The smell of beef hits me now, sizzling in the pan, its rich, bloody aroma mingling with the sharp tang of onions and a fresh egg from my hens out back. I sear it rare, which is just how I like it, so that the juices burst in my mouth and my jaw hums with delight. I wash it down with ale from a chipped mug, scrubbing the pan clean in a washtub by the hearth, as thoroughly as I’d cleanse my own skin.
In the centre of the room sits a wobbly table, just big enough for two rickety chairs. It’s where I eat, plan, or sometimes just stare at a flickering candle, lost in thought. Across from it, in the left corner, is my bed—a simple straw mattress on a frame I hammered together myself, low to the ground and piled with wool blankets that smell faintly of lavender and dew. Beside it, I’ve rigged a makeshift bookcase from salvaged planks; its shelves sag under the weight of a few battered tomes and scrolls I’ve scavenged.
The washtub, dented and wide, sits near the back wall by a narrow window, where I bathe and scrub my linens, the water cold but bracing.
All of my weapons lean by the front door, including my pride, Malenia, a greataxe I forged myself in the smithy out back. Her blade is wicked sharp, and she’s balanced to perfection, with a leather-wrapped handle moulded to my grip. Swinging her feels like a dance, the air singing as she cuts through it, heavy and alive.
Outside, beyond the cottage’s sagging door, my small yard contains the smithy; a squat shed where I craft horseshoes for London’s endless stream of carthorses. There’s also a chicken coop, clucking with my hens, and a barn for my treasures, Ada and Milly. Ada, my fierce mare, has a chestnut coat and black legs, her mane braided tight because I can’t resist fussing over her. She’s my heart, strong enough to pull a cart but wild enough to race me through the fields. Milly, my black-and-white cow, chews lazily nearby, and my woodworking tools are stacked for tinkering with the flatboat I keep for the Thames.
With breakfast done, I scrub my hands, grab my bundle of weapons, and sling my pack over my shoulder, the mask tucked inside for later. My hat is wide-brimmed, and my cloak patched but warm. I step into the yard, the air thick with coal smoke and river stink. In the barn, I pat Milly’s flank, then wrap my arms around Ada, slipping her an apple. She nickers, ready for the day as I saddle her, securing my gear, Malenia’s weight a comfort against the rigging. Today is for her—no swords, just her, and I want her edge red by dusk.
I swing into the saddle with a grunt, Ada’s muscles tensing beneath me, eager for the ride. We’re off to town, where one fool waits—a drunk who torched a barn with his careless pipe.
Men are such idiots. I’ve only ever had one, years back, a whining sot who couldn’t please me and stank of ale and failure.Women are my choice now, their softness a secret I chase in shadowed brothels, the thrill of being caught sharpening every stolen touch.
With Ada’s hooves drumming the earth, I ride toward the city, my greataxe humming at my side, ready for the dance.
The crowd was let into the grounds before I had even arrived today, so I walk up the steps to my arena, spinning my axe casually, smirking behind my mask as light flashes from it across this piece of human filth’s face. He and the guards were already waiting for me on stage today and a flash of fear in his eyes accompanies his shock at my casual display of strength and dexterity with her.
Once I'm in position, I look towards the crowd, praying that I feel those black eyes on me once more. I fail to see them, though, and a flicker of disappointment sears through me, making me grip the hilt tighter.
“Robert Hughs, you are sentenced to death for arson,” the guard announces, pushing Robert’s head onto the block. His neck looks divine, all stretched out and waiting for me. I suppress a groan as I palm the axe’s handle, getting myself ready. Robert stays quiet like a good boy; no crying, no begging, just silence and acceptance whilst he awaits death.
As usual, the crow caws, and I raise my axe. Swinging down with all my strength, I make a clean cut, detaching his head from his weak body. I clamp my thighs together, feeling the wetness starting to pool between them from the rush killing gives me. I glance down at Robert's head in the basket; he’s facing me, his expression passing from terror to peace in death within secondsas I watch, but his eyes are already closed, so I cannot see the spark leave them.
A pity really.
It's a shame I only had one kill today. It's not enough. It's never enough. Ineedmore. I'm frustrated and feel utterly robbed, especially after yesterday’s final kill was stolen from me. I desperately need to get rid of this frustration, but I can't go round killing without cause… Maybe I should visit the whore house, instead. I grab my weapons and prepare to leave. The crowd still hangs around my stage, and I have to fight through them as I hop down from the stage, but something catches my eye.
I freeze, my body not allowing me to take another step.
I glance around the crowd, who have gone silent again. Everything is in slow motion, just like yesterday, and I seeit.
Thoseeyes.
It's a man. He just stands there, watching me from the midst of the silent, still crowd. His long black hair dances across his face, his head is tilted down slightly, and his eyes are pure black, rooting me to the spot. I struggle to breathe, air catching in my throat, in my lungs. I can't see much of him from this distance, but I know, andfeel,that all of his attention is on me, like I am the only person here right now.
Time seems to catch up, and the crowd comes back to life. As people walk past me, the man disappears. I catch my breath, looking around frantically to see if he’s moved somewhere else but I can't feel his presence anymore. I shake my head, snapping out of my trance and find that my feet are taking me away from here.
I must be far more frustrated than I thought.
I rein in Ada to a halt outside De-Vil’s Delights, the only brothel worth the mud on my boots. The double doors swing open under my palm like they’ve been waiting for me, and I stride in as if the whole damn place is mine. The girls here crave a firm hand, and I give it gladly.
I’ve been close to these women for years now. If I ever find a lost girl out on the streets, I guide them here to safety. Well, safety meaning a roof over their heads, a bed and food in their bellies. Women need to be loved and protected.
Madame De-Vil greets me immediately, a vision tall enough to nearly match my height, with golden curls pinned high and a few rebellious strands framing that wicked face. Her body is all dangerous curves, poured into a crimson dress that begs to be peeled away, and those sapphire eyes could drown a saint. Tonight, I don’t want my regulars. I want her.
“Hey, love,” she purrs, her voice honey over steel. “Hunting for the twins, again?”
I close the distance, tipping her chin until her gaze locks on mine. “Tonight, it’s you I want, Madame.”
Her breath hitches and I feel her melt against me. She slips my fingers from her jaw, laces them with hers, and leads me up the sweeping staircase—I earnt the key to her private chambers long ago. Her dress cuts off just above her knees, and every step she takes flashes creamy thighs and a teasing glimpse of her naked ass. She knows exactly what she’s doing, and I’m already gone for her.
Before we reach the landing, two pairs of hands snag my wrist and yank me back down three steps. Identical faces—buxom, flushed, wicked—beam up at me.
“Evie!” they chorus, mock-scandalised. “You’d climb those stairs without a proper greeting?”
The Crimson Twins, Scarlet and Raven, are shorter than me by a head and spilling out of matching corsets. Scarlet’s hair burns like fresh blood, green eyes glittering; Raven’s locks are near-black, her gaze the same impossible blue as the Madame’s. They have the same pert noses, the same lush mouths painted to ruin, and the same dazzling grins that promise chaos.
