“Law,” I scoffed, tossing my head back with a laugh sharp enough to cut stone. “Darling, law is whatever we can bribe enough men to look away from. And you, with this”—I gestured at the coins—”could buy silence enough to make saints weep.”

Yolmear’s eyes flicked to the silver again. And gods above, I swear I saw him salivating.

I leaned closer, my voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “Picture it. Riches enough to choke the guards with their own greed. A way out of this pit for you. No more bowing to the Highbloods, no more rotting in their shadows. Just you, free, rich, and powerful. Doesn’t that sound divine?”

His throat bobbed, a swallow thick and heavy until—

“…Fine,” he whispered at last, the word escaping him like a confession.

My heart did a little jump—an embarrassing, fluttery sort of jump that belonged more to some giddy schoolboy spotting his crush across the courtyard than to a battle-hardened succubus perched atop a throne of corpses.

I couldn’t help it. I bounded forward, skirt swishing, and flung myself at Yolmear with all the reckless joy of a drunken noble trying to dance with a chandelier.

To say his reaction was less than welcoming would be putting it politely.

His entire face crumpled into a grimace. “Get your filthy body off of me,” he snarled, his voice as stiff as his posture.

Naturally, I did the opposite. I burrowed deeper, nuzzling my head against his chest like a cat demanding attention, ignoring the stiff iron of his uniform pressing into my cheek. Saints above, he smelled like sweat, ink, and despair—a heady perfume I was learning to enjoy.

He stiffened. He growled. He tried to pry me off. None of it worked.

Finally, with the sort of long-suffering sigh usually reserved for husbands stuck at the market with their wives, he folded. He waved a hand at his men, his voice tight. “Step away. Give us space.”

The guards hesitated but one sharp look sent them retreating like whipped dogs.

I tilted my chin up just in time to see Yolmear lean down, his lips brushing dangerously close to my ear. His breath was hot, his words hotter still, laced with power, ancient and sharp, thrumming with a resonance that made my spine arch as though I’d been struck by lightning.

“By the marrow of stone, by the iron of law, unshackle the brand, let the chain be ash.”

The sound of it was a weight in the air, syllables that scraped at the marrow of the world itself. And gods above, the moment it hit me, I knew.

The collar around my throat, the wretched iron circlet that had burned itself into my skin since the moment of my branding, shuddered. The heat that had always lingered there, that subtle simmer of pain and humiliation, flickered. Then it drained. Slowly, achingly, like a coal starved of air.

The heat guttered out, leaving only cold iron pressing against my neck. No fire. No leash. No invisible hand yanking at my soul.

I almost gasped. Saints, I nearly choked on the sheer relief of it, my throat working like a man pulling air after drowning. The weight was still there, yes, the metal still heavy, but it was a corpse now. Just steel. Just a collar. Dead and dumb.

My smirk bloomed sharp and feral before I could stop it. A tingle of triumph rippled through me, a thrill so wild it made my blood sing.

“Now get off me,” he said with a plain expression.

I peeled myself away with exaggerated dramatics, dusting off my skirt and patting down my chest. “Fine, fine,” I said, pouting just enough to make it sting. “But I was enjoying myself.”

Yolmear ignored me—because what else could he do?—and turned to his men. “Carry the sacks to my office.”

“Yes, sir,” they chorused, practically tripping over themselves to obey. One after another, they bent and strained, hoisting the silver-stuffed bags until their arms shook under the weight. The clink of coins filled the chamber like applause, a chorus of greed marching obediently toward bureaucracy.

Yolmear, meanwhile, tilted his head back to stare up at the chamber beyond. The flicker of torchlight played across his bald little skull, and for a moment I almost pitied him. He looked like a man questioning every decision he’d ever made, a man wondering how, in all the hells, he’d just signed a pact with the devil while hugging him all the same.

I pirouetted around him, skirt flaring, then reached up and gave him a friendly pat on the back. “Don’t worry, darling,” I said, grinning wide enough to show teeth. “You’ll be rid of me soon enough.”

That got his attention. His head snapped down, eyes narrowing. “You’re going to try and escape?”

I didn’t even flinch, just nodded once. And then—oh saints—it happened. He laughed.

Not the tired sigh, not the muttering groan. A real laugh. Rough, humorless, cracking out of his chest like rocks tumbling down a cliff.

“You fool,” he wheezed between chuckles. “The High Warden will hear of this mess sooner or later. He’s been on edge already, snapping at shadows. But this—” He gestured at the blood, the bodies, the beastman looming behind me. “This will be the final straw.”

I tilted my head, grinning brighter, letting the torchlight gleam off my teeth. “Oh, darling. That’s the idea.”

His chuckle caught, half stifled, half bitter, but the twitch in his jaw betrayed him. For the briefest moment, he almost admired me.

I whistled then, sharp and light, the kind of sound you’d use to call a dog. The beastman’s ears twitched; he rumbled, then lumbered forward, falling into step behind me like a shadow made of flesh and fury.

“Come along, darling,” I cooed, tossing a wink over my shoulder as we stepped past the carnage, leaving Yolmear and his doubts behind.

Excitement bubbled in my chest, hot and vivacious. Each step upward was a beat in my heart, a promise of what came next. The prison above awaited, and with it—chaos. Sweet, inevitable chaos.

And saints help me, I couldn’t wait.

Source: Webnovel.com, updated by NovelKeep