Chapter 1
Lex
“If you’re not going to work here, then get out,” my mother’s voice, raspy from smoking, drinking, and the effects of her profession, cut sharply across the quiet space.
It was the middle of the afternoon, which meant that the brothel downstairs was nearly empty, apart from a few nightshift workers who had to find their pleasure during the day.
The relative silence always put me on edge; I’d grown up here and was used to the sounds and noises that accompanied men and women in the throes of passion. It was the soundtrack to my existence, and I found a relative peace in the music.
In time with the rising sun, the melody of sin evaporated from Le Petite Mort, and my anxiety grew. It was like there was something stuck just beneath the surface of my skin, itching to emerge. The accompanying buzzing in my head wasn’t pleasant either.
And it was only made worse by the ultimatum dropped by my mother.
I knew it was only a matter of time before she finally kicked me out of our little apartment above the brothel.
I turned eighteen last week, and the birthday felt like a noose around my neck, slowly cinching tighter every day.
While not young enough to be legally Awakened, seventeen was the minimum age to work in the numerous pleasure houses in Vespera, and I knew the owner of Le Petite Mort had her eyes on me for years.
My mother was a Pleasure Mage, and a rather powerful one, especially for a no-name orphan from the streets of Vespera.
The likelihood that I emerged with the same power was high, so it made sense that the owner wanted to sink her talons into me as early as possible.
I’d be profitable for her and, if I decided to pursue a career in pleasure but with another establishment, I’d create unwanted competition.
But I’d never wanted to follow in my mother’s footsteps.
I’d seen the life this career offered—the uncertainty, the lack of autonomy, the emptiness—and I wanted none of it for myself.
I should have left months ago when Lord d’Refan posted an open call for his army, but I felt obligated to stay; to look after my sisters and make sure they weren’t drawn into the life our mother provided.
But even with my constant guidance, it seemed that at least my oldest sister—Lena—would willingly sign her body away to be used once she turned fifteen.
Our mother had us close together, so her birthday was not long after mine.
Despite my best efforts, our mother smuggled Lena out of our apartment while I was distracted with my younger siblings and brought her into the brothel itself.
Lena assured me she never had sex, never did anything that would be classified as illegal, but I had my doubts.
That, more than anything, drove a wedge between my mother and me, forcing me even further from the career she desired for me.
Now it seemed her patience was at an end, and I was forced to make a decision.
Stay here and work in the pleasure house so I could look after my sisters? Or leave, start a new life elsewhere.
With what skills?
“Stop daydreaming, boy.” My mother snapped her fingers in front of my face as she took a drag from the rolled tobacco propped between two long fingers that ended in pointed red nails.
Objectively, my mother was once pretty. Or at least that’s what the girls downstairs said.
But time, drug use, and ten pregnancies over nearly as many years caused her beauty to be a shadow of what it was.
There were certain men who wanted a body like my mother’s to fuck, but the clientele was far and few in between lately.
I looked at her now, cataloging every wrinkle on her forehead, the worry lines etched in her face that told the story of a hard life.
The slight sag of her breasts from so many babies feeding.
The paunch of her stomach that never went away after birthing her children.
My mother was thirty-two, but she looked closer to fifty.
My heart hurt for her, and I fought the urge to rub my sternum.
She rolled her eyes at me—eyes that were so like mine—before waving her hand in front of my face.
“My gods, boy. Are you even in there? The Madame isn’t even going to want you if there’s nothing going on upstairs. Though, sometimes those types make the better employees. The less there is rattling around, the more you’ll do for a coin.” She scoffed.
“Like you?” I couldn’t help the question that popped unbidden from my lips.
My mother stilled in the ratty armchair that was reserved for her and her alone.
We didn’t have much furniture in our one-bedroom apartment, and we often ended up sleeping together in piles or sitting two or three to the few chairs we had in the space.
But this one ratty piece of furniture was reserved for the proverbial “queen” of the house, as was the only bed.
In my mother’s words, she brought in the coin, however little it was, and she deserved the luxuries that position brought.
Even if the luxury was a torn chair so worn that the original color was indecipherable.
“You’ve got a lot of nerve, boy. Those coins you look your haughty nose down on paid for this.” She gestured around the dilapidated space with her lit roll of tobacco, wafting the smell in my face. “It’d do you good to show a bit of gratitude and respect.”
“Respect?” I could feel the anger simmering just below the surface of my skin, bubbling in my gut, and creeping up the sides of my neck and into my face. “Respect?”
“You heard me the first time,” my mother said, unbothered, before taking another long drag.
“How can I respect someone who would rather fuck a man she doesn’t know than take care of her own children?” I gritted from between my teeth, the anger almost at a boiling point.
Her cold, brown eyes bored straight into my own before she adjusted herself in the armchair, pulling her shoulders back and lengthening her spine. The dress she wore was the same as every morning—loose and thread-worn—and it gaped obscenely at the top from such prolonged use.
“Now listen here, you little shit.” She jabbed a painted finger into my chest. “You’re only here because of who I fucked.
This house is because of who I fuck. The food on the table for you and your ungrateful siblings is because of who.
I. Fuck. Lena at least has enough sense to want to contribute.
You don’t love your family enough to even do that. ”
Spittle flew from her mouth during her tirade, a few drops landing on my chest and face. I flinched before wiping them away, hating that my body still reacted this way to her. My mother was never kind, never present during my childhood.
Sometimes I pretended that this woman wasn’t my mother. That the other girls downstairs who looked after me were, and I just had dozens of mothers.
“I do love my family,” my voice quaked with the effort of holding my ire and anger inside, “but you are not my family.”
My mother’s eyes widened a fraction, a faint tremor appearing in her outstretched finger, before she recovered and schooled her expression back into its typical sneer.
Faster than I could blink, and much quicker than I could react, my mother extended the fingers of her outstretched hand and slapped me—hard—across the face.
My head turned to the right from the force of her blow, the slap of skin hitting skin reverberating through the small, quiet space.
My face stung, and I felt tears well unbidden in my eyes.
She would not get any more emotion from me.
“Get. Out.” She bit the words through gritted teeth, the smoke from her rolled tobacco coiling around us like a snake.
I kept my head turned to the side, not wanting to meet her eyes and give her the satisfaction of breaking my spirit, again.
I took a few deep breaths, trying in vain to find a sense of calm, but it evaded me.
Each modicum of peace I achieved was instantly broken by the throbbing in my cheek.
I knew, without needing to look, that a red print the size of my mother’s hand was clearly visible on my pale skin.
At least this time her nails missed my eye.
“And my siblings?” I finally asked, my voice devoid of all emotion.
“No longer of your concern. As you said, I’m not family. So, they’re not your family. They’re mine.” Her venomous words cut me to the core. She knew exactly what I cared about most in this world and how to twist the knife enough to make me bleed.
I nodded my head jerkily once before turning and striding toward the door to our apartment, never making eye contact with the woman who gave birth to me. I had no belongings in this place I once called home, at least nothing that was worth risking the further wrath of my mother.
I need a place to live, a job, a way to get my siblings back. I repeated it over and over in my mind, focusing on what I could control as my life spun out around me.
As I reached the door, its hinges askew from my mother slamming it one too many times in a drunken haze, she called out once more.
“Oh, and Lex?” I paused and turned my head enough to see the back of her head sticking above the torn and tattered mess of the armchair. She took one last drag of her tobacco roll before snuffing it out next to the other burns on the arm of her chair.
At least it’s not on me this time.
“Best you find somewhere else to live. You’re no longer welcome here.”
I said nothing in response; there was nothing to say—nothing that wouldn’t have her chasing after me to finish what she started earlier, anyway.
I gently closed the door to the only home I’d ever known, even if the feelings within the space were never welcoming as a home should be.
Shoving my hands in the pockets of my threadbare, too-tight black pants, I made my way down the rickety wood staircase and into the brothel, hoping to nick a few things from the kitchen and supply room before venturing into Vespera.
I moved quietly through the space, not wanting to wake the girls, grabbing a small burlap sack that Cook used to hold apples and the like.
I shoved a few of the more rotten ones in my pack—saving the better ones for the girls, they needed them more than me—along with a half-loaf of hard bread and some dried jerky.
I looked for an extra set of pants and a shirt, but there was nothing.
My second set had gone missing a few weeks ago, and I was nearly certain that my mother had sold them to one of her clients after a small mishap during one of her sessions.
I shook the thought away as I cinched the bag tight and threw it over my shoulder.
Tiptoeing through the main room, I bypassed the occupied rooms, but a familiar sweet voice—like the flowers at the beginning of spring—cut through the relative silence just as I reached the front door of the pleasure house.
“And just where do you think you’re going?” There was no heat behind the question, just a mild curiosity, and my shoulders sank in defeat.
I turned around slowly, pressing my back against the closed door. I kept my head lowered and turned, attempting to avoid discovery of the red mark so prominent on my face.
There was a sigh before the smell of roses and something sharper overwhelmed my senses, calming me in an instant. Soft fingers gripped my chin tightly and turned my head to the side. She made a noise somewhere between resignation and pity, and I fought the tears that threatened to surge.
“She really did it this time, hmm?” Her question was rhetorical, and I shrugged my shoulders noncommittally, still refusing to look her in the eye.
“Look at me, Lex.”
I could never refuse her, my chin tilting involuntarily, and I saw my pain reflected in her green eyes. She left her fingers on my chin for a moment before removing her hand and running it down my arm.
“I’m going to miss you,” she whispered before throwing her arms around me. Her soft body pressed against my hard one, and I greedily breathed in her scent, committing it to memory.
“She won’t let me back here,” I whispered into her soft red curls as they tickled my nose. Her arms only tightened around my neck in response.
“You’re always welcome here. When I’m Madame, I’ll kick her out. I’ll punish her. I promise,” she said as she pulled away from me. I missed her contact the minute it was gone.
I squeezed her hands tightly once, then twice, before releasing them and turning toward the door again.
“Don’t make promises you can’t keep, Red,” I gently admonished.
“I can keep it. And I will.” She pushed her pert nose into the air, and I had to smile at the look of haughty defiance on her face.
“Take care of yourself, Red,” I said, my eyes tracing over her every feature, committing each to memory.
The look of defiance dropped from her face, and she finally looked her age—a ripe nineteen, just starting her time in the pleasure house. Red was mine—all mine—for a time. But the current Madame had taken a keen interest in her and was training her to take over the house.
Once that happened, she could no longer be mine.
“Love you, Lex,” Red whispered, her voice thick with tears. She was the only one who’d ever said those words to me, and I hoarded them close to my heart. They were my most precious treasure.
“To the moon and through all the stars, Red,” I said before gently kissing the side of her mouth. My tongue came away with the salty taste of tears.
I heard the faint thumps of feet down the hall and saw Red’s mask instantly slide back in place. Either it was a John coming to find her, or the Madame. Either way, I didn’t want to be here for that conversation.
I gave Red one last weak smile before I pushed open the door, sunlight quickly bathing the dark interior and casting Red in an angelic glow. I took one last look, wanting to remember her just like this, before I stepped outside and closed the door on the first eighteen years of my life.