Another inn.
Another crossroads.
Another night of piss-colored ale and piss-poor decisions.
This one's called The Broken Jaw, and from the look of the clientele, the name is either prophetic or autobiographical. The fire spits, the air smells like wet fur and ambition, and the beams above are low enough to hang regrets from.
Perfect.
I slide through the door, all slow hips and heavy shadows, wrapped in a hooded cloak two sizes too dramatic and three weeks overdue for a wash. My laces are—accidentally on purpose—undone just enough to hint at cleavage but still say "I might stab you after." A little mystery. A little menace. Dagger strapped tight to my thigh. Gladiator sandals laced high, like I'm ready to leap into danger, or onto a lap.
I scan the room with deliberate boredom.
Gamblers. Mercs. One guy passed out in his stew. And—of course—him.
The Dwarf.
That Dwarf.
He's in the corner with a tankard the size of his torso, half a roast chicken in his beard, and a grin that says he remembers everything.
He lifts his mug in greeting.
I shoot him a glare and subtly, very subtly, drag a finger across my throat.
He chuckles. Bastard.
I glide to the bar and order something cheap and strong. Don't even drink it. Just let it sit there, untouched. Mysterious women never actually drink the thing in front of them. They brood. They twirl the rim. They stare into the fire like they're haunted by a past full of dead lovers and unpaid debts.
A few tables over, a young would-be sellsword is already watching me. Eager. Broad shoulders. Bad haircut. Excellent mark.
Perfect.
I lean back just enough for the cloak to shift and the dagger strap on my thigh to catch the light.
Let the games begin.
An hour later, I've got them right where I want them.
Back table. Shadowy corner. Candles low. My voice even lower.
Three of them—motley crew of discount adventurers straight out of a bard's failed ballad. One's a wiry spearboy with acne and ambition. One's a healer with shaking hands and too many gods. And the last is a woman in a dented breastplate who keeps trying to guess where I'm from based on my accent.
"Obsidian Ridge," I whisper, leaning in. "That's where it sleeps. Deep in the third gorge. Behind the waterfall shaped like a skull."
Ooooh. See how they lean closer? How their eyes go wide? How the healer clutches his holy medallion like it's going to do anything against what I pretend is inside that cave?
"All it takes," I murmur, letting a lock of hair fall just so across my cheek, "is coin. Coin for a guide. Someone who's been there. Lived to tell it."
Spearboy swallows. The breastplate woman leans in. The godsman is already fumbling for his purse.
Then the bell over the door rings.
And he walks in.
Sir. Fucking. Ogden.
Tall. Gleaming. Smug as a cat who just humped your laundry and then peed on it.
The bastard has the audacity to pause in the doorway, sunlight cutting behind him like he's been sculpted by the gods of heroic pose. His hair has that tousled perfection that makes you want to either lick it or set it on fire.
And he sees me.
Of course he sees me.
Because the gods hate me.
His eyes narrow. That crooked grin starts.
Fuck.
I mutter something about needing to check the map and vanish under the table before anyone can ask why the terrifying rogue just hissed like a startled cat.
I am going to kill someone tonight.
Possibly myself.
I excuse myself with a breathless smile and a vague excuse about needing to consult the stars or check the moon's cycle or some other mystical horseshit. The trio murmurs their awe. Spearboy actually bows.
Idiots.
I slink through the crowd, pretending my legs aren't shaking with fury, and slide onto the stool next to him.
Ogden.
Fucking Ogden.
He's nursing wine like it's a lover and already halfway into his victory smirk.
"Well, well," he says, without even looking. "Would you look at that. A dark cloak. A tragic past. A dagger strapped to your thigh. Very rogue-chic."
I hiss between my teeth, low and venomous. "Do not ruin this for me."
He finally turns, and gods damn it, he has the nerve to look impressed. And amused. And… smug. Always smug.
"Oh, I wouldn't dream of it," he says, sipping. "Though I am curious. What's stopping me from waltzing over to your merry little band of would-be adventurers and letting them know their guide is an ex-temple girl who used to offer private blessings and currently runs scams with a geriatric lizard?"
My nails dig into the bar.
"You wouldn't."
He raises a brow. "Wouldn't I?"
I lean closer, voice low. "Don't you fucking dare, Ogden. I need this one."
He takes another slow sip of wine. Watching me. Savouring this.
Because he knows.
Knows I'm squirming. Knows I don't have an angle. Knows I can't afford a scene. Not here. Not tonight.
He smiles.
"Say please."
I fantasize about murder.
Then smile back, sweet as arsenic. "You do, and I swear by every dripping god left in the Inner Sea, I will carve insults into your very fine ass."
He laughs.
And gods help me, it still does things to me.
I might kill him.
Later.
But first—I have to salvage this scam.
He grins wider. That awful, infuriating, panty-dampening grin.
"I missed you," he says.
Like it's a compliment.
Like it's a confession.
Like it's not the verbal equivalent of licking his thumb and wiping it across my cheek.
I stare at him, deadpan. "Oh, please. Don't start with that."
His eyes glint. "Start with what?"
I lean in, elbows on the bar, voice like poison wrapped in velvet. "Okay. Let's cut the shit. What do you want, Ogden? Coin? Ass? Me on my knees doing penance while you deliver some knightly soliloquy about virtue and misplaced destiny?"
He sips his wine like it's my patience.
Then, the grin again.
"First," he says, "buy me a drink, Miss Rogue."
I blink.
Then laugh once—sharp and bitter.
"You show up, threaten to blow my whole scam, and now you want me to buy you a drink?"
He shrugs. "Call it nostalgia. Or foreplay."
I slam a silver on the counter. "You're lucky I don't poison it."
"Oh, I'm counting on it," he says, raising his glass as the barkeep pours. "That's half the thrill."
I should stab him.
Instead, I watch the trio in the corner glance around, looking confused without their guide.
Time's running out.
I turn back to him. Smile like a dagger. "You get one drink. Then you vanish. Or I carve your name into my kill list. In fancy script."
He clinks his glass to mine. "I've always wanted to be on your list."
Gods help me.
This man will be the death of me.
But not before I rob him blind.
Again.