Though she’d given no hint of their destination, he’d ruled out the promenade immediately—too many guards, too many wandering peers ready to whisper if they saw a noblewoman slipping through moonlit streets with a squire. The Lantern District would’ve made sense: warm-lit and no longer bustling at this time, just enough patrols to make it feel safe, but lenient enough to allow for mischief. But this—this, he hadn’t expected.

Not the Rookery, at least. If she’d taken him there, he’d have seized the reins himself and turned them back—he had no interest in filth masquerading as thrill. No, she brought them to the Velvet Row—the hush of wealth and want woven into every silken curtain and carved doorframe. It was indulgence gilded in secrecy, danger wrapped in lace and perfume. This wasn’t safer than the promenade.

It was worse.

Because here, everyone kept each other’s secrets. Secrets he didn’t wish to have.

“Why are we here?” he asked, voice low as Ghealach’s trot slowed to a halt. 

Her fingers lifted the hood over her head, dark silk catching against her hair. “You’re a man, aren’t you?” she murmured, not turning. “And you’ve never wandered the Velvet Row?”

“I have, but—”

“Oh?” she shifted in the saddle, her shoulder brushing his chest, deliberate and featherlight. 

“Not for those reasons,” he muttered, gaze downcast. “Sometimes we’re made to patrol with the city guard.” His voice shrank as two men passed—loud, laughing, reeking of sweat and spirits, the kind who boasted of pleasures paid for in coin and shame. He leaned in closer, face half-hidden behind the fall of her cloak.

She didn’t flinch. “We’re going somewhere discreet. No one will be looking at you,” she said, almost kindly. “As handsome as you are, there are… far more distracting sights here. Don’t worry—your reputation is safe with me.”

There was a softness in her voice, like velvet drawn over glass—but something sharp still gleamed underneath. His instincts whispered of danger, of lines he’d be made to cross if he followed her. But that whisper dulled under her touch.

Her fingers lifted to cup his cheek, her eyes catching his in the half-light. “Come now,” she coaxed, a dangerous sweetness to her smile. “When’s the last time you had fun?”

To a passerby, they might have seemed like lovers sharing a kiss, hushed laughter, a stolen moment beneath the stars. But then she withdrew—quick, practiced. The warmth of her hand vanished as if it had never been there.

They dismounted. She took the reins in her slender fingers, guiding Ghealach down the stone narrow path between two buildings that echoed with the sound of indulgence. 

And still, he followed. Followed up the stone steps, followed to the lightly obscured entryway of human indulgence.

The door closed behind them with a hush of velvet and wood, muffling the noise of the street until it seemed like the outside world had vanished entirely. Inside, the air was warm and scented—amber, musk, and some cloying floral Thallan couldn’t name.

A woman awaited them in the vestibule. She stood tall and poised, her body draped in a sheer robe that glimmered with the subtlest gold thread, each step she took catching the light like falling honey. Her face was obscured by an ornate mask of ivory and filigree, revealing only the rose-paint of her lips and the curve of her jaw.

“Kat,” the woman said, her voice a soft lilting sweetness that barely touched the air.

She offered no bow, no flourish. Instead, she extended two masks in her gloved hands—one dark with silver leafing, the other dusky rose with delicate black lace trim. Katerina took both, slipping the darker one toward Thallan without a glance.

He hesitated, his fingers brushing hers as he accepted it. The mask was heavier than it looked, cool against his skin as he secured the ribbon behind his head. Katerina was already masked—her lips the only part of her visible, slightly upturned in something between amusement and triumph.

The hostess stepped aside, allowing them passage through a velvet curtain drawn back like stage drapery.

The room beyond opened like another world.

Warm candlelight flickered from sconces shaped like blooming lilies, their golden tongues casting shadows across silk-covered walls. The ceiling soared above them, frescoed with half-nude deities entwined in myth and suggestion. Carved wood balustrades curved along an upper gallery where shadowed doors hinted at private rooms and more exclusive sins.

Below, the brothel’s heart pulsed in velvet and laughter.

Guests lounged on overstuffed settees and ottomans, every one of them masked—feathered, bejeweled, or gleaming with metallic filigree. Their identities disappeared behind decadence, allowing conversation, flirtation, and indulgence to flow freely. Soft music played from a corner where a harpist’s fingers danced across strings, joined by a low, purring viola.

Perfumed courtesans—men and women both—moved among the crowd, some reclining beside patrons, others dancing slowly or pouring wine. Their clothing was suggestive, elegant: loose silks, open collars, sheer overlays that clung to candlelit skin. Every smile was an invitation; every glance, a possibility.

Thallan stood still, absorbing it all. The press of bodies, the low hum of pleasure cloaked in civility. 

“Eyes on me,” Katerina murmured, her fingers ghosting the edge of his jaw. A teasing brush, soft as breath, coaxing his gaze from the decadent haze around them and back to her.

“Why are we here?” Thallan asked, voice low, uncertain.

She tilted her head, amusement flickering in her eyes. “Are you complaining that I brought you to a place of pleasure?”

“I’m complaining that I don’t understand your intentions.”

“Must one always have motives to indulge?” Her smile faltered, just for a breath, her gaze lingering on him with something unspoken. “I have someone I need to speak with. An old friend I haven’t seen since… I rose to my current station.” Her words were dipped in discretion, veiled and careful.

Her hand fell away. “You’re free to indulge, if you wish.”

That look she gave him—expectant, unreadable—unearthed a flicker of suspicion. He couldn’t quite decipher it. Was this meant to buy his silence? To distract him while she pursued something else in secret? Or was this fuel to hold against him at another time? But if either were true, why had she told him to look at her?

His hand found her wrist, fingers curling lightly around the delicate line of bone and skin.

“You’re not going anywhere without me,” he said. “If either of us is caught, we risk enough. But if something happens to you—I’ll have more than just your brother to answer to.”

A slow smile unfurled on her lips—not surprised, but satisfied. As if she’d laid a challenge before him and he’d passed it without ever knowing. “If you insist.” She turned from him, his grip loosening, and led the way up the staircase—each step polished and dark, her movement languid, deliberate. She did not look back.

At the top, she paused before a door tucked in a quiet alcove. From her cloak she drew a slender key, slipped it into the lock, and turned. The sound of the latch giving way was near-silent.

She stepped inside first, then glanced back at him, her body half-shadowed in the doorway, one shoulder tilted in the low light. “Well?” she asked, voice playful, but softer now. “Don’t just stand there. Come in.”

The door opened with a soft creak, revealing a room bathed in amber light. Thallan hesitated only a moment before stepping inside, the scent of sandalwood and crushed roses rising to greet him as the door clicked shut behind him.

The chamber was not overly large, but every inch was crafted to seduce the senses. Heavy velvet drapes in deep plum and garnet hung from the walls, their folds soft and dense enough to swallow sound. A chandelier of crystal and gold hung low from the ceiling.

In the center of the room sat a low table of dark cherrywood, set with a decanter of wine, two intricately cut glasses, and a dish of sugared fruits and candied violets. To the right, a chaise longue with clawed feet rested beside a standing mirror, its surface slightly fogged at the edges with age. Opposite the table, a grand canopy bed rose like a throne, its silken hangings drawn back to reveal wine-red sheets and a scatter of golden pillows.

Katerina moved with ease, removing her cloak and draping it over the back of an embroidered chair. 

But Thallan’s gaze remained on the room itself, taking it in—the careful comfort of it, the intentional seclusion. A place designed for secrets. 

He didn’t sit. Instead, he folded his arms, watching her, the soft glow from the chandelier painting golden curves across his cheekbones. “You’re meeting your friend here?” he asked, doubt threading into his tone.

She moved toward the table with the ease of someone who owned every space she entered, setting her mask down beside the decanter. The glass in her hand caught the light, the wine within as dark as blood. “You can stop trying to guess what this is,” she said, tone airy, almost amused. “It’s not a trap. Not a seduction.” She took a sip, then tilted her gaze toward him over the rim of the glass. “Did I lie to you about why I’m here? Yes. But I promise you—there’s no knife behind my back.”

Still, he didn’t move. His posture remained tense, arms crossed like a drawbridge yet to lower.

She gave a breath of laughter and placed the glass down with a soft clink. “Oh, come now. Must you look as though I’ve dragged you to your execution?” Her words were mocking, but not unkind. “What do you think this is, truly? Extortion? You have nothing I need. Assassination? I’m hardly capable. For my brother perhaps?” She gave a theatrical sigh, crossing the room with a sway of her hips and dropping to her knees beside the bed. “Riordan, come on out now,” she called, lifting the dust ruffle with a grin. “Are you under there?”

He let out a huff of laughter despite himself, finally reaching up to pull the mask from his face. He tossed it onto the chaise, where it landed with a careless flop. “Enough, enough. I get it,” he said, his stance easing. “Just tell me what we’re doing here.”

She turned to the vanity. Atop it sat a small white box, tied with a ribbon that matched the hue of her gown. Her fingers played with it, tugging until the knot slipped loose and the lid lifted. “Come closer,” she said. “See for yourself.”

He approached and glanced down into the box. A cloak—fine, tailored.

His brow raised. “You manipulated a guard and squire… to retrieve a cloak?”

“‘Manipulate’ is such a harsh word,” she said, tilting her head. “You came of your own will. Perhaps I should be the one questioning your intentions.”

She stepped in closer, the soft hem of her dress brushing against him. Her fingers slid up the front of his chest, slow and featherlight. “Did you think I brought you here for a tryst?” Her voice dropped, hushed, intimate. She rose onto her toes, lips nearly brushing his—her breath sweetened by wine. “That I’d spread my legs for you and beg for your cock?”