The sign above the door read LoversBed, its gold lettering faded, the velvet curtains drawn tight against the night. Colden stood outside, his hood pulled low, heart pounding like a drum in his chest.
He had followed whispers, fragments of conversation, the scent of perfume and steam. And now he was here.
He stepped inside.
The air was warm, heavy with incense and laughter. Music drifted from a back room, low and sultry. Colden moved through the hall, eyes scanning every face, every mask.
Then he saw him.
Wahlberg sat near the hearth, legs crossed, a glass of dark liquor in his hand. His smile was slow, sharp.
"Well," he said. "Look what the storm dragged in."
Colden stepped forward. "I'm looking for someone."
Wahlberg raised an eyebrow. "Aren't we all?"
"Marco," Colden said. "Do you know him?"
Wahlberg's smile faded. "What do you even know about him?"
Colden hesitated. "I know he's kind. Brave. I know he's hurting."
Wahlberg stood slowly, eyes narrowing. "Marco was twelve when his father brought another woman into their home. Lisa was locked in her room. Marco was made to sit at dinner with his new mother, smile, pretend."
Colden's breath caught.
"When the war began," Wahlberg continued, "his father left. No note. No coin. Nothing. I found them. I gave them a room. Helped them start an inn. Gave them a life."
Colden stared at him. "So Marco was a noble's son."
Wahlberg nodded. "And if the royal capital finds out he's here — a fugitive, a stain on the crown — they'll drag him back in chains."
Colden stepped closer. "I'm not leaving without him."
Wahlberg's voice dropped. "You love him?"
"Yes," Colden said. "I do."
The silence stretched.
Then Wahlberg snapped his fingers. "Catch him. Throw him out."
The room erupted. Men moved toward Colden, hands reaching, voices shouting.
Colden ran.
He ducked past the velvet curtains, through the bathhouse, down the servant's corridor. He ignored the shouts, the hands, the chaos.
He had to find him.
He burst into the linen room — and there he was.
Marco stood frozen, a towel in his hands, eyes wide.
Colden didn't speak.
He crossed the room in three steps and kissed him.
Marco gasped, startled, breath catching.
Then he kissed back.
They stood together, wrapped in silence, in truth.
Outside, the brothel buzzed with confusion.
Inside, Wahlberg stood alone, glass untouched.
He said nothing.
He simply watched the door.
And let them go.