NUISANCE BLOOD

CHAPTER THREE:FAIR TRADE

."

"Fair?" The word came out sharp, almost a laugh. She didn't step back, but she shifted her weight—a predator's subtle adjustment. "You kidnapped me. You drugged me. You left a knife on my pillow like a serial killer's calling card. Fair left the building the moment you threw a head at my canvas. Try again."

"You're still angry about the painting." He sounded almost pleased.

"I'm always angry about art ruined by amateurs." Her voice cooled to a razor's edge. "You could have thrown it anywhere. Left, right, into the alley. But no. You aimed for the one spot that mattered. Either you're cruel, or you're clumsy. Which is it?"

"Little of both." He took a step closer, and the air thickened. The scent of him—cedar and cold metal—wrapped around her. "Mostly cruel. But also... curious. You didn't flinch when the head landed. Most people do."

"I told you. I'm not most people."

"No." He stopped an arm's length away, close enough that she could see the fine scar bisecting his left eyebrow, the way his pupils were slightly dilated despite the dim light. "You're not. Most people would have told me their name by now. You're still holding yours like a weapon. That tells me it matters. That tells me you're hiding something."

"Everyone hides something." Her pulse hammered, but her voice stayed bored. She watched his hands—loose, relaxed, a killer's hands at rest. "You're hiding behind that charming smile and those clean shirts. I'm hiding behind sarcasm. We all cope. Doesn't make me special."

"It does, actually." His gaze sharpened, the predator surfacing. "You mentioned sunrise. Like a door. Like someone was coming. Who were you waiting for on that rooftop?"

The question hit its mark. Inside her skull, a single thought blazed: He caught it. Of course he caught it. Don't flinch. Don't blink. Deflect. She let the silence stretch for half a heartbeat—just long enough to seem thoughtful, not long enough to seem guilty. Her face was a mask of mild bemusement.

"Sunrise is a metaphor," she said, each syllable measured. "Poetic types like me use it all the time. New beginnings, hope, blah blah. If I'd meant someone was coming, I'd have said 'my armed bodyguards arrive at six.' I didn't. So relax."

"Metaphors." He circled her now, a slow orbit that forced her to turn slightly or let him out of her sight. She chose to hold her ground, tracking him with her ears, her peripheral vision, the fine hairs on her arms. "You're full of them. The painting. The head. The crown of thorns you'll probably draw on my portrait later. But metaphors are just truths dressed up for a party. I'm asking you to undress yours."

"Forward." The word was a blade wrapped in silk. She didn't blush; she didn't retreat. She met the innuendo with a flat stare. "Buy me dinner first."

"We had dinner. Last night. You weren't there for it, but the table was set. Tonight, you'll join me. We'll continue this... dance."

"And if I refuse?"

He stopped moving. The stillness was more threatening than his circling. "You won't. You're too curious now. You want to know who I am as much as I want to know who you are. That's the problem with two puzzles meeting. Neither can walk away without solving the other."

The truth of it stung, and she hated him for being right. She was curious. She was always curious—it was the trait that would get her killed or crowned, her father used to say. Right now, it felt like both.

"Fine." She let the word drop like a gauntlet. "Dinner. But I want answers. Real ones. Not the cryptic dark-lord nonsense."

"Answers are earned." He resumed his slow orbit, and she caught the glint of a cufflink shaped like a serpent swallowing its own tail. "But I'll give you a free one, since you entertained me on the rooftop. You asked if there's a gang war happening. The answer is yes. There's always a war. Right now, it's quiet. But quiet is just loud waiting to happen."

She catalogued the information with clinical precision. A war. Rival factions. The Sheikhs he'd mentioned earlier. Her father's world—the one she'd been born into and spent a lifetime learning to navigate from the inside. She'd pretended ignorance on the rooftop, but the name Sheikh had struck a nerve. Her father had business with them, or against them. She'd never been sure. Now she knew: they were active, hostile, and this man was their enemy. That made him either her enemy or her weapon. Time would tell.

"So you're a player in this war," she said, voice flat. "Which side? King? Pawn? Joker?"

He stopped near the door, turning to face her with a smile that held no warmth. "I'm the one everyone else is playing against. The Sheikh family thinks they can move shipments through my city without my permission. They're wrong. A few days ago, I sent them a message. That message lost his head. You witnessed the delivery."

"Sheikh family. Huh." She shrugged, the gesture deliberately dismissive. "Sounds familiar. Maybe I read about them in the papers. Or maybe I didn't. Hard to keep track of all the criminals these days."

Karan's smile widened by a fraction. He'd seen it—the micro-flinch, the almost imperceptible tightening around her eyes when he'd said the name. "You're a terrible liar. Your eyes flickered when I said Sheikh. Just a fraction. But I saw it."

Inside, her mind raced. 'He saw. Doesn't matter. He doesn't know why. My father never mentioned active hostility with the Singh family. This is new. Or old. Either way, I need to figure out who exactly this man is before I say the wrong thing.' She held his gaze, unblinking. "You saw what you wanted to see. I flickered because I'm hungry and you're monologuing again. Are we done? I need to mentally prepare for this dinner you're so excited about."

"One last thing." He didn't move toward the door. Instead, he leaned back against the wall, arms crossed, a conversational casualness that put her more on edge than any weapon could. "The bracelet. The one you threw into the drain when you thought I wasn't looking."

The temperature in the room didn't drop; it evaporated. Her blood turned to ice, but her face betrayed nothing. She'd been expecting this. She'd prepared. 'He knows. How? No. He might be bluffing. Stay calm. Don't confirm.'

"Bracelet?" She lifted her bare wrists, turning them over in the dim light. "I don't wear jewelry when I paint. Gets in the way. Check my wrists. Bare."

"I did check." His eyes didn't follow her wrists; they stayed locked on her face. "They're bare. But Vikram is thorough. He walked the rooftop again. Found a small scratch near the drain. Fresh. Like something metal scraped it. Something that wasn't there before."

"Then find it." She let boredom seep into her voice, a shield against the adrenaline screaming through her veins. "If it's so important, fish it out. I'll wait."

"Maybe I will. Maybe I already did." He pushed off the wall and walked to the door, pausing with his hand on the frame. "You'll find out at dinner. Dress code is... captive chic. Don't be late."

The door opened. He stepped through. The door closed. The lock engaged with a heavy click that reverberated through her bones.

She waited until his footsteps faded completely, then exhaled—a long, controlled release that carried the weight of a thousand unsaid things. She was alone again, but not unobserved. The camera would be recording. She couldn't show weakness. She couldn't show relief. She could only show the mask.

She walked to the bed, sat down, and whispered to the silence—low enough that the mic might catch it, might not. It didn't matter. These words were for her.

'He mentioned Sheikh. That's the rival outfit. Dad said they were contained. Lying old man. There's a war brewing and I'm stuck in the middle of it with a knife-wielding maniac who thinks I'm a clue. Fantastic.'

She reached under the mattress, touched the cold handle of the knife. The contact grounded her.

'But he still doesn't know who I really am. If he did, I'd be a bargaining chip, not a "lucky fish." So the mask stays. The game stays. Sunrise has come and gone. My people didn't find me. Which means the bracelet either got lost, or someone intercepted it. Or... Vikram. He looked at the drain too long. Did he see? Why didn't he say anything? Doesn't matter now. I survive. I learn. I find out who Karan Singh really is. And when I do, I'll know exactly where to sink the knife.'

She pulled the knife out, held it up to the faint light. Her reflection in the blade was distorted, ghostly—a woman made of sharp edges and colder calculation. A small smile tugged at the corner of her mouth, the kind that promised nothing good.

"Dinner, then. Let's see what the dark lord is serving."

She tucked the knife back under the mattress, then began to pace the perimeter of the room, counting steps, noting the seams of the door, the placement of the vent. Every cage had a weakness. She just needed to find it.

An hour passed. The only measure of time was her own internal clock—no windows, no clock, no phone. Just the hum of the ventilation and the slow, steady beat of her heart. When the knock came, she was ready.

Three precise raps. Not a servant's hesitant tap. A soldier's knock.

She didn't get up. "Enter."

The door opened to reveal a man built like a cliff face—broad, square-jawed, eyes that had seen violence and filed it away as routine. He stood in the doorway with the rigid posture of someone who'd been trained to kill, then trained again to serve. His name, she'd later learn, was Arjun.

"Miss. Mr. Singh requests your presence for dinner in one hour. I'm to escort you."

"Requests." She tilted her head, letting the word roll around her mouth like a sour candy. "That's a polite word for 'commands.' Tell Mr. Singh I'll be there. But I'm not wearing what he picked out. I'd rather eat in my paint-stained clothes than give him the satisfaction."

Arjun didn't blink. He'd been prepared for this. "He said you'd say that. He also said to tell you... quote... 'The paint is part of the art. Wear it. I want to see the mess you made of yourself.'"

She stared at him for a beat, then laughed—a short, incredulous sound that was entirely genuine. "Poetic. Creepy. Fine. Tell him the mess accepts his invitation. One hour. Don't be late yourself, Arjun. I hate waiting."

"I'm never late, miss."

"Good." She finally stood, meeting his gaze with the same flat, assessing stare she'd given his master. "Neither am I. We'll get along just fine."

The door closed. The lock re-engaged. Shraddha was alone again with her thoughts, her knife, and the chessboard that was slowly, inexorably taking shape in her mind.

Outside, the estate settled into its evening rhythm—guards rotating, servants moving like ghosts through hidden corridors, and somewhere in his study, Karan Singh swirling a glass of whiskey as he stared at the map on his wall. The She

ikh family. The mysterious artist. The bracelet that Vikram had not reported. All threads in a tapestry that neither of them could yet see the full pattern of.

But the threads were pulling tighter. And somewhere in the dark, the first strands were beginning to snap.