<h4>Chapter 84: Whore!</h4>


    The letter was gone—reduced to nothing more than a curl of ash and a bitter scent that clung to Rymora’s fingers as she scattered the ckened remains out the narrow slit of her chamber’s window. Her eyes darted left and right, her movements swift but silent. She didn’t breathe until thest flicker of burnt parchment floated away into the wind, lost in the night.


    She turned, wrapped herself in a in gray cloak, and drew the hood low over her head. Her hands trembled for only a second before she clenched them into fists at her sides. <i>No fear. No weakness.</i> She couldn’t afford it. Her heartbeat drummed against her ribs like a prisoner against a cell wall, but her face remained a calm, empty mask.


    Rymora didn’t speak. <i>Couldn’t</i> speak. And most importantly—no one ever expected her to. A blessing that would serve her well.


    She slipped out of the servant’s wing with practiced ease, feet nearly silent on the polished stone floor as she walked past other servants going about their business. She had to leave and be back before Aira noticed she was gone.


    The letter had demanded it.


    As she neared the gates, two guards leaned against the stone arch, their armor dull with wear and their stances rxed with routine. One of them turned his headzily when she approached.


    They stirred at the sight of her, straightening not out of discipline but something darker. Their eyes raked over her figure, veiled by cloth but still feminine enough to stir interest.


    "Well, if it isn’t the dumb little maid," one drawled, grinning as he elbowed hispanion. "Running errands?" He chuckled to himself, not expecting an answer—since Rymora couldn’t speak.


    The other guard licked his lips. "Who knows... maybe she’s running off for some morning cock."


    Rymora said nothing. <i>Could</i> say nothing. She kept her gaze low, heart hammering, expression carefully nk.


    "Maybe she can’t talk," the first sneered, stepping closer, "but I’d wager she can still moan."


    The other guard stiffened slightly, shooting a nce toward the castle. "Careful," he muttered. "She serves <i>her</i>. The king’s pet."


    That gave them both pause. A slow shadow crossed their faces.


    "You think she’d tattle? She can’t speak or write!" the first scoffed, but his voice had lost its bite.


    "Yes, but would <i>you</i> risk it?"


    Theirughter died. With a grunt, the first man waved Rymora through. "Go on, then. Off you go!"


    "An hour is all you get, or I’ll have to make a report!"


    Rymora dipped her head obediently and slipped past them. Her hands trembled inside her sleeves, but her face remained serene. Only once she was beyond the gates did she allow herself to breathe.


    The servant’s carriage was already waiting by the lower yard—a rickety wooden thing used to ferry staff in and out of the castle for errands no one deemed important. The driver didn’t even nce at her as she climbed in and took her ce among the others: three kitchen maids, a hunched stable hand, and a young man carrying bolts of cloth. They were too tired, too distracted to pay her much mind. That suited her fine.


    The ride into the city was long, the streets bumping and uneven beneath the wheels, the tter of hooves echoing in the otherwise silent night. Rymora kept her hood low, hands folded neatly in herp, head tilted slightly as if napping. But her eyes were open, watching.


    When the carriage reached the city center, the other servants disembarked in twos and threes, slipping off toward inns or taverns or vanishing into side streets with parcels in hand. Rymora was thest to step down. She walked calmly, her gait unhurried, until the carriage rolled away behind her and the sounds of the city faded into eerie silence.


    She stood before a restaurant that had long since ceased to hostughter and clinking sses. Its sign was half-rotted, swinging crookedly in the wind. The windows were boarded, the door shut tight with rusted hinges.


    She nced once over her shoulder, then slipped through the side entrance—the one with the broken lock.


    Inside, the air was thick with dust and silence. Moonlight filtered through the cracks in the boarded windows, silvering the edges of overturned tables and empty shelves. The scent of rotted wood and old wine lingered like ghosts. Her footsteps were soft against the warped floorboards as she moved deeper into the darkness.


    Sunlight streaked through the cracks in the roof, catching on dust and broken ss. The air inside was still and cold, the silence eerie.


    But they were there.


    Lord Falson stood tall at the far end of the room, his ck coat buttoned to the throat, pale hair tied at the nape. A gleam of cold silver adorned his cravat pin, the same silver that glinted in his eyes.


    Beside him stood Gregor.


    Rymora froze.


    Gregor’s dark green cloak was pulled back just enough to reveal the curve of a wolf’s ear atop his head—furry, gray, and twitching. His jaw was strong, lips slightly parted as he saw her.


    For a breathless second, something in her eyes softened. Right in front of her was her lover, whom she hadn’t seen in more than a year.


    Rymora wanted to run to him, to bury herself in his chest, to feel his warmth soak into her bones. But Falson’s presence was a de between them.


    "You’rete," Lord Falson said, his voice quiet and cruel.


    Rymora immediately dropped to her knees and pressed her forehead to the dusty floor. She pulled out the hidden cloth and offered it forward without meeting his gaze.


    Falson snatched it and unfolded the cloth. His lip curled.


    "This is nothing."


    Inside was a small vial with ck powder whose contents Lord Falson and Gregor were already familiar with.


    "Silver!"


    Rymora instantly began to speak. "I was there when she poisoned him! It worked, and he was dying until his body slowly began to heal at speeds no living thing should be capable of!" she exined, having previously informed them through a letter of exactly all that happened.


    Which was why she had been terrified to find out that he wanted to meet her in person.


    "I have been—"


    "You have been doing nothing!" Falson interrupted coldly. "You’re in that castle every day, and this—this garbage—is what you bring me?"


    "Is this what I’m supposed to present to the king?" he barked at her, even as Rymora lowered her forehead back to the floor.


    Gregor stood silent, eyes unreadable. He didn’t speak or try to help.


    Rymora slowly began to speak. "I’m doing my best. Please—I’m trying. I only—"


    Falson stepped forward. "You only <i>what</i>?" His voice boomed, but there was a threatening edge to it.


    She swallowed, lifting her tear-bright eyes. Her lips parted, her voice breaking with the breath she couldn’t steady. Her eyes were pleading. <i>I want to help. I swear to you, I want to be useful.</i>


    For a second, her lip trembled with emotion—and that was when Falson’s expression changed.


    His hand twitched at his side. His jaw flexed.


    He was going to hit her. She flinched.


    Gregor stood beside him but didn’t make any move to stop him. All he had was a pitiful look in his eyes that brought more tears to Rymora’s.


    Rymora’s mouth tightened to keep from breaking. She nodded quickly, over and over, eyes wide.


    "I’ll do better," she promised. "I promise. I’ll find something real."


    The silence stretched thin.


    Falson let out a disgusted breath and stepped back. "You’d better."


    He turned on his heel, not bothering to look back. The heavy door creaked open behind him, letting in a st of morning light before he mmed it and left, leaving Gregor, who would join him after the lovers were done talking.


    Rymora stared at him, her breath still unsteady. Tears still filled her eyes as she rose to her feet, dusting her dusty knees.


    She rose slowly and took a tentative step toward him, her face breaking into a soft, radiant smile. Her joy at seeing him—despite everything—lit her from within. The mask slipped. Her hands moved to embrace him.


    Gregor’s arms stayed at his sides.


    "You should have done better!" he berated her without holding back. "How do you think you’ll be allowed back into the pack if you keep being so useless?" he said softly, even as he hugged her and patted her back. His words were venomous, but his tone was soft.


    "I care about you! It’s why I can’t keep silent just because I’m your lover!" he said, even as he stared at her face with a hint of disapproval, his eyes fixed on her lips.


    "Your mouth," he said tly.


    She froze, arms still hovering in the air.


    His gaze dropped to her lips. "There’s bruising."


    She stiffened. Her fingers trembled where they hung in the space between them. She knew but figured it couldn’t be that bad—something that should have healed.


    "I..." She hesitated, aware of her lover’s temper and how he would react if she were to tell him what happened—how blowing a vampire lord was something she <i>had</i> to do.


    Gregor’s eyes narrowed.


    Her throat constricted.


    He tilted his head. "Who did it?"


    Rymora stepped back slightly, unsure. Her mind scrambled for a lie, any lie that wouldn’t make his face harden the way it was starting to.


    Gregor didn’t wait.


    "Did you sleep with a vampire?" he asked, his tone still soft but the underlying threat clear as his brown eyes slowly turned manic.


    Her eyes widened in shock.


    He didn’t yell. He didn’t raise his voice. But his next words cut deeper than anything Falson could have ever said as he spoke before she could.


    <strong>"YOU WHORE!"</strong>