Chapter 2
Chapter Two
I sigh as I lean back in my little wash tub.
The water isn't hot, but it will do. Most people don't like to wash or bathe, doing so as infrequently as possible, but I like to be clean—though, I must admit, I do relish in blood-soaked clothing, and the way it dries on my skin, flaking off around me. There’s just something so primal in it, and it's intoxicating but I need to remain professional for work, which means clean skin and clean clothes for the first kill of the day. I’ve already soaped up and scrubbed my clothes with the washboard and hung them to dry, so it’s time to wash my body.
As I think of today’s events, my mind focuses on those black eyes in the crowd, the memory of them making me shudder in the water. I didn't recognise who or what it was. I didn't see a face, or even a body. Time seemed to freeze, and it was just us.
My mind starts to wander, and one hand reaches out for my personal knife: a six-inch blade with a plain wooden handle and simple guard—a knife fighter's weapon, lovingly sharpened to a razor edge.
Annita is the one thing I love more than anything, save Malenia, and she is just perfect for what I have in mind.
I drag the flat of the blade across my collarbone, slow, deliberate, feeling the cold metal kiss my skin.
It’s not about cutting—it’s about the edge, the possibility.
My breath catches as I trace lower, the tip grazing the swell of my breast, circling a nipple that’s already pebbled.
A shiver hits me, sharp and electric, and I grip the tub’s rim with my free hand, anchoring myself.
The danger is what does it for me—knowing that I’m in control, but just barely.
I lift the knife, turning it so the handle hovers near my mouth, smooth and cool.
I flick my tongue against it, tasting the faint metallic ghost of the blade, then draw it into my mouth, sucking slow and deep, letting a soft moan hum in my throat.
My thighs part, water lapping at my hips.
I’m already aching, wet in a way that has nothing to do with the tub.
I slide the handle free, slick with my spit, and guide it down, teasing it along my inner thigh until it nudges against me, blunt and unyielding.
I press it inside me, gasping at the stretch and the way it fills me just right.
My hips rock to meet it, water sloshing in time with each thrust, slow at first, then faster, needier.
My hand still grips the blade carefully, the edge a quiet threat against my palm.
It’s too much—the risk, the pressure, the heat building low—
I unravel, moans bouncing off the walls as I come hard, trembling.
I slump back, chest heaving, the knife resting on my sternum, and I smile, savouring the quiet, completely spent. Just me and the evening, exactly how I like it.
After drifting for a bit, I grab a bucket and fill it with my tub water, pouring it over my head and gasping at the chill. I soap and scrub at my hair and body, checking to make sure I don’t have any cuts anywhere, then get out. Night is approaching, and I need to eat and relax before bed.
Candles are lit on my bedside table, and a small fire warms the hearth. I curl up in bed to reread a favourite play of mine, Romeo and Juliet. I wonder if this is what love truly is—to die, is the only way to be together.
I blow out the candles, and it isn't long before I start to drift off.
My cottage is out in the suburbs of London; there’s a forest nearby and it’s only a short trek into the city itself.
It’s a cramped, creaky place, with timber walls blackened by time and the city’s endless soot.
The floorboards groan underfoot, softened only by a tattered rug—faded crimson and frayed at the edges—but I love its stubborn charm, like it’s holding on just for me.
The kitchen is a modest nook in the far right corner as you step through the low front door.
It’s barely big enough for my iron pot and the tiny hearth that sputters more smoke than heat.
I’ve got a single oak countertop, scarred from years of carving meat, and a shelf above it holds a few clay mugs and a tin plate.
The smell of beef hits me now, sizzling in the pan, its rich, bloody aroma mingling with the sharp tang of onions and a fresh egg from my hens out back.
I sear it rare, which is just how I like it, so that the juices burst in my mouth and my jaw hums with delight.
I wash it down with ale from a chipped mug, scrubbing the pan clean in a washtub by the hearth, as thoroughly as I’d cleanse my own skin.
In the centre of the room sits a wobbly table, just big enough for two rickety chairs.
It’s where I eat, plan, or sometimes just stare at a flickering candle, lost in thought.
Across from it, in the left corner, is my bed—a simple straw mattress on a frame I hammered together myself, low to the ground and piled with wool blankets that smell faintly of lavender and dew.
Beside it, I’ve rigged a makeshift bookcase from salvaged planks; its shelves sag under the weight of a few battered tomes and scrolls I’ve scavenged.
The washtub, dented and wide, sits near the back wall by a narrow window, where I bathe and scrub my linens, the water cold but bracing.
All of my weapons lean by the front door, including my pride, Malenia, a greataxe I forged myself in the smithy out back.
Her blade is wicked sharp, and she’s balanced to perfection, with a leather-wrapped handle moulded to my grip.
Swinging her feels like a dance, the air singing as she cuts through it, heavy and alive.
Outside, beyond the cottage’s sagging door, my small yard contains the smithy; a squat shed where I craft horseshoes for London’s endless stream of carthorses.
There’s also a chicken coop, clucking with my hens, and a barn for my treasures, Ada and Milly.
Ada, my fierce mare, has a chestnut coat and black legs, her mane braided tight because I can’t resist fussing over her.
She’s my heart, strong enough to pull a cart but wild enough to race me through the fields.
Milly, my black-and-white cow, chews lazily nearby, and my woodworking tools are stacked for tinkering with the flatboat I keep for the Thames.
With breakfast done, I scrub my hands, grab my bundle of weapons, and sling my pack over my shoulder, the mask tucked inside for later.
My hat is wide-brimmed, and my cloak patched but warm.
I step into the yard, the air thick with coal smoke and river stink.
In the barn, I pat Milly’s flank, then wrap my arms around Ada, slipping her an apple.
She nickers, ready for the day as I saddle her, securing my gear, Malenia’s weight a comfort against the rigging.
Today is for her—no swords, just her, and I want her edge red by dusk.
I swing into the saddle with a grunt, Ada’s muscles tensing beneath me, eager for the ride. We’re off to town, where one fool waits—a drunk who torched a barn with his careless pipe.
Men are such idiots. I’ve only ever had one, years back, a whining sot who couldn’t please me and stank of ale and failure. Women are my choice now, their softness a secret I chase in shadowed brothels, the thrill of being caught sharpening every stolen touch.
With Ada’s hooves drumming the earth, I ride toward the city, my greataxe humming at my side, ready for the dance.
The crowd was let into the grounds before I had even arrived today, so I walk up the steps to my arena, spinning my axe casually, smirking behind my mask as light flashes from it across this piece of human filth’s face.
He and the guards were already waiting for me on stage today and a flash of fear in his eyes accompanies his shock at my casual display of strength and dexterity with her.
Once I'm in position, I look towards the crowd, praying that I feel those black eyes on me once more. I fail to see them, though, and a flicker of disappointment sears through me, making me grip the hilt tighter.
“Robert Hughs, you are sentenced to death for arson,” the guard announces, pushing Robert’s head onto the block.
His neck looks divine, all stretched out and waiting for me.
I suppress a groan as I palm the axe’s handle, getting myself ready.
Robert stays quiet like a good boy; no crying, no begging, just silence and acceptance whilst he awaits death.
As usual, the crow caws, and I raise my axe.
Swinging down with all my strength, I make a clean cut, detaching his head from his weak body.
I clamp my thighs together, feeling the wetness starting to pool between them from the rush killing gives me.
I glance down at Robert's head in the basket; he’s facing me, his expression passing from terror to peace in death within seconds as I watch, but his eyes are already closed, so I cannot see the spark leave them.
A pity really.
It's a shame I only had one kill today. It's not enough.
It's never enough. I need more. I'm frustrated and feel utterly robbed, especially after yesterday’s final kill was stolen from me.
I desperately need to get rid of this frustration, but I can't go round killing without cause…
Maybe I should visit the whore house, instead.
I grab my weapons and prepare to leave. The crowd still hangs around my stage, and I have to fight through them as I hop down from the stage, but something catches my eye.
I freeze, my body not allowing me to take another step.
I glance around the crowd, who have gone silent again. Everything is in slow motion, just like yesterday, and I see it.
Those eyes.