Some places smell like sin even before you add me to the mix.
Behind the bathhouse is one such place. Steam curls around the alley like it's trying to eavesdrop. Wet stone, sour herbs, and that particular tang of boiled manballs fill the air. Romantic, I know.
I'm leaned against a mossy wall in a silk that's definitely not regulation. Too sheer. Too short. Too deliberately misplaced. There's a tear right under my hip. Completely accidental. Completely staged.
The bathhouse doors hiss open. Steam billows. Out walks a man with shoulders like barrels and a face that says he's tipped more than a few over. City guard, judging by the half-tied sash and the smug "I washed today" strut.
I lick my lips, slow and showy. "Well well. Look who just got scrubbed like a prize ox."
He startles. Blinks at me. "Are you… waiting for someone?"
I smile. Pure mischief, pure bait. "I was. But you'll do."
He hesitates. All muscle, no script. I take a step forward, fingers brushing his damp forearm.
"You know what they say," I purr. "Clean men deserve dirty girls."
He actually blushes. Poor thing.
I trace a circle on his chest, then slide around behind him and whisper into the steam curling off his neck. "Twenty silver gets you a full body blessing. Thirty if you want your ego stroked too."
He laughs, a nervous chuff. "You… you work here?"
"Darling," I breathe, "I'm the reason half the men leave walking funny."
He nods too fast. I guide him to the side door. The wall's still warm from bathhouse runoff, slick and sticky. He doesn't notice the alley's filth. He's too busy fumbling with his coin pouch and his morals.
"Just lean back," I whisper. "And think unholy thoughts."
His pants hit his ankles. His brain leaves his skull. I keep the moaning soft but spirited—just enough to melt his spine and dull his senses. While he's lost in the fog, I tug his sash loose, check the pouch: not bad. Not stellar. I'll take it.
He groans something about gods and thighs and redemption.
I pull back, fix my hair like I was never here, and press a finger to his lips. "You've been spiritually realigned," I whisper. "Go in peace."
He stumbles back into the bathhouse, dazed and steamy.
I disappear into the steam with two belts, one pouch, and a heavier conscience than I started with.
The guard stumbles back into the bathhouse, dazed and steamy, mumbling something about redemption. I lean against the warm wall for a moment longer, letting the mist curl around me like it could wash this off.
The pouch is fat—good haul. Belts will fetch a few coppers. Proof I haven't lost it.
But as the steam thins and the night air creeps in, cold and sharp, the rush sours. I slide down the wall until I'm sitting in the damp runoff, knees drawn up, coins digging into my palm.
This one had power. A sash. A badge. The kind who could've dragged me off for less than a smile.
And I took from him anyway.
Feels like revenge.
Feels like nothing.
I press my forehead to my knees, breathe in the sour herbs and boiled regret. Tomorrow I'll need something bigger. Riskier. Something that hurts more.
Because this? This isn't enough anymore.