The funny thing about staring death in the face is how inconvenient it was.
You'd think, if the gods had a shred of courtesy, they'd schedule it. Give you a little notice. Maybe send a messenger crow that says: Hey, darling, clear your calendar for eight tonight, someone's going to threaten one of your friends with a knife while you piss yourself trying to look heroic.
But no. No polite reminders, no scribbled notes tucked under the pillow, just—bam.
I froze the moment Malrick stepped into the room. Oh, I tried to look like I wasn't frozen, like I wasn't quivering in my boots and clutching to my sanity for dear life. But my heart was thrashing like a fish in a dry barrel, and I swear my knees wobbled so badly I almost curtsied.
Freya didn't wobble. Of course not. She stood stiff and burning, golden eyes narrowing into molten slits, her scarred arms twitching as though itching to tear the smug bastard's head clean off. Which, honestly, I would've let her. No complaints here.
I blinked a few times before my brain fired into overdrive, churning questions like a panicked croupier tossing dice.
How the hell had he known we'd be here? How did he even know we had a plan? Did we smell that obvious? Did Freya glare too loud? Did Brutus grunt too suspiciously? Did Atticus drop a hint in one of his very boring, very precise speeches? Or—oh gods—was I the idiot who gave something away when I tried to flirt with that merchant earlier by comparing his melons to Freya's chest?
It spiraled fast. My thoughts, not the melons.
I shook myself and blurted, far too loud: "Wait—how the fuck are you even here?!"
Smooth, Loona. Very dignified. Not panicked at all.
Malrick's grin widened. Fryea shifted to step forward, but before she could make it an inch, Malrick pulled a dagger from his pocket in a movement so clean it made my stomach drop.
He pressed it right against Dregan's throat. Not a playful press either—no, this was the sort of sharp intimacy that drew a neat line of blood across his skin, enough to make me want to vomit.
"If you so much as twitch," Malrick said calmly, "your friend drowns in his own blood."
The air went thick. My breath lodged in my throat like I'd swallowed a pebble sideways. Even Freya, my storm queen of fury, froze completely. Her scowl deepened, muscles taut as bowstrings, but she didn't move. I think even she knew what that blade meant.
I swallowed, hard. "You—" My voice cracked. "You knew we'd come?"
Malrick chuckled, slow and patient, like he was savoring a joke none of us were clever enough to get. "Of course I did. You think me blind? You think I don't know how your little mind works? I knew you'd be as impatient as to strike tonight. So I left the warehouse on purpose. Left it ripe. Bait for the rats. And here you are, crawling into my trap like the hungry little worms you are."
I muttered a curse under my breath. Something involving gods, mothers, and a variety of acts not suitable for temple sermons.
Freya's lip curled, a low growl vibrating her throat.
I swear the silence after that could've crushed bones.
Then Malrick's eyes slid to me. And gods, I hated it. He looked at me the way a cat looks at a half-dead mouse, curious whether it might twitch amusingly before it finally croaks.
"You," he said, almost cheerfully. "The talker. The gutterslut with a tongue like a whip."
I smirked weakly. "You forgot devastatingly pretty and incredibly modest."
He ignored me. Bastard.
Instead, he tilted his head and continued: "I'll make you a deal. Betray your so-called boss. Work for me as a double agent. I'll even give you a small cut of my resources. Enough to keep you…happy."
Happy. He said it with that sly edge, the kind of tone that suggested he thought happiness was measured in coins and power, not in—well, in people not waving knives at your friend's throat.
I stared. Blinked. For one horrifying second, I actually considered it.
Because let's be honest: I'm greedy. Always have been. Greed's in my blood, stitched into me like a brand. The offer was tempting—me, with power, with freedom, with resources to burn. It made my mouth water in a way I absolutely hated.
"What's the catch?" I asked softly, my voice weaker than I intended.
His smile widened, sharp as broken glass. "The catch," he purred, "is that your little crew will suffer. Every one of them. They'll pay for daring to cross me. You, however…you'll thrive."
Behind him, some of the men who weren't completely unconscious stirred. They laughed, low and ugly, flashing wicked glances toward Freya. The kind of looks that made my stomach twist, that made bile burn at the back of my throat. One of them licked his lips.
Freya growled, deep and dangerous, her body trembling with restrained violence. Her eyes flicked to me, blazing with molten demand.
And me? I sighed. Long. Loud. Like a man already regretting his next words.
"Yeah, tempting," I said. "But no thanks."
His expression flickered—rage sparking like a torch in the wind—before smoothing back into that eerie calm. He tilted his head. "No?"
"No," I said again, forcing a grin even though my chest felt tight enough to collapse. "Because, Malrick, as much as I enjoy being the greedy little bastard I am, I know one thing: you won't kill Dregan. Not here. Not now. If you did, you'd spark a full-blown war with my boss, and you're not nearly drunk enough to be that stupid."
I shifted, lifting my chin. "Besides…believe it or not, I've grown fond of this merry little band of misfits. They make good company. So you'll forgive me if I don't sell them out just to get a shinier leash."
Malrick scoffed, his lips twisting. "Halfhearted bullshit. You think loyalty is worth anything here? You think your boss cares for you? Do you really believe I fear him?"
He pressed the dagger deeper against Dregan's throat. More blood welled, a thin crimson ribbon trailing down his beard. My grin faltered. My stomach churned.
Malrick leaned closer, voice low, sharp as the knife itself. "Your boss is selfish. Rotten. I knew him long before he became your master. He takes, always takes, never gives unless it benefits him. He wouldn't care if you or any of your little friends died screaming tonight. Not one bit."
The words hit harder than they should've. My heart faltered, caught between defiance and a horrible, gnawing doubt. Because gods help me—Malrick wasn't lying. I could feel it. Deep in my gut, I knew he wasn't lying.
And that scared me more than the knife.
I froze. My grin was gone now. My thoughts scattered, jagged, broken.
Freya's eyes burned deeper into me, golden and demanding, like she could see the hesitation cracking me open from the inside.
The thing about betrayal is that it always sounds better in your head than it feels in your chest.
In the imagination, it's glamorous—you picture yourself smirking while a chorus of gasps echoes around you, cloak billowing dramatically as you stride away, pockets lined with silver and power.
But in reality? It tastes bitter. It burns. And right there, staring at Malrick's smug skeletal face and Dregan's throat pressed against cold steel, I realized just how foul it would feel if I actually said yes.
Because that was the real joke: for once in my life, I didn't want the shiny thing being offered. I wanted the stupid, smelly, loud, infuriating crew that had followed me here like idiots. My idiots.
And gods, wasn't that inconvenient timing for a moral epiphany?
I could feel it building inside me, the shape of my decision. My chest was tight, my throat hot, my tongue sharpening a reply that would've sealed my choice once and for all. No deal. No betrayal. No gutter-snake turncoat. Just Loona, the bastard in a skirt, standing with his crew even if it meant bleeding out beside them.
I was right there, lips parting, heart hammering like a drunk bard with no rhythm—when the universe decided to interrupt me with all the grace of a chamber pot falling from a balcony.
A sound ripped through the warehouse. Sharp, metallic, final. Like the gods themselves snapping a coin in half.
I spun around so fast I nearly gave myself whiplash, eyes flying to the far end of the chamber where the vent fan above the stacked crates stuttered, shrieked, and then shuddered to a complete halt.
Dust plumed out, curling into the lantern light like smoke from a bad omen. And then, out of that square hole in the wall—because why wouldn't this night get weirder—I saw him.
Atticus.
Our boring, silver-haired, cracked-glasses Atticus. Standing there in the vent, shoulders squared, lips curved into something I'd never seen on his face before: a wicked smile.
I froze. Not just me—everyone froze. Even the men on the ground, broken and bleeding, tilted their heads like stunned dogs.
It wasn't that Atticus was unexpected—he was clever, always lurking around the edges, calculating.
No, it was the fact that he was smiling like the cat who'd just eaten the whole bloody coop. And he looked—dare I say it?—sexy. Sexy in that terrifying "I know the answer to the riddle you didn't even know existed" kind of way.
For one stupid second, my traitorous brain whispered: Oh no, I think I'm into this.
But I didn't have time to wallow in my questionable taste because Malrick hissed, head snapping up toward the vent. That tiny crack in his focus—that split hair of distraction—was all it took.
Because then I heard it. The thunder of boots, pounding like war drums, barreling down the hall.
I whipped back around just in time to see Brutus. My Brutus. My mountain. My walking wall of pure, angry meat. Charging like a bull that had just spotted a matador wearing sequins.
The world narrowed into that single, glorious moment. Brutus slammed into Malrick with such force I swear the ground itself whimpered.
The knife slipped, the line of blood on Dregan's throat halting mid-drip as Malrick was ripped clean off his feet and launched forward across the room.
He hit the floor with a sickening roll, limbs tangling like a spider flung from its web. And then—oh gods, it was poetry—the dagger skittered from his hand, spinning end over end, until it clattered to a stop.
Right at my feet.