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This couldn’t be fucking happening.

“Now, now, gents. Let’s at least get acquainted with the lady before we have our fun,” a husky voice said, the sound coming from directly in front of me.

My head snapped toward it and I forced away the fireworks still exploding behind my eyes and focused on him, spitting a mouthful of blood onto the ground.

My gaze burned into him as he grinned at me.

“At last, I meet the Woman of Many Faces. Do you know who I am?” he asked casually, leaning back into his chair and draping an arm over the back of it.

He was important, or at least he thought he was.

That much I could tell by the smug look on his face and his freshly-pressed tunic that looked too expensive for any villager or tradesmen.

Five men stepped out of the shadows behind him, each watching me with malicious intent.

I steeled myself for what I already knew was coming.

“I have a feeling you’re going to tell me regardless. You seem like the type of man that loves the sound of his own voice,” I answered, my eyes scanning the chair he sat in and his perfectly clean clothing.

A chuckle vibrated from his throat as he hiked up the fabric covering his left leg, then casually pulled his foot from the floor and rested his ankle on his right knee. “And what type of man would that be?”

“The kind that wears luxury fabrics while his henchmen haven’t washed themselves in weeks. The kind that makes those same men carry avelvet armchairinto a crumbling shack so he doesn’t risk snagging his precious clothing,” I snapped as blood trickled from the corner of my lips.

He laughed this time, a sickening sound that reverberated through the room.

I needed to keep him talking.

Needed to stall them for as long as possible while I figured out how to remove these bindings.

“My name is Clayson Rifford. I’m the owner of the establishments you so often frequent.”

I had assumed as much, but hearing him say it sent a wave of dread through me. These were not the circumstances I’d hope to meet him under. He controlled the underbelly of Nethkar and I had been trying to learn his name for months. Trying to find out who he was so I could kill him.

He studied me and I willed my features to show nothing but an empty canvas, uninterested and unamused by him.

But my mind was screaming, frantically searching for some way out.

“I must admit,” he started, slapping his hands across his thighs as he stood from his self-appointed throne and began circling me. “I have been dying to meet you. So many stories have been told about your blood lust. Not many women could make my men fear them, but you, you have.”

Out of the corner of my eye, I could see his men inching closer.

“Though, I do not believe we have ever seen this face before,” he said, stopping in front of me as his head tilted to the side. “Which is a shame, really. It’s quite beautiful, even with the scar.” He reached out a hand, sliding the tips of his fingers across the raised surface of my scar and I forced myself not to recoil from his touch. To not reveal a single ounce of the fear beating against my chest.

“That is by design,” I responded, locking my eyes onto his as a low growl materialized in my throat. “And I promise you, after tonight, the next time you see it will be when I slit your neck from ear to ear.”

We stared back at each other, a challenge dancing between us, silent threats lingering in the distance separating our bodies.

“How did you find me in this skin?” I asked, tilting my head to the side as he eyed me.

“Your drink of choice. That combination has only ever been ordered by the woman who hunts my men. I like my people to keep track of these things—for moments such as these.” A smirk flickered across his lips as he turned toward his men and gestured them toward me.

My stomach twisted as static rushed between my ears.

They’d been tracking me this whole time.

“Do you recognize any of these men?” he asked, crossing his arms over his chest.

“The scum of this city all look alike,” I spat.