The brothel was quieter at night, but never truly silent. The velvet curtains muffled laughter and footsteps, and the scent of perfume lingered in the air like a memory. Marco moved through the halls with practiced ease, carrying fresh linens and a bucket of warm water. His arms ached, his back sore, but he didn't complain.
He couldn't afford to.
He was folding towels near the bathhouse when the door creaked open.
Wahlberg stepped inside.
Marco stiffened.
Wahlberg's smile was slow, deliberate. "Still working hard, I see."
Marco nodded, avoiding his gaze. "Just finishing up."
Wahlberg walked closer, his boots echoing against the tiles. "You've grown," he said. "Strong. Useful."
Marco didn't respond.
Wahlberg reached out, fingers brushing Marco's shoulder.
Marco stepped back. "Please don't."
Wahlberg's eyes darkened. "I gave you shelter. Food. Safety. And this is how you repay me?"
Marco swallowed. "I'm grateful. But I'm not—"
Wahlberg grabbed his wrist, squeezing hard enough to make Marco flinch. "You're nothing without me. If the royal guards come sniffing around, I'll hand you over without blinking. You and your mother."
Marco's breath caught.
"Treason," Wahlberg said softly. "That's what they'll call it. And you'll rot."
He released Marco's hand and walked out, his coat trailing behind him like smoke.
Marco stood frozen, heart pounding.
He couldn't stay here forever.
He couldn't leave his mother behind.
But he had to find a way out.
In a tavern on the edge of the city, Colden sat hunched over a mug of beer, his hood pulled low. The room was loud — laughter, dice, the clink of glass — but he listened carefully.
He had asked the barkeep about Marco. No one had recognized the name.
But then, near the back table, he heard it.
"Pretty boy," one man said. "Works at LoversBed. Green eyes. Black hair. Quiet type."
Colden's breath caught.
"Never talks," another added. "But he's always there. Cleaning. Watching."
Colden stood slowly, left a few coins on the table, and walked out into the night.
He knew where he was going.
Back at the castle, Lady Viremont paced the drawing room, her heels clicking against the marble. A maid whispered something in her ear.
She froze.
"What did you say?"
The maid hesitated. "Carmine… she shouted at your daughters. Yesterday. In the east wing."
Viremont's eyes narrowed.
"She raised her voice?"
"Yes, my lady."
Viremont turned slowly, her expression unreadable.
"Bring her to me," she said. "Now."