You'd be amazed how much filth you can hide with the right scent.
The alley behind the apothecary reeked of old ash and spoiled figs until I stole three vials of "Lady Neril's Musk" and doused the place like I was preparing a royal boudoir. Now? It smells like jasmine's sluttier cousin.
I'm perched on a barrel that used to hold salted fish, legs crossed, hair teased, cheeks pinched pink, and the faintest smear of oil glistening on my collarbone. The light hits just right. Always does when you're pretty, hungry, and up to no good.
He comes into view exactly on time—mid-twenties, rich boy pout, belt way too clean for this district. Lost. Nervous. Trying to look brave.
Perfect.
I shift, just enough to show thigh. "Looking for someone?"
He blinks. "I—uh. Sorry. I was looking for the bathhouse."
I grin. "You found the deluxe version."
He stares. I tilt my head. "Want to be touched like a prince but pay like a peasant?"
His ears go pink.
I slide off the barrel slow and liquid. Bare feet whisper on the stones. My fingers trail along his arm, feather-light. "You smell like too much coin and not enough fun."
He swallows hard. "Is this… is it safe?"
I smile wide and sweet. "Only if you're nice."
He lets me guide him into the perfumed gloom. Behind the curtain, I make a show of untying my sash.
"You ever been with a temple girl?" I whisper.
He nods. Lies.
"Good," I purr. "Then you won't know I'm doing it wrong."
Before anything gets too serious, I ease him down, straddle his lap, and press a finger to his lips.
"Just close your eyes," I whisper. "Pretend I'm your goddess."
While he moans into empty air and fumbles like a virgin with mittens, I make short work of his coin pouch.
By the time I pull back, he's dazed, pants around his knees, breathless.
"I'll be right back," I coo.
He nods, blissed out.
I vanish into the alley with twenty silver and his belt. The rush hits—heart pounding, fingers tingling around the pouch. Not bad for five minutes of scented air and misdirection.
But as the adrenaline fades, the weight settles in. I duck into a narrower side street, away from the lanterns, and lean against a damp wall. The coins clink softly as I count them—twenty solid pieces, more than I've seen in weeks. Enough for a room, a meal, a bottle.
Enough to keep going.
I should feel something. Smug. Victorious. Alive.
Instead, it's just… familiar. Too familiar. Like slipping into an old dress that still fits perfectly, even if it's stained and torn.
Perfume clings to me like sin in silk. The alley smells like secrets—and sweat, and regret.
I pocket the coins, push off the wall, and walk deeper into the night. One more night won't hurt.
All in all, a productive afternoon.
But tomorrow, I'll need more.