Page 5

Chapter

Three

ARLON

I’ve been robbed.

Some fucking asshole crept into my room, likely while I was at dinner last night, and stole my letters. And two full money purses. For some reason, the loss of my gold stings less than the letters.

Why?

That’s the question I’ve been asking myself ever since I discovered the theft this morning. Why would anyone take my personal correspondence? And why would they leave most of my money in the lockbox after going through the trouble of breaking in?

Torren won’t be happy that his lock has been picked, that’s for damn sure.

When I bought this lockbox from him, he promised it would hold its own against garden-variety thieves.

I took it with me because I’d anticipated more traveling than I’ve actually done since leaving Bellhaven, and I didn’t want to carry all my gold in my pockets, especially not in Ultrup, where pickpockets are a persistent nuisance.

In my next letter to my family, I’ll include a note for our resident blacksmith.

It’s clear that whoever broke into my room is highly skilled, but he’ll still want to improve on his design, I’m sure.

In fact, he’d probably want me to capture the thief and bring them back to the Hill with me just to have a chance at learning from them.

But I don’t have the time.

Of course I want to find whoever robbed me and hand them over to the city watch, but I’ve also been itching to leave this place and travel…somewhere else. My mate is nowhere to be found, and the longer I stay, the more certain I am that I need to move on to find her .

I’ve tarried long enough.

At first, I worked with the Duke’s men in the special task force created to purge the city of the disgusting bastards who thought trafficking people was acceptable.

That team’s long been disbanded, once we swept through the streets and arrested or executed the culprits.

But Major Strahl of the Duke’s watch convinced me to stay longer than I planned.

We worked well together. There was always someone to help, always another lowlife to throw in prison.

I’ve been away from home for years now, save for a few short visits, and the urge to move on keeps growing. I promised the Major I’d stay until the end of the month and keep an eye on the most secretive gang in the city, but after that, I’m leaving.

Only I don’t know where.

There are hundreds of towns, villages, and outposts in the human realm, and my mate could be in any of them. The thought of traveling blind through the country, searching without the faintest clue where she is, is daunting.

I should’ve left earlier. At least then I’d have the weather on my side.

But I spent the summer walking the streets of Ultrup, working with Major Strahl, inspecting every woman I saw while trying not to spook them.

I walked through crowds, hoping to find her, but no one’s scent ever triggered that visceral reaction I’ve seen in so many of my clanspeople.

I returned to my room last night after dinner with Sarrai and Darrin, tired and full of good food. I only glanced under the bed to check that the box was still in place. I hadn’t lit a candle—the streetlamps gave me enough light—and in the gloom, the lock had seemed intact.

The night passed uneventfully, though I was haunted by the same recurring dream, riding through forests, searching for my mate. It’s been happening for weeks, so I’ve gotten used to it. But this time, the scent of sweet cherries plagued me throughout, faint, but unmistakably hers.

It was the closest I’d ever come to recognizing her in a dream.

Usually, all I see is a cloaked figure in the distance, sometimes on foot, sometimes on horseback, but never anything more.

I woke this morning with a painfully hard cock and the scent of cherries in my nose, and nearly wept from the cruelty of it.

The Fates must be punishing me for my impatience, giving me glimpses of her, but never letting our paths cross.

I don’t even know if she truly smells like cherries or if that’s just what my starved mind cooked up to torture me.

I lay there, panting, my hair stuck to my face, trying so fucking hard to remember more.

But the dream slipped away like mist before I could grasp another detail.

I’d had to take care of myself, but the climax was swift and unsatisfying, my body wracked with shudders. It had felt as if I’d been left on the brink of pleasure for far too long, and coming had brought little relief.

When I went to unlock the box to take out a couple of gold marks a little while later, I noticed the faint scratches on the lock.

Two of the purses are missing, along with my letters, and I’m left with a riddle.

I didn’t leave the inn last night or notice anyone going upstairs from the taproom while I was dining with my friends.

I stomp downstairs, checking every hallway for possible entry points. Apart from the servants’ staircase leading to the kitchens, the Heron is secure, which is why I chose the inn in the first place.

A quick talk with the innkeeper and the security guard who was on duty last night tells me they didn’t see anything suspicious.

That means the thief either works for the inn or entered my room through an exit unknown to them.

The innkeeper promises he’ll talk to his maids and stable hands, but I have little hope he’ll discover anything through that venue.

Gritting my teeth in frustration, I return to my room to think things through.

I close and bolt the door behind me and inhale deeply, trying to discern any lingering scents I might have missed last night.

If the thief smoked before coming here, if they drank, or rode a horse to the city, I’d know at least some of their habits.

But there’s nothing—not that I really expected it.

If the scents were distinctive enough to last through the night, I would have noticed them yesterday.

Then I survey the room and come to the same conclusion I made downstairs.

The guard had assured me that his crew hadn’t let anyone upstairs who wasn’t a guest at the inn, and all the guests were accounted for.

The lock on my door hadn’t been broken, and there were no scratches on it—none like the ones I found on the lockbox, anyway.

If the thief didn’t enter through the door, the window is the only other entry point.

The problem is, the latch on the window was definitely shut when I left for dinner. I aired out the room when I got back, before bed, and again this morning after waking up hot and sweaty. But unless the thief can walk through walls, this window is how they got in.

I walk over and examine the latch. It looks intact, and when I tug on it, it seems securely fastened to the frame. But it’s been oiled to avoid creaking, which means it’s easy enough to lift. How did they manage that from the outside?

I open the window and inspect the wood around the latch. Sure enough, there’s a faint, thin scratch in the paint. Was it already there? Who knows. But if this thief could unlock Torren’s pick-proof contraption, this latch wouldn’t have slowed them down.

My gaze falls to the windowsill. It’s barely six inches wide, and at this height, it would be extremely hard to balance on it, especially without any good handholds.

But sure enough, there’s a faint outline of a boot print on the wood.

I glance down. My stomach tumbles unpleasantly at the thought of climbing two stories and then perching up here.

I wouldn’t have attempted it, that much I know.

Orcs might be good fighters and adept enough at mountain climbing, but that doesn’t mean I don’t prefer to have my two feet firmly on the ground.

How did they make it all the way up here without the guards noticing? My window sits almost directly above the main entrance to the inn, so anyone climbing up would be at least temporarily visible from the entryway.

I narrow my eyes and study the ledge again, then finally look up.

“No,” I murmur. “Not likely.”

The overhang alone would be difficult to pass, let alone the fact that the thief would have to be mad to attempt a descent like that.

But if they had someone to lower them down with a rope…

“Fuck.”

It must have been a team of thieves. A pair, at least. They came down from the roof, grabbed what they could, and made their way back to the rooftops.

From there, I bet they could escape easily, given how close the buildings are in this part of Ultrup.

The perfect getaway plan, especially with the city watch only patrolling the streets.

I’ll have to tell Major Strahl that the lowlifes have appropriated all levels of this city, from the sewers to the roofs.

A gust of wind blows in through the open window, sending an uncharacteristic shiver through me. I’m not cold, exactly, but something niggles at the back of my mind, something I’m missing.

I stare outside, trying to figure it out. My gaze lands on the building across the street, one of those townhouses with a stone base and wooden upper floors. Even for someone with a death wish, that roof’s too far to jump from. The thief couldn’t have come from directly across the street, but…

They must’ve been watching me from up there.

I close the window and secure the latch, not that it’ll do much against thieves like these.

Then I move back into the room, trying to figure out where they would’ve sat to see in.

Shifting from side to side, I squint at the buildings.

I finally settle on a flat section between two steep slopes, probably swallowed in shadow at night.

How the fuck did they get up there? It’s three stories high, and those roofs are steep, shingle or clay tile, and slick with even a little moisture.