Page 40 of Unravelled

The streets of Seacliffe stretched before them, alive with lantern glow and the hum of voices. Torvyn and Tharion moved beside her, their hoods pulled low, their faces half-hidden in the flickering torchlight.

Mira, however, looked nothing like herself.

Her hair, now a deep dark hue, fell in loose, glossy waves over her shoulders.

The transformation was uncanny, unnatural, like stepping into someone else’s skin.

Kohl rimmed her eyes, the dark pigment sharp against her now-pale complexion.

Her lashes, long, feathered, framed her gaze with an otherworldly allure.

Even her lips, glossed and plump, whispered of mystery, of temptation.

Her robe fluttered around her as they moved, the airy fabric tugged gently by the breeze, its hem weighted just enough to keep it grounded.

Shadows clung to their frames, making them just another trio of nameless figures navigating the narrow streets.

But beneath it… Mira felt exposed. The exquisite corset and shadowlace undergarments clung to her, thin, revealing, leaving little to the imagination.

A second skin, one meant to be seen, to be noticed.

Every step made her hyperaware of how little she truly wore underneath.

She lifted her chin, adjusting the way the robe settled over her shoulders, forcing herself into the role she had to play.

The alley behind the pleasure house was narrow, dimly lit, the scent of spiced smoke, ale, and perfume thick in the humid air. The faint hum of laughter and music seeped through the walls, a distant promise of indulgence and secrecy.

Mira forced herself to keep her steps steady.

Ahead, Torvyn knocked once, twice, sharp and deliberate.

A moment later, a metal eye slot scraped open, revealing nothing but a pair of sharp, assessing eyes.

Torvyn and Tharion stepped aside. Mira lifted her chin.

A pause, then the clunk of an iron latch.

The heavy wooden door groaned open, revealing a broad-shouldered man with dark, inked skin, his forearms wrapped in leather bindings.

His eyes flicked over Mira first, slow, deliberate, before shifting to Torvyn and Tharion, suspicion curling at the edge of his mouth.

"You're almost too late. We've been sending girls to tease him all night." His voice was gravel-thick, laced with impatience. Clearly down by too many nights in the haze of this place. "I think he's almost done." Without another word, he stepped aside, motioning them forward.

Inside, the backroom was warm, suffocating, thick with the scent of burning incense, old wine, and bodies pressed too close. The walls were draped in rich, deep-colored fabrics, muffling the sounds of music beyond. Plush seating, velvet cushions thrown over low wooden lounges lined the space.

In the far corner, a half-curtained doorway led deeper into the pleasure house, where the true indulgences waited.

Torvyn moved first, leading them toward the far side of the room, where a small, private alcove had been set aside.

And there, waiting with an air of effortless control, was Brahn.

He lounged in one of the well-kept chairs, boots planted firmly on the floor, a glass of something dark and amber-rich resting loosely in his hand.

His sharp gaze flicked up as they approached, assessing, calculating.

At his booth sat a young woman, arms folded, her expression cool.

Mira studied her high cheekbones, keen dark eyes, and a confidence that spoke of someone who understood the power of this place.

Her dress was simple but effective, the fabric clinging in a way that suggested purpose rather than accident.

She met Mira’s gaze before looking at Brahn. “This is her, then?”

Brahn nodded, setting his glass down. “Mira, and..."

His brows lifted just slightly. Anger crossed Brahn’s features, as though Tharion’s presence had not been accounted for.

A flick of his eyes toward Torvyn. The message is clear.

This intrusion will be dealt with later.

Mira caught it, caught the silent exchange between the two men, but before she could comment, Brahn leaned back in his chair, resting his elbow lazily against the armrest.

Brahn’s eyes flicked between them, something knowing, calculating, settling behind his gaze. But he didn’t push. Instead, he gesturing between them and the young woman. “This is Aelynn.” A pause. Then, with the faintest hint of amusement, he added, “My cousin.”

Mira blinked, glancing between them. Aelynn gave a slow, knowing smile, tilting her head. “Surprised?”

Mira barely let her expression shift. “You don’t look like family.”

Aelynn laughed, a low, smoky laugh. “Good.”

Aelynn's gaze drifted down, scanning the robe Mira wore, as if she could see through it, straight to what lay beneath.

She turned to Brahn. “He’s expecting another drink. And something better than the last girl.”

Mira lifted her chin. “I had better get out there then.”

Mira moved toward the curtain, steady, deliberate. Behind her, she heard Tharion shift, felt the weight of his presence at her back. Before he could follow, Aelynn stepped smoothly into his path, cutting him off with effortless grace.

One brow arched, she murmured, voice like silk laced with steel, “If you come out of that curtain, you may as well declare yourself for sale.”

The words hung between them, sharp and edged. Mira stilled, glancing back just in time to see Tharion’s jaw tighten. Aelynn, utterly unbothered, turned her attention back to Mira, amusement glinting in her dark eyes.

“Might be best if your boy enters through the front door instead. That way, he can keep an eye on you without ruining the illusion.”

Mira inhaled slowly. Aelynn was right. If Tharion followed her through, it would shatter the role she had to play before it even began. She held his gaze, waiting.

“She’s not wrong,” Mira said gently. “If you follow me out, the illusion breaks.”

Tharion’s fists curled just slightly at his sides, not in anger, not in protest, but in restraint. With a stiff nod, he stepped back. Mira turned to the curtain once more. And without another word, she stepped through.

The bar stretched long and lush, its polished mahogany counter gleaming under the low, golden light of the chandeliers above. Bottles of deep amber liquors and exotic elixirs lined the shelves behind it, their glass catching the flickering candlelight, casting warm glows across the room.

Men and women tended the bar, their attire scandalously minimal, designed more for allure than function. Bare skin, silk ribbons, corsets meant to be loosened. They moved with an effortless grace, their smiles lazy, practiced predators as much as they were entertainers.

The room itself was draped in decadence, red velvet seating wrapped around the space, alcoves darkened by heavy, silk curtains, meant for sensual moments whispered away from prying eyes. Smoke curled lazily in the air, carrying the scent of sandalwood, wine, and something richer, headier.

At the center, a small stage stood elevated, designed for performances meant to entertain and entice. Tonight, it sat empty, but the air still hummed with the ghosts of laughter, of music, of promises exchanged in the haze of pleasure.

Mira moved toward the bar, forcing her movements to be unhurried, practiced, like she belonged.

She leaned against the counter, fingers trailing along its polished surface.

The woman behind the bar, a striking beauty wrapped in only crimson silk, blonde curls falling over bare shoulders, paused in pouring a drink, her gaze flicking toward Mira with knowing amusement.

"You must be our special entertainment for Dren."

Mira didn’t blink. "Am I that obvious?"

"The dark hair, the robe just waiting to be unwrapped.

Absolutely," she said, lips curving as she leaned against the bar.

"He likes that, though." She tilted her chin toward the far corner of the room. "He’s been watching the girls all night, but he didn’t touch them. He was told you were just for him.”

Mira followed her gaze. There. Tall, broad-shouldered, with windswept brown hair and sun-bronzed skin, the unmistakable look of a man hardened by years at sea.

He sat alone in a shadowed corner, one hand lazily curled around his glass, the other resting against the armrest with confidence.

And yet, the moment their eyes met, his confidence wavered.

Mira saw it, the flicker of surprise, of intrigue.

His mouth parted slightly, his grip tightening around his glass.

Her pulse beat steady and slow. Good. She let her lashes flutter just slightly, tilting her head, letting a slow, shy smile curve her lips.

Play the game. She had meant to ease into it, take her time, let him look, let him want.

But the way his expression shifted, fascinated, ensnared, hungry, made her push a little harder than she’d intended.

Mira picked up the drink meant for him, wrapping her fingers around the glass as she moved across the room, her steps unhurried, deliberate. The weight of his gaze dragged over her as she approached, his eyes darkening with interest. She stopped in front of him, holding out the drink.

“This is for you,” she said softly, her voice barely above the hum of the room. Then, after a slight pause, she bit her lip. Dren leaned forward and took it from her hand, his fingers brushing against hers, lingering a second too long.

His lips moved into a slow smile as he studied her, head tilting slightly. "They told me I’d be pleased with someone special tonight."

Mira's stomach twisted. A flicker of panic shot through her. But before the moment could spiral, Dren exhaled, lifting the glass to his lips. "They didn’t tell me I’d be looking at something damn near divine."