Chapter 7
Chapter Seven
The scent of him
sapphire
Six days since Lily’s death.
Six days, drifting through a haze, doing my best to keep my head down and ass up. Working for every coin I could get my hands on. The welts on my skin had settled, though the bruises weren’t fully gone. None of the men even noticed them, bellies too full of liquor and cocks too wet to care.
I didn’t bother socialising with anyone. I focused on doing my job and staying out of Kavish’s way. And to my utter astonishment, he hadn't even bothered to collect his usual weekly servicing. I was grateful.
The wind still carried winter’s teeth, sharp enough to cut through my shawl as I made my way towards the town square.
Late afternoon light stretched long and pale across the cobblestones, but it did nothing to soften the chill.
Today was my first day off in three days—a mercy, though it didn’t feel like one.
I needed new thread for my sewing box, simple as that.
Not that I’d touched a needle since Lily died.
My hands hadn’t stopped shaking long enough to try.
Coming to the marketplace always made my stomach churn. The last few times I’d visited hadn’t resulted in a positive experience. First I was robbed, then he appeared—twice, and now, most likely, sneers and sideways glances would greet me when I entered the haberdashery.
As I passed the temple, I glanced up out of habit. The preacher stood in the doorway again, hands clasped in front of him. When he saw me, he smiled and waved like usual.
I slowed without meaning to.
His smile always baffled me. It was patient. Quiet. It reminded me, annoyingly, of the way the stranger with the green eyes smiled—like he was waiting for me to decide something, not forcing me into it.
For a moment, I wondered what it would be like to walk inside the temple. To sit on one of those wooden benches and just exist without anyone touching me, looking at me, or pricing me.
The preacher called out, not loud, just enough for me to hear. “Fine evening for the market.”
I blinked, caught off guard. “Y-yes. It is,” I muttered, already backing away.
Then I turned and hurried towards the haberdashery before he could say anything else, my heart beating faster for reasons I didn’t want to examine.
As I arrived outside, I took a deep breath, trying to steady my mind. All I needed was some thread. There was no need to linger any longer.
I pushed the door open, and the golden bell above announced my presence. A few heads topped with frilly looking hats looked my way. Right away the stares began. Yet I paid them no mind. This wasn’t going to take me long.
Rows of silk taffeta, crepe, and linen lined the far wall like a garden I’d never get to touch.
Bolts of fabric stacked tall, each one begging to be cut and stitched into something beautiful—a gown meant for a girl who’d never known dirt under her fingernails.
I let my fingers brush a length of pale green satin, soft as a promise I couldn’t afford.
My pockets had never been heavy enough to have more than three luxurious outfits in my closet.
Even though in reality, Kavish owned them too. They were for work after all.
Over the years, I’d sewn enough dresses to last me through all the seasons: rough stitches where the seams split, careful patchwork to hide the wear. At least I had the skills to do that.
One day when I was alone, living in a house by the sea, I wouldn’t need fancy dresses.
Low voices hummed through the room. I pretended I couldn’t hear them as I selected a spool of white cotton thread.
“A whore in taffeta is still a whore. Next thing you know, she’ll be asking for credit.”
“Sad, really. All that pretty hair wasted on a bed warmer.”
My jaw ached from gritting my teeth. I wanted to bite back, but I feared their words were true. No amount of pretty silks and ribbons would ever mask what I truly was.
I gripped the thread in my fist and swayed up to the counter, flashing them my prettiest smile with my head held high. “Ladies.”
Huffs and upturned noses were their responses. I pressed a copper coin into the shop girl’s palm, dipped my head in a half-hearted thanks, and slipped back out the door. There was no need to hang around for them to insult me more.
I shoved the thread into my skirt pocket, balancing my basket that hung on the crook of my arm as I hurried past the merchant stalls. There was one more stop I needed to make before I could return home.
Perhaps I should listen to Meeka, take the money I’d saved and leave. Where could I go that Kavish would never find me? I was certain that his darkness spread far and wide. There’d be no place that I could hide.
As I rounded the corner, brushing past the stall of aged cheeses, I stumbled into the body of a man. “Sorry—”
“Was wonderin’ when I’d catch you alone again.” Whiskey-soaked breath reached my nose.
My body stiffened. I didn’t have the headspace to deal with this right now.
I looked up, trying to step around the hulking figure. He was a regular to the Silver Finch. One of the men whose name I never bother to learn—he was just a face and number to me.
“I’m not working,” I snapped, shifting the basket on my arm. “Leave me alone.”
Sickly grey eyes peered down at me as he stepped closer, his stocky arm stealing around my waist. “Oh, but I missed you.” He pulled me closer.
“Was thinkin’ about your moans the other night.
Might pay extra to hear it again.” He leaned in to kiss me, and I forced the bile rising in my throat back down.
I didn’t want to put on the mask, fake a smile, pretend that I was flattered by his words. But some men wouldn’t take a simple no for an answer, and the quickest way I was going to free myself from this situation was to do what I did best.
My eyelashes fluttered against my cheeks. “Come on now, you need to let me go.”
Tobacco stained teeth grinned down at me, his arm tightening no matter how hard I pushed against his chest, my basket crushing between our bodies.
So I tried again.
I feigned the prettiest smile I could muster and walked a finger up his chest. “You’re being a bad man . . . and while I do like bad men, Kavish demands payment for his girls.”
He leaned in closer, ignoring my sultry threat.
Was he fucking daft?
No Shadowkin would bother to help me either. All they saw was a whore in the streets, desperate for someone to climb beneath her dress.
“I believe the lady asked you to let her go.”
A velvet voice drifted over me as a warm, firm hand came to rest on my shoulder. I held my breath, my pulse quickening as my body launched into flight mode. Was I going to have to fend myself against two men now?
I twisted, my gaze catching on a flash of red flame—no, not flame.
Hair. Him. The stranger. With emerald eyes far too pretty for these streets.
For a heartbeat, I could only stare, words strangling in my throat, my pulse flickering against the collar of my dress.
What in all the gods was he doing here? And why, when his eyes met mine, did my knees almost give way?
My mouth fell open in protest. “We’re fine here—”
His gaze dropped to my lips. “I’ll handle it.”
Almond freckles peppered his honey-coated skin. The scent of him wrapped around me like a comforting embrace. Pine and something fresh—like river water. I didn’t want to like his aroma . . . but I did.
“You can bugger off. Me an the lady are having a moment,” my regular sneered.
I tore my gaze away, returning it back to the man who held me hostage.
But my self-proclaimed saviour didn’t budge. Instead, he stepped around me, hand still on my shoulder, pushing two fingers into the man's chest. “She won’t ask nicely again.”
He stood there, a late afternoon shadow spilling over both of us, broad shoulders blocking out what little warmth the sun had left.
Even I felt small, pressed flat by the weight of him towering so close.
The regular shifted under his stare, jaw twitching before he turned his eyes on me—that hungry, possessive flick up and down that made my skin crawl, then he let me go.
“I’ll be seeing you real soon,” he growled, teeth bared like a wolf who’d already tasted blood.
A shiver rattled down my spine before I could stop it. I hated that he saw it. Hated it more that the red-haired stranger did too. I pressed my lips together, pulling the shawl around my body closer, and told myself I didn’t care. But my bones knew better.
The mysterious hero watched the man walk away before he turned to face me, his hand dropping from my shoulder. My brow pinched slightly. I hated myself for it—that as soon as his warmth left, I wanted to reach out, clasp his veined hand in mine, and place it right where it had been.
I hated, too, how he looked at me. There was a softness in the way his brow drew together, like he saw something cracked in me and was already trying to piece it back together.
And I hated it. Hated how gently his gaze held my already damned soul, as if I were something fragile—ruined, maybe—but still worth saving.
“Why do you insist on following me? Have you come back with pockets full of gold?” I couldn’t stop the sting in my words.
He raised a brow, unphased at the tone of my voice. “Spend some time with me and you’ll find the answers.”
A chill danced around my boots, spiralling up my legs, and circling around us. I tried to tear my gaze from his, but it was almost impossible, like he’d laid a snare, and I’d stepped right into it.
Meeka would’ve encouraged me to stay or reminded me that there was a chance he was some rich do-gooder.
A stranger with pockets deep enough to sweep me off to some pretty house on a hill—far from these piss-soaked streets and the lash of Kavish’s belt.
Maybe he’d keep me like a prize on his shelf, something he could polish up and show off when he was bored of his fancy friends.
Another story to tell: look at what I saved. Look at what’s mine.