Kaela Sunmane did not wait for Aric to assemble his courage.
She turned her back on him and walked deeper into the Velvet Hearth.
Her tufted tail swayed behind the hem of her green dress, brushing the doorframe as she passed.
The ring of brass keys at her hip chimed a steady, metallic rhythm against her thigh.
Aric stood on the threshold for two seconds.
The night air of the Lantern District pressed against his back.
The heat of the house pushed against his face.
He put the iron key into his coat pocket, picked up the leather handle of his travel trunk, and stepped inside.
The front hall gave way to a wide public lounge.
Cushioned benches lined the walls, arranged around low mahogany tables.
Two musicians sat near a massive stone hearth, playing a hand drum and a wire-strung harp.
The music provided a pulse beneath the hum of conversation, the clink of glassware, and the scrape of boots on polished floorboards.
Staff moved through the room with practiced purpose.
A human woman in a dark red house coat collected empty wine cups on a silver tray.
A slender elf man escorted an older merchant toward a side corridor, speaking in low tones while the merchant nodded eagerly.
Near the hearth, a Dwarf pipewright cursed a leaking wall-valve, tightening a wrench around the brass fitting.
“This is the public floor,” Kaela said, not slowing her pace.
“Wine, music, waiting.
Clients drink here while deciding if they want a bath, a companion, or an excuse to go home.
Brinna runs the kitchen through that arch.
The bath wing is down the left corridor.
If a client causes a disturbance here, Gorren throws them into the canal.” Aric looked back at the front hall.
Gorren, the older Minotaur sitting by the door, adjusted a leather bracer over one bicep.
“I understand,” Aric said.
“You understand the floor plan,” Kaela corrected.
She stopped at the base of a sweeping, carpeted staircase.
A second Minotaur stood on the bottom landing.
He possessed darker fur than Gorren and wore an iron cap over the tip of his left horn.
“Domm,” Kaela said.
“Owner.” Domm looked at the travel trunk in Aric’s hand, then at Aric’s face.
He offered a single, blunt nod and stepped aside.
“No one goes up these stairs without a room token or a staff badge,” Kaela said, starting up the steps.
“The second and third floors are private.
The wood is thicker.
The carpets are padded.
The clients pay for discretion.” Aric hauled his trunk up the stairs.
The weight dragged at his shoulder, giving him something practical to focus on.
The smell of roasted meat and spiced wine faded, replaced by the scent of beeswax, massage oils, and sweat.
They reached the second-floor landing.
A long hallway stretched in both directions.
Wall lamps cast a warm, dim glow over numbered mahogany doors.
A human man in a loose linen shirt walked out of a room halfway down the hall, carrying a stack of damp towels.
He offered Kaela a tired smile, ignored Aric entirely, and disappeared down a service stairwell.
“Your grandfather’s office is at the far end,” Kaela said.
She walked past the first door.
Aric followed her.
He expected silence.
Kaela had mentioned thick wood and padded carpets.
He assumed discretion meant quiet.
He assumed wrong.
As they passed Room Three, a rhythmic thud shook the wall.
The sound vibrated through the floorboards, traveling up the soles of Aric’s boots.
Thud.
Wood groaned against plaster.
Thud.
A woman cried out inside.
“Gods,” she gasped, the word breaking into a wet sob.
“Don’t stop.
Drive it in.” A deep growl answered her, low enough to vibrate through the door.
It sounded like something that belonged in a deep forest, not a second-floor suite.
Thud.
“Yes,” the woman begged, her voice hitching higher over the slapping sound of heavy flesh striking flesh.
“Stretch me out.
Keep that knot inside me.” Aric froze mid-step.
The handle of his trunk slipped in his grip.
His face flooded with heat, burning from his collar to his scalp.
He stared at the brass hinges on the door of Room Three.
He tried to imagine how hinges were forged.
He tried to think about the melting point of brass.
The bedframe inside let out a violent crack.
The growl rumbled again, followed by the slick, messy sound of thick anatomy sliding out and slamming back into wet heat.
The woman screamed her approval.
Kaela stopped two paces ahead.
She looked back at Aric.
She did not offer him a moment of sympathy.
“Wolf Kin companion.
Reinforced room,” Kaela said.
“Except they keep breaking the pine frames.” Aric forced his legs to move.
He kept his gaze stubbornly fixed on the carpet, avoiding Kaela entirely.
“Right.
Pine frames.” “Keep walking, Master Vale.” He walked.
He wanted to reach the end of the hall.
He dragged the trunk faster, eager to put distance between himself and the groaning wood.
He made it past Room Four.
He reached Room Six.
Room Six was worse.
The door was solid mahogany, but the sounds bleeding through the gap at the floor were sharp.
“You’re tearing me apart,” a human woman gasped.
The sound carried no protest.
A heavy, punishing impact followed, shaking the framed painting on the corridor wall.
A deep, tusk-clicking grunt answered her, accompanied by the heavy creak of rope as someone’s wrists pulled against the bedposts.
Aric had no idea what kind of man or beast could produce a grunt that thick, but the sheer force of the impact against the mattress made him glad for the thick door.
Aric quickened his pace.
He wanted to look anywhere but the rooms, but his eyes betrayed him, catching the polished brass numeral 9 as he hurried past.
“Gods,” a man gasped through the wood.
“Yes.
Wrap it around me.
Tighter.” A low, vibrating hiss answered him.
It was a predatory, non-human hum that made the hair on Aric’s arms stand up.
The heavy rustle of coils shifting against a mattress followed, accompanied by a wet, sliding sound and another desperate moan from the human client.
“Stop thrashing,” the hissing voice commanded.
She slurred the words with cold, elongated pleasure.
“Empty that little human cock into my clutch.
I am going to squeeze every drop out of you.” The man let out a ragged, open-mouthed wail as the rhythmic grinding accelerated.
Kaela caught Aric by the shoulder.
Her grip stopped him dead in his tracks.
“Look down,” she ordered.
Aric clamped his jaw shut.
“I am trying not to look at anything.” “Look at the floor, Master Vale.” He dragged his gaze down to the carpet outside Room Nine.
A dark, oily stain soaked the red fabric near the baseboard.
Kaela released his shoulder and knelt, rubbing her thumb over the slick spot.
She smelled her fingers and grimaced.
“Alchemical lubricant.
Client brought his own imported oil.
Naga companions require different friction, but this cheap harbor oil eats through the carpet backing if it sits too long.” Aric stood clutching his trunk while the man inside Room Nine let out a muffled shout of climax.
Aric focused entirely on the stain.
“What do I do about the oil?” he asked.
Kaela stood up and wiped her thumb on a rag she pulled from her belt.
“You authorize Perrin to dock the client’s house-credit for cleaning fees.
If you ignore it because you are too busy blushing, the floorboards rot.
If the floorboards rot, the health inspector revokes our lower-wing license.
If the license is pulled, your grandfather’s trustees take this building and you spend the rest of your life copying ledgers in Dawnhold.” She tossed the rag back onto her belt.
“Your embarrassment costs money, Master Vale.
Decide right now if you can afford it.” Aric looked at the stain.
Then he looked at the door.
The hissing inside had subsided into a low, satisfied purr.
He shifted his grip on the trunk.
His hand ached, and his collar felt tight against his throat, but the panic in his chest crystallized into cold logistics.
The stain was a problem.
The bed slats in Room Three were a problem.
The ledgers were a problem.
He knew how to fix problems involving numbers and wood.
“Tell Perrin to dock the cleaning fee,” Aric said.
His voice came out flat.
“And tell the carpenter to start sourcing ironwood for the bed frame in Room Three.
It bends before it snaps.” Kaela’s feline ears twitched forward.
A slow, approving smile showed the edges of her canines.
“Ironwood splinters require a specialist to sand,” she noted.
“It is cheaper than replacing pine every month.” “We will see.” Kaela turned and resumed her walk down the corridor.
“Your quarters are on the third floor.
We keep the owners far enough away from the noise to sleep, but close enough to smell the smoke if the kitchen burns.” Aric followed her.
He passed Room Eleven without flinching, even as the wet smack of skin and a sharp, breathless laugh bled through the wood.
He kept his eyes on the floorboards, watching for stains.
Kaela led him up the final flight of stairs.
The third floor lacked the velvet and the dim, ambient heat of the floor below.
The carpet thinned to a sturdy wool runner.
The doors were plain oak, painted with numbers but lacking the brass vanity plates of the suites.
“Staff quarters, storage, and management,” Kaela said, pointing down the hall.
“Linens on the left.
The winter room is at the end of the wing.
Your door is number sixteen.” Aric stopped outside Room Sixteen.
He set the trunk down and retrieved the iron key from his pocket.
He pushed it into the lock.
It clicked over with a dry, stiff resistance.
He pushed the door open.
The room was small, clean, and entirely devoid of luxury.
A narrow bed sat against the far wall, covered with a gray wool blanket.
A wooden desk and a single wooden chair occupied the corner near the window.
A washbasin rested on a small table.
A wardrobe stood by the door.
That was all of it.
His grandfather owned two cities, yet he had assigned his heir a room that resembled a monastery cell.
Kaela leaned against the doorframe, watching him catalog the empty space.
“Mera left the condition report on the desk,” Kaela said.
“Read it before you sign it.
The basin has a chip on the rim.
If you fail to note it, Perrin will dock your private stipend when you leave.” Aric walked over to the desk.
The folded paper sat in the center of the wood.
He looked at the washbasin.
There was, indeed, a small chip near the ceramic lip.
He picked up the paper, read the lines, and reached for the inkwell.
“Mera handles the scheduling and the daily floor management,” Kaela said while he unscrewed the ink cap.
“You will meet her tomorrow.
Brinna runs the food.
Gorren handles the door.
I manage the front floor and the staff complaints.
Perrin handles the money.
Vaelisse handles the things that cost more than money.” Aric dipped the quill.
“Vaelisse?” “Frost Elf.
Senior companion.
She was your grandfather’s second.
Now she is yours, assuming she decides you are worth keeping.” Aric signed his name at the bottom of the condition report.
“And if she decides I am not worth keeping?” “Then she will make sure the trustees find a reason to break your contract before the winter solstice.” Kaela pushed off the doorframe.
“Breakfast is at the seventh bell.
Do not be late.
Brinna charges copper for cold eggs.” She pulled the door shut behind her.
The latch clicked into place.
Aric stood alone in Room Sixteen.
The silence of the third floor pressed in around him, heavy and isolating.
He walked over to the narrow window and pushed the latch up.
The glass swung outward, letting in the cold canal breeze and the distant, chaotic noise of the Lantern District.
He rested his hands on the wooden sill.
Below him, the water reflected the gold and red lanterns stringing the bridges.
He thought about the twenty silver he could have taken.
He thought about his mother sipping tea in Dawnhold Manor.
He thought about the alchemical oil rotting the floorboards outside Room Nine, and the Wolf Kin breaking the bed in Room Three.
Aric loosened his collar, pulled a lungful of cold river air, and turned back to face the empty desk.