There's something suspicious about tea that's too warm.
Not suspicious in the poison kind of way—though, yes, that's always on the table—but suspicious in that someone is definitely trying too hard kind of way. Miko only makes jasmine tea when he's either trying to impress someone or distract me from a crime he committed. Considering I didn't see any bodies yet, I figured it was the latter.
I took a slow sip.
Delicious. Infuriatingly so.
I lounged in the parlor, Jules resting sideways across my thighs like a lapdog with better cheekbones. Roderick sat opposite me, back straight, hands folded like he was about to pitch me an assassination contract.
"We need to talk," he said.
"About the church agents?" I asked.
"No. About Salem. I'm pretty sure he knows about our operations."
I paused. The name had been sitting under my tongue since yesterday, bitter and warm. Salem of the crested jacket. Salem of the fire-orange hair. Salem who knew way too much for someone who claimed he was just a transfer.
"He's cute," Jules offered lazily.
"He's dangerous," Miko added, entering with more tea. "But so are you."
"Exactly!" I said, raising my cup. "It's mutual danger. That's just foreplay with extra steps."
The townhouse wasn't just a hideout anymore—it was headquarters. Three floors of creaky floorboards, dusty spellbooks, vintage underwear, and increasingly erotic alchemy.
The basement now served as a training chamber, the attic held Roderick's collection of enchanted belts, and the common room had become something of a…harem lounge.
I didn't force the lifestyle. They stayed because they wanted to. Probably.
Elian was currently redecorating the walls with silver-threaded curtains and sultry lighting spells. Apparently, ambiance was key to loyalty.
"Makes everyone feel pretty," he said, snapping his fingers to shift the lights into a deep red glow.
It also made it hard to tell if anyone was blushing. Strategic. After finishing, Elian strolled over and slowly curled his fingers up my back toward my shoulders. I shuttered a little, ready to indulge.
I was still shirtless when Salem knocked.
Of course he did.
I answered the door with a towel slung lazily around my shoulders, hair still damp, half of my chest glistening in the candlelight like I'd been airbrushed onto the cover of some tragic romance novel with far too many ellipses in the title.
He blinked when he saw me, caught somewhere between suspicion and amusement. "Am I interrupting something?" he asked, his voice smooth, but with just enough bite to make it sound less like a question and more like an accusation.
"No," I lied without hesitation. "Elian was just massaging my shoulders with a dagger." The words came out casual, as if shoulder-stabbings were an ordinary part of my skincare routine.
Salem arched an eyebrow, the way only men who think they're clever get to do. It lingered there, sharp and inquisitive, daring me to follow through with the absurdity.
"Kidding," I added, finally allowing myself a smirk. "Mostly."
We ended up in the candlelit dining room, the table between us a battlefield of shadows and sugar. A plate of sticky buns sat at the center, literal ones, unfortunately, steaming faintly, their scent sweet enough to make the air feel heavier. We shared them in silence for a moment, tearing soft bread with our fingers.
"So," he said at last, eyes flicking to mine in the dim light, "what's your plan?" His tone was casual, but the way he leaned back in his chair, watching every twitch of my expression, told me this was no idle curiosity.
I smiled—sharp, withholding, the kind of smile you use when you want someone to know you're hiding something delicious. "Wouldn't you like to know."
So he had known after all, go figure.
"I would. That's why I asked."
I leaned forward across the table, elbows pressing into the wood, the candlelight catching in the damp strands of my hair. "How do I know you're not a spy?" I asked, voice low, just enough edge to make it sound like a flirt disguised as suspicion.
He didn't answer immediately. Instead, he licked a smear of icing from his thumb, slow, deliberate, the kind of casual motion that made the air between us snap taut. I pretended very hard not to bite my lip.
"You don't," he said at last, the words quiet and confident. His gaze lingered just a little too long, sharp enough to cut through the sugar hanging between us. "But you haven't turned me yet. That counts for something."
He was right. I only turned those who wronged me. Or tried to humiliate me. Or mocked my handwriting. That's just personal code.
Salem hadn't done any of those things. Yet.
But he was dangerous. I could feel it in the way his aura coiled, tight and precise. If I didn't know better, I'd say he was waiting for something.
Like a trap being set.
He stood without a word, the scrape of his chair loud in the hush, and moved behind me with that careful, deliberate grace of someone who knows exactly how much space they take up.
His hands found my shoulders, settling there like they'd been waiting all evening for the opportunity. His touch was steady, not too firm, not too light, the kind that felt like a question disguised as pressure.
"I could be useful to you," he murmured, his voice low enough that I felt it more in my spine than in my ears.
I chuckled, because chuckling is what you do when someone offers you the moon and you know they'll hand you a rock instead. "Everyone could be useful," I said, tilting my head just enough to glance up at him, "it's whether they actually are." It was a deflection dressed up as a philosophy, and I prayed he wouldn't notice the difference.
His fingers pressed into my skin, slow, exploratory, like he was testing the seams of armor to see where the soft bits might be hiding.
"You're tense," he observed, and the bastard said it like he was proud of himself for noticing.
I sighed through my nose. "I live with five femboys who steal my comb and keep forgetting pants. Of course I'm tense."
He laughed, soft and easy, and the sound came with the faintest brush of his breath against my neck.
This was dangerous territory.
"You think you're the only one who wants to change this city?" he asked, voice just above a whisper now. "You're not," he went on, and I felt his lips curve near my ear. "But your way is… different."
I leaned back against his chest—just for a second, just long enough to admit that maybe danger wasn't always best faced on my own. "I prefer elegant solutions," I murmured, letting my words roll out smooth as wine. "With bows and lace."
"Sounds messy," he replied, his tone skeptical.
"Sounds divine," I countered, and I meant it, savoring the syllables like a prayer.
And then the window exploded, shards of glass flaring like diamond shrapnel in the candlelight.
In a fury of motion, Roderick crashed through the frame, a swirl of velvet, steel, and the kind of aggression that belonged to men who didn't bother knocking. "Inquisitors!" he barked, his voice a thunderclap against the chaos.
I jolted to my feet so violently that Salem toppled backward, a tangle of limbs and indignation. The room erupted into disarray at once. Miko was already chanting, hands sketching sharp sigils into the air as a shadow ward rippled to life across the floor.
Elian screamed—high and unhelpful, though at least it meant he was still alive. Jules, ever the performer, slid a pair of knives free from the sheaths strapped inside his thigh-high boots, flashing steel like he'd been waiting all week for this moment.
And outside, like a tide breaking against stone, Hollow's men filled the streets.
I crept to the jagged edge of the shattered window, peering through the splintered glass. My heart dipped at what I saw. White gloves. Iron visors. Their steps were measured, unified, merciless, the march of men who didn't see themselves as men at all but as instruments of judgment.
One carried a censer that glowed with a sickly, unnatural red, the mist spilling out of it like poison gas, curling low to the ground, searing every breath it touched.
"They're purging the district," Miko said, voice tight, the ward trembling under his fingers. "Anyone with non-sanctioned magic."
I turned, my gaze landing on Salem.
He was pale. The color had drained from him as if the mist outside had already touched his blood.
"Is this you?" I asked, my voice razor-sharp. I wanted it to be an accusation, but some treacherous part of me prayed it wasn't true.
He shook his head so quickly it almost seemed rehearsed. "I swear. I didn't lead them here."
Jules narrowed his eyes, the knives glinting as his smile did not. "Then how'd they find us?"
The silence pressed down, heavy and accusing, broken only by the muted thud of boots in the street below. My hand clenched into a fist at my side, every muscle taut with rage and fear. Enough waiting. Enough suspicion.
I swept a dark cloak over my shoulders, the fabric swallowing me whole, and turned toward the door. My voice came out steady, cold, sharp enough to slice through their doubt.
"I'll ask them myself."
We dropped into a tunnel beneath the parlor rug, a trapdoor leading to old alchemist escape routes beneath the city—another of Miko's little additions. My thoughts churned as we ran. If Salem didn't betray us, someone else did. Or they were tracking me.
I pulled out my feathered pen. It streamed dark wisps of ink under the tunnel lights.
"Time for another go," I muttered.
Roderick nodded. "Target?"
"One of them. Alive."
He smirked. "Finally."
We emerged into the open air of a ruined courtyard yawning before us like a stage left abandoned after some half-forgotten play.
And there—standing alone, scanning the alley like a guard dog left on patrol—was one solitary inquisitor. Perfect. Nothing like a bit of divine irony to brighten my evening.
I slipped forward quietly, each step deliberate, my breath a measured whisper. The man's back was to me, his movements mechanical, every shift of his gaze betraying the rigid training drilled into his spine. Jules bent to pick up a pebble and tossed it with just enough force to clink against the stone wall.
The inquisitor turned instinctively, a fraction too slow. Always too slow. That was the problem with the devout—so busy waiting for God to whisper in their ear, they never noticed the dagger at their knee.
I struck cleanly, a light slash across his leg with the blade I'd been palming beneath my cloak. Not enough to kill, no, just enough to take his balance. He cried out, stumbling, his weapon clattering against the stones with a ringing sound that made the night shiver.
And before he could recover, before he could even process the indignity of it, I pressed my pen to his chest. My little instrument, harmless-looking to the uninitiated, yet so much hungering power threaded in its tip. I leaned close enough that my breath fogged his cheek and whispered a single word.
"Submit."
The pen glowed. His eyes widened. His jaw slackened.
And then the change began.
It was slower than usual. More sensual. I could feel his resistance, his discipline cracking under my influence.
His hair lightened by degrees, dark strands bleaching as though moonlight had sunk its fingers into his scalp. His armor shifted with the sound of stretching metal, plates reshaping into something finer, lighter, almost ornamental. His cheeks flushed, color blooming across his face like wine spilling over pale cloth.
His voice—oh, the voice—caught in his throat, twisted, softened, cracked into a moan that trembled between confusion and… relief?
When it was over, he fell to his knees.
"W-What… what did you do to me?"
I crouched before him, brushing his hair behind one pointed ear.
"I gave you a choice," I said. "And your body made it for you." He looked up at me, trembling. "You'll be safe here with us. If you choose it."
Behind me, Jules whistled. "Dibs on training him."
Roderick slapped him behind the head.
Back at base, we sealed the tunnel with a mix of brick, earth, and whatever scrap metal we could scavenge from the back room. The inquisitors would be back. Hollow wasn't stupid.
Neither was Salem.
He lingered in the corner like a shadow that had decided to grow a spine, arms folded, eyes moving over every motion, every breath. The kind of stillness he carried wasn't laziness — it was calculation, the way a predator knows exactly when not to move.
"You're not what I expected," he said finally, voice low but carrying across the space.
"Good," I replied without looking up from the half-broken lantern I was fixing. "Expectation is the enemy of pleasure."
A short chuckle escaped him, warm and almost genuine. Then his face cooled again, the edge returning to his eyes.
"But you'll need more than pleasure to win."
I let out a sigh, setting the lantern down. "I know. That's why I'm forming the Court."
Jules, who had been balancing precariously on a stool, turned to stare. "The what?"
I let my smile spread slowly, savoring the moment. "The Velvet Court. A council of my most trusted. My lovers. My generals. My stars."
Elian's eyes practically turned into crystal chandeliers. "We get titles?"
"Thigh High Commander," I offered without hesitation.
He squealed.
That night, we gathered in the common room — a space that smelled faintly of wine, perfume, and whatever was left over from the dinner Roderick had burned. Candles guttered in wall sconces, throwing golden light over worn couches and the silken throws we'd stolen from a merchant who had the misfortune of calling me rude.
I sat with my newest recruit, formerly an inquisitor, now half-reclined against me like we'd been lovers for years.
His head rested on my shoulder, the faint scent of incense still clinging to his hair. His voice was steady as he told me how a spy hidden in one of my favorite local bakeries had been tracking my movements for the past month or so.
A shame. They had the most exquisite sticky buns.
"Do you regret it?" I asked, my voice pitched for him alone.
He shook his head, the faintest smile curling his lips.
Good.
From across the room, Salem leaned forward in his chair, elbows braced on his knees, gaze sharp enough to cut. "What are you really after, Cecil?"
I let my eyes drift over him, then to Jules lounging in his stolen drapes, to Elian twirling a crystal glass like it was the crown of a king, to my newest star resting in my arms.
"My own kingdom," I said softly. "Not built on fear. Or war. Or faith. But on adoration. On devotion. On the freedom to be beautiful."
The words hung there, filling the candlelit air.
Salem's mouth curved into a slow, sly smile. Not mockery — not quite approval either — but something far more dangerous.