Chapter 7: Bargaining for Blood

The moment I opened my mouth again, I should’ve known I was already losing.

There was something in the way he looked at me—this grotesquely ornamented mound of satin smugness, this walking scandal of fabric, fat, and entitlement. He didn’t just look at people the way nobles usually did: from a distance, with vague disdain. No, this man assessed you. Calculated you. He stared like he was already peeling the skin from your thighs and seasoning you for supper.

Not with hunger, no—that would’ve been almost flattering. This was worse. It was ownership without transaction. The kind of look that said, I’ve already devoured those better than you’ll ever be.

Julius had called him Lord Verrin. I was beginning to understand the tremor in his voice when he mentioned the name.

“You stink of gutter,” Verrin said, voice slow and bloated, curling at the edges like molding fruit left too long in the sun. He wafted forward on a tide of overripe perfume and disdain, each step announcing itself with the wet slap of plush shoes and wheezing silk. “A sissy soaked pet hellbent on ruining my fun, are you? How curious. I didn’t think they let Guttermeat like you out of the pits anymore — especially not to perform tricks.”

I gave him my sweetest, dumbest smile. That one where I looked like I’ve never had a thought in my life, just a head full of giggles and thighs made of sin. “Oh, I do all kinds of tricks, my lord. Backflips. Swordplay. Tax evasion.”

His laughter came in a low, bubbling waves, the kind that jiggled its way down his belly and made his rings chime in alarm, like even his jewelry was afraid of him. Part of me expected gravy to begin spilling out of his sleeves at the gesture.

“You think yourself clever?” he said, looming closer. His breath smelled of roasted dates and high crimes against hygiene. “You’re a mongrel in a borrowed tunic. A charred bit of meat trying to pass for a phoenix. You think because you made a few coins squirming on the ground, I should give a damn what filth oozes from your lips?”

I tilted my head, letting my hair fall over one eye. I fluttered my lashes and licked my lips like a bored courtesan. “No, but I think you’ll care when I shove those coins up your—”

“Submit.”

The word sliced through the air like a blade to the back. I didn’t hear it so much as feel it—like it was a hook being dragged across my nerves, jerking everything inside me taut and wrong.

Pain. Sharp, sudden, and alive, blooming at my throat like fire under glass.

The Gutterbrand.

That damn, cursed collar at my neck flared to life with cruel memory, searing down my spine like someone had poured molten silver into my veins. My knees gave before I could process the fall. The stone floor cracked against my palms, my body shuddering in recoil, back arched like something electrocuted mid-prayer.

Idiot, I thought, my vision going white at the edges. How could you forget?!

I’d been so caught up in the banter, in the game, in the illusion that I had any control left. Of course the bastard was branded with command rights. Of course he could leash me with a single syllable. The taste of iron filled my mouth. I’d bitten my tongue somewhere in the fall. Fitting, really.

“You see?” Verrin’s voice cooed from above, oozing satisfaction. “So much bark. So much bite. And yet, here you are—on the floor like the filthy little dog you are. Shall we call it obedience? Or instinct?”

I growled, barely audible, fingers digging into the stone like I could somehow claw my way out of this shame. But no matter how much fury I summoned, my body refused to move. That collar had me paralyzed in a humiliating sprawl, chest heaving, limbs twitching like a marionette strung too tight.

Verrin’s shadow loomed closer. His hand, soft, cold, and covered in rings, snatched a fistful of my hair and yanked me up like a paperweight. I winced, legs scrambling underneath me, trying not to scream as my scalp began to burn. His grip was wrong. Not firm—just…heavy. The kind of hold that didn’t need to restrain, because it had never once been told no, like being pinned by the weight of expectation rather than force.

He leaned down, face inches from mine, the folds of his robe brushing against my chest. “A shame,” he sighed. “So pretty, so vulgar, yet so very breakable.”

I fought to steady my breath, every inhale a battle against the scream rising in my throat like a second heartbeat. It scratched at the base of my windpipe, begging to be let out, to turn this whole humiliation into a howling, thrashing scene. I couldn’t let it win, couldn’t let him see that crack. I needed to think. To scheme. Not panic. Not shake. Not curl into myself like some laced-up debutante who fainted at the scent of blood.

I wasn’t silk. I wasn’t sugar. I was Loona, goddamn it. I was rot wrapped in velvet, a rose with thorns sharpened on cockspit and broken dreams. I hadn’t clawed my way out of piss-soaked straw and slave fights to crumble at the first syllable barked by a man who probably shat into golden bowls.

My eyes flickered sideways—just a whisper of motion—but it undid me more thoroughly than a sword to the gut.

I saw the boy.

Still chained. Still trembling. Still staring at me with those stupid, reverent eyes—wide and shining like I was some ancient beast that had crawled out of myth and filth to avenge the forgotten. His mouth was parted, chest rising with shallow, frantic breaths. He looked at me like I was a miracle. Like I could still win. Like I hadn’t just been outright flattened a few moments ago.

And that look.

Gods help me, that look.

That wretched, desperate, hopeful look that no one should’ve had in a place like this.

Something shifted in my chest. No, not pain. Not quite. It was heat—pure, undiluted, crackling like oil over flame. There was no shape to it, just rawness, trembling through me, blooming between my ribs like a wildfire. I hated it. I loved it. It made me want to cry and tear someone’s throat out in the same sentence.

I forced myself upright with a grunt, using Verrin’s fist still tangled in my hair like an anchor. Every muscle in my legs shook like overcooked noodles. My spine screamed. My jaw ached from clenching it so hard I thought I might chew straight through my tongue. But I stood.

Goddamn it, I stood.

Verrin tutted—an obnoxious little noise, half-disgust, half-amusement—and released his grip like I was a smudge on his robe that he’d decided wasn’t worth wiping. He adjusted the folds of his velvet drapery, smoothing them down with practiced vanity, as if nothing had happened. “How noble,” he purred, voice thick with bile-drenched mockery. “Does the little whore want to be a hero now?”

I spat blood onto the floor beside his shoe. “Oh no,” I said through clenched teeth, my voice shredded but steady. “I just want to be remembered.”

The bastard clapped then.

Not a slow, sarcastic clap either. A full, delighted round of applause like I was a jester who’d just juggled flaming dildos and nailed the landing.

“I like you,” he crooned, lips peeling back into a grin that made his cheeks wobble like jelly on a warpath. “You’ve got that flavor. That stupid little spice that burns going down but still makes you come back for another bite. I think I’ll enjoy watching you squirm.”

His threat hit me like a spear to the chest, but I wasn’t done.

Not yet. Not while I still had blood in my mouth and piss in my pride. Not while his laughter still echoed in my skull like war drums played on a pig’s belly. I straightened my spine and dipped one trembling hand to the belt cinched tight around my tunic.

Every muscle screamed. My fingers felt like they’d been dipped in molten silver, nerves flaring under the weight of his gaze. But I forced a smirk. The kind of smirk that said I’ve already fucked you in my mind, and it was disappointing.

His droning monologue—something filthy about cracking me open and filling me like a whore—stuttered to a halt mid-word.

Because I was holding it. The pouch.

My winnings.

The blood-slick, cum-scented, hard-earned pouch of coins I’d snatched with nothing but my fists, my thighs, and a stage-worthy gag reflex. It wasn’t much now that I’d handed a portion of the stash to Julius as repayment for his efforts. It was not, by any means, enough to buy a slave, not in this hellhole where flesh was weighed like meat in a market. But it was shiny. It was loud. And in that moment, it was power.

Verrin’s eyes flicked down.

They twitched—just slightly, just enough. Like a dog scenting meat before it was told to kneel. That faint dilation. That little glimmer behind sausage-thick lids. It was gone in a blink, devoured by arrogance and spite, but I’d seen it. I’d felt it.

Greed.

In an instant, he snatched the pouch from my hand and I jumped back in surprise.

“You think this is enough?” he cackled, shaking the pouch until the coins inside clinked like pathetic windchimes. “You could fuck the whole arena into a frenzy and still fail to buy your way out of a single chain.”

“I know,” I whispered.

That got his attention. His face twisted into something crueler. Sharper.

“I should have you flayed for even trying,” he muttered, squeezing the pouch in his fist. “But I’m feeling… charitable. Let’s make a trade, shall we?”

I didn’t speak. Just stood there, spine straight, eyes level, letting the silence stretch between us like drawn silk. A dare, a noose, a negotiation without words.

He grinned. “The pouch—and a night with you—in exchange for the boy.”

For a second I thought I misheard him. Then I blinked, absolutely stunned as the words ran through my head.

He has to be joking, right?

“That’s it? No pony? No parade? Just my ass and a bag of coins in exchange for your prized position?”

He chuckled, woven low with a layer of malice, “You can’t even begin to image the things I want to do to you after the offense you’ve caused me.”

The proposal was ludicrous. Insulting. Barely even a transaction. But his pride had swollen so grotesquely that it devoured sense. He didn’t want profit—he wanted spectacle. He didn’t want a smart deal. He wanted the pleasure of seeing me kneel.

I sighed. Loudly. Then smiled, all venom and velvet. “Well, if you’re going to beg.”

He produced the contract from midair—of course he did—and scrawled his name across the bottom with a flourish, like he was signing a love letter or a warrant of execution. Then he tucked it into a silk-lined pocket with all the ceremony of stowing away a treasured recipe for stew.

“And where shall we go for our little tryst?” I asked, voice sweet as spoiled cream. We both knew the answer.

He said nothing. Just lifted one stubby finger and curled it downward.

Here. Now. Right in front of the boy.

I chuckled low under my breath, too tired to be surprised. “You’re one filthy fucking bastard, you know that?”

“Strip,” he said in response. “Now.”

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