Clipped

Chapter 3.

​The window was a mockery. The iron bars, rusted and cold, sliced the moon into thin, silver ribbons that fell across Rhiannon’s face. She didn’t mind the bars; they were the most honest thing in this room. They didn't pretend to be jewelry, and they didn't ask her to smile.

​Rhiannon stood in the center of the small, cramped space that had been her world for a decade. Her skin, once the vibrant, glowing porcelain of the High Forest fairies, was now a flat, sickly translucent pale. The light in her deep green eyes hadn't just dimmed- it had been extinguished, snuffed out three years ago on the night Lord Vex had claimed his "prize." Since then, her face had settled into a permanent, stony mask. The muscles required to smile felt useless, like the phantom itch of the wings she no longer possessed.

​Downstairs, the "party" was in full swing. It was a cacophony of shattering glass, braying laughter, and the rhythmic thumping of music that felt like a headache behind her eyes. The scent of spilled ale and cheap perfume drifted up through the floorboards. Rhiannon turned away from the moon, her deep blue silk nightdress- a garment designed to be easily removed, whispering against her thin, malnourished legs.

​She was halfway to the thin mattress when her door was forcefully slammed open. The impact was violent, rattling the cheap, thin walls and sending a framed charcoal sketch of a tree- her only possession, skewed on its nail.

​Rhiannon didn’t jump. She didn’t even flinch. Fear was a luxury she had outgrown. Without turning to look at the intruder, she kept her back to the door, her voice a flat, practiced drone.

​"I’m not in the rotation tonight," she said, her tone as dry as autumn leaves. "If you’re looking for a mythical, check Room 2. There’s a nymph there who’s quite popular. If you want them to wear lingerie, it’s an extra fifty. If you want them to stay quiet, it’s a hundred."

​"What?"

​The voice was not the slurred, wet growl of a drunken merchant or the arrogant drawl of a nobleman. It was deep, resonant, and sounded genuinely startled.

​Rhiannon sighed, the sound heavy with exhaustion, and slowly turned. Her gaze drifted upward- and kept going. The man in the doorway was massive, his broad shoulders nearly brushing the frame. He was a werewolf; the sheer vitality radiating off him was a dead giveaway. He had thick, dark brown hair and eyes of a blue so bright they looked electric, swirled with flecks of molten gold that betrayed his inner wolf. He was, by any objective standard, incredibly handsome, but to Rhiannon, he was just another customer.

​"Listen," she said, her dark green eyes meeting his with a chilling lack of interest. "I’m about to go to sleep. I have a long day tomorrow- three bookings back-to-back. If it’s me you want, come back then. I’ll be in Room 4. My schedule is on the board downstairs."

​The man flinched as if she’d struck him.

"Wha-? No. No, I’m not here for... for that. I’m not here to use you like those dogs out there." He jerked a thumb back toward the hallway, where the sounds of the festivities continued.

​Rhiannon quirked a thin, dark eyebrow. She crossed her arms over her chest, the silk of her nightdress shimmering in the candlelight. "Then why are you here? This isn't a library, and you clearly didn't lose your way to the washroom."

​The man shifted his weight, looking uncharacteristically nervous for a creature that could likely tear the building down with his bare hands. He looked around the room, his gaze lingering on the bars on the window and the meager bowl of cold porridge on her bedside table.

​"What's your name?" he asked softly.

​"Rhiannon Deeproot," she replied, her voice clipped.

​"Rhiannon Deeproot," he repeated, the name sounding strange and melodic in his deep voice. He whispered it again, as if memorizing the taste of it. "Rhiannon... how long have you been in this place?"

​"Ten years."

​The gold in his eyes flared. "And you are...?"

​"Eighteen," she replied, her frown deepening. "Is there a point to this interrogation, or are you just a fan of depressing statistics?"

​"Eighteen?" He stepped further into the room, his brow furrowed, his jaw ticking with a rhythmic, suppressed heat. "You mean you started... doing this at eight years old?"

​Rhiannon let out a sharp, jagged breath. "Not by choice. And no, the Master 'saved' me until I was fifteen. He said I was an investment. He wanted the highest return for a noble virgin. Satisfied? Now, why are you here?"

​The werewolf took another step, his presence suddenly overwhelming the small room. He smelled of pine needles and rain- scents Rhiannon hadn't truly smelled in a decade. "How much do you cost?"

​Rhiannon let out a small, bitter laugh. It was a sound devoid of mirth, a hollow rattle in her chest. "It depends on how long and what you want. The base price is one hundred and fifty coins an hour for talking. More if you want to touch."

​"Not for the hour," he said, shaking his head fiercely.

​"Fine. For the night, I go for three hundred. Five hundred if you want me to leave the house with you for a 'dinner date'- though the Master sends two guards to watch us the whole time."

​"Not for the night," he growled, his voice dropping an octave. He seemed caught in a storm of emotions- anger, nervousness, and a frantic sort of impatience.

​Rhiannon let out an exasperated sigh, her patience snapping like a dry twig. "What are you looking for then? Stop beating around the bush. Just tell me what you want so I can go to sleep. My back aches and I don't have the energy for riddles."

​The man grew very still. His blue-gold eyes locked onto hers with an intensity that made the air in the room feel heavy. "How much would it be for your Master to let you go? Forever."

​The silence that followed was absolute. Then, Rhiannon threw her head back and laughed. It wasn't the forced, tinkling laugh she used for clients; it was a loud, jarring sound that might have shaken the walls if it weren't so laced with poison.

​"Let me go?" She shook her head, her long blue hair swaying around her waist. "That’s funny. You’re a comedian. The Master wouldn't let me go if there were no one left on the planet to pay for me. I’m his highest earner. I’m his 'favorite toy' because I don't fight back anymore. I’m a status symbol."

​She stepped closer to him, her tiny, malnourished frame dwarfed by his shadow. "If you’re looking to play the hero, go find one of the other girls. Malory or Lyra. They still have hope. Set them free. Me? I’m stuck here until the day I die. That’s the only way out of a contract signed in blood."

​The man’s muscles coiled. His hands balled into fists so tight his knuckles turned white, and Rhiannon could see the cords of his neck straining. The fury radiating off him was a physical heat, a silent scream of outrage that seemed to vibrate in the very marrow of her bones. He looked like he wanted to break the world, starting with the floor beneath his feet.

​"Then it's a good thing," he rasped, his voice vibrating with a dangerous, predatory edge, "that I brought a very large hammer."