Chronology:

Winter in Riften

Learning the Hard Way

Taking a Sick Day

The Shadow's Reach

Impropriety

Chasing Shadows

The Bee and Barb was having a slow night. Talen-Jei swept a rag over the counter while a few customers lingered at the tables, the loiterers either too drunk or too lazy to move. Some of them probably had nowhere better to go, and others had taken a room for the night. The latter, however, were already abed at this time, leaving the bar area quiet but for the occasional refilling of a tankard or a particularly loud snore. At least one patron was asleep, his head on the table while Keerava collected coins from his pocket for an unfinished drink. The Argonian shook her head and moved back to the bar, glancing in the darkest corner of the room, where a lone figure sat.

Mercer Frey wasn't drinking, and he hadn't bought food. No doubt the proprietor wondered why he was present, leaning back in his chair and keeping no one's company. He was conscious of the Argonian's passing interest, and equally so of the woman sitting alone at the fireplace. Her blond hair and armor stood out among the room's ragtag collection of locals, especially given the sword at her waist. He hadn't come to watch her—hadn't come for any reason other than Maven—but found his eyes fixed on her nonetheless. The puppy wasn't with her tonight. Was she meeting Prim?

Prim Bleaksnow, he mused.

They had spoken little since returning from the Winterhold region. Sometimes she stopped by his desk to ask about work, but nothing of interest had arrived, so he told her to go bother Brynjolf. She was apt to follow the directive, but wasn't taking as many jobs as expected. That much was certain, and they'd been back in Riften for two fetching weeks already. She'd completed one theft in that time—one!—and hadn't been seen in the last four days. Brynjolf hadn't asked about her whereabouts either, telling Mercer that someone knew where she was; it just wasn't him.

The front door opened, and a woman stepped inside, finely dressed and with sharp features framed by raven hair. She fancied herself a queen. She might as well have been jarl, but one person Maven Black-Briar would not command was Mercer Frey. She'd wanted to meet earlier, and he'd declined, hardly in the mood to deal with her. Now she'd kept him waiting. Tit for tat. She strode into the room and swept eyes over its occupant, eventually locating him in his shadowed corner. A slow smile touched her face as she strode closer.

"I kept you waiting," she stated.

"Not long," he dismissed. He could strip the woman's house bare anytime he chose, all while she slept. Good for her that their relationship was so mutually beneficial. "Why did you want to meet, Maven?"

"Straight to business as always," she appraised, not bothering to sit down. "I have reason to believe that Sven Straight-Bow was supplying information to Honningbrew and that pest at Goldenglow throughout the entire affair. Maul was digging in the dirt like usual. He thinks Sven might still be in contact with the person responsible, although not recently."

"I'll look into it," Mercer drawled, showing no interest.

"I trust you will. I want this person to pay as much you do."

No, you don't. Although Maven's penchant for punishment was reliable and swift. He appreciated that about the woman—that and her cold taste for business. They were qualities Prim would hate, and likely the same ones that had made her steal from a king. Part of him waited for the day Maven woke up to find her most precious belongings gone, likely sunken in Lake Honrich. He would wring Prim's neck, of course. The guild needed Maven's support, even as he constantly sought other sources of gold. He would see the woman's influence curtailed before he was through, retained but reduced to a more controllable level.

"You're starting to look a little unkempt, Mercer," Maven mused. "A haircut and shave might do you well. Until another day."

She could kiss his boots, and now his time in the tavern was done. He was rising when a newcomer passed Maven in the doorway. The two woman briefly regarded one another, one impervious and the other ironclad. Then the moment was gone, the door swinging shut with a bang. He immediately settled back into his chair, fully focused on an exhausted Prim. She looked more worn than the day he'd drug her onto the tundra, when they'd been forced to sleep outside in one of Skyrim's most inhospitable regions. She had molded herself so willing against him, pulling his arms closer during the night, and mumbling something about his scent in her sleep. Would she be so willing now, if he grabbed and took her upstairs?

Prim joined Mjoll at the fireplace, hitting the chair hard. There was blood on her neck, and she dabbed a finger at it, seemingly surprised by its presence. The women shared muted words, and then Prim suddenly broke into laughter, tugging a braid over her shoulder and fiddling with it as the conversation picked up. There was a cloth bag on the floor beside her, clearly unsuited to travel or whatever rough-and-tumble she'd survived. She had better not get herself killed or incapacitated before winter broke, and never for some errant mission to destroy bandits or vampires.

"No!" Prim gasped with a smile, loud enough to make lingering customers turn. She grinned and lowered her voice while scooting her chair closer to Mjoll. Her brown eyes captured the firelight, her braid messy and coming undone. Mercer relaxed further into the shadows, unseen and unheard.

Such a sharp woman. She'd connected more between Nocturnal, the guild, and recent events than anyone else had. No one even suspected how far the tangled web reached, and here this thief who was not a thief was following each thread. She could easily become a problem. He'd known it as soon as she'd returned from Goldenglow, and if discovered, the truth would perhaps poison her as much as it had Karliah, only Karliah had already grown wary of him before the truth came to light. That Prim trusted him so readily would make any wound scab over all the more, scarring her beautiful body.

She has worse scars.

"I'd miss you."

The line ran through his mind, insistent and growing louder as he watched her lips purse in thought. Mjoll handed over a small letter, and Prim untied the ribbon binding it. Those lips turned downward, frowning before quivering. For a moment, Mercer didn't appreciate what was happening, but a sharp intake of breath and watering eyes quickly destroyed what remained of the woman's countenance. She was crying, almost silently, but crying all the same, right in the middle of a sodding tavern. Mjoll moved to wrap an arm around Prim, and blocked his view, making him scowl.

"Is everything alright?" Talen-Jei asked, drifting closer.

"Yes. We're fine," Mjoll answered.

Move already, Mercer mentally ordered. The woman did not, not until Prim stood to throw her letter into the fire, after which the two watched it burn to nothing. Tears streaked Prim's cheeks, catching and reflecting light before she wiped them away. He had never seen her cry like this—had never seen her look torn by sorrow. Those tears on the tundra had slipped free from a face of fear and pain, not sorrow. He had been surprised then, and equally so now. What could possibly upset the woman so?

"I thought you were gone."

He indulged in memory—her fingertips behind his ear, lips on his scalp, chest rising and falling in the bed beside him. Damn this woman. She was too dirtied to be so caring. She was collecting her belongings now, leaving while his curiosity was left far from satisfied. He watched the door close behind her, and counted down before following. She probably wouldn't notice an ogre following her at this rate. The fool was sniffing so loudly that he might have traced her path with his eyes closed, and when she disappeared into the cistern, he quickly followed.

Prim scrubbed the tears from her cheeks before descending into the cistern. Her eyes would still be red and puffy, but the worst of it needed to go. Losing composure like this was unacceptable, especially over such a natural and inevitable part of life as death. People aged until one day their hearts refused to beat any longer. It was simply the way of things, yet the shock remained. She had not expected a letter today let alone news of someone's passing, and this when she'd promised to return to Jorrvaskr before spring came and guild duties called. If she'd made the trip sooner, she would have seen Tilma one last time. Now she would never speak with the woman again.

She sat down on the edge of her bed, and kept her head lowered to hide her current state. Her braid was tugged loosed, providing a curtain of hair for further protection. She only need a few moments to recover from the shock, just a few. It was late and many of the other thieves were already abed, granting much needed solitude. There was time to breathe and let the tension go.

She glanced up and saw Mercer at his desk, gray eyes fixed on her before he began sorting through documents. He did not sit and looked almost restless, as though he might depart at any moment. She averted her gaze, and swung her feet around to sit on the other side of the bed. He did not need to see her sorrow, although it was probably too late. After what had happened on the tundra, he would likely think her soft.

"Prim? Everything alright, lass?"

Brynjolf was laying on the bed next to hers, drowsy but peering at her in interest. His eyes quickly settled on her damp eyes, and he immediately sat up with a roll of his shoulders. She offered him a weak smile, unable to hold it steady as he frowned.

"I'm alright," she said.

"And my mother was a giant. You don't look alright." His feet dropped over the edge of his bed, and he quickly joined her, sitting cautiously as though he feared it unwelcome. He wore leather pants and a tunic, thick socks on his feet for sleeping. "Did something happen on your job?" he asked.

"No. I cleared a few bandits out from a fort. That's all." She drew her legs onto the bed and exhaled. "I heard news from Whiterun tonight."

"Bad news?" he guessed.

"Is it that obvious?" she tried to laugh, but it fell flat. "Oh fine. There was an old maid in Jorrvaskr, more like our grandmother than anything. She'd been there longer than Kodlak. One time, she even tried teaching me how to stitch so I could..." Her voice cracked, and she frowned almost angrily. "...So I could fix my own 'stinking socks' from all the holes I put in them. She died the evening before last."

"Ah lass," Brynjolf soothed. "I'm sorry to hear that. Was it an easy death?"

"Yes. Farkas found her asleep in her favorite chair. He thought she was taking a nap."

One last tear slid free, and she wiped it away. Brynjolf's smile was warm and caring, as was the arm he wrapped around her. She leaned into him and sighed, remembering all the kind gestures that Tilma had made, and all of her wonderfully sharp comments as well.

"It was her time to go," Brynjolf spoke.

"I know. I just wasn't expecting it. I was so foolish bursting into tears, Bryn. Right in the Bee and Barb of all places!"

"Not foolish, lass. It's never easy to lose someone, even when you know it's coming."

She thought of Gallus and what it must have been like for Brynjolf to lose his father figure. Perhaps he'd never known a family beyond the guild. Suddenly feeling like a useless lump of lard propped against him, she gently pulled away, pushing her hair back and offering him a meek smile.

"Sorry for waking you up."

"You're apologizing?" he admonished with a smile. "Swallow it, lass. I'll not have you apologizing over such a thing. By morning, you'll have dry eyes."

"Sooner than that," she vowed.

"Aye. Your friend was old and is returned to youth now. There's little to mourn in that. I wouldn't think less of you for crying until morning though. Surely you know that."

He stared into the distance, gaze unfocused.

"Do you still think about Gallus's death all these years later?" she asked.

"As surely as you think about your mother's," he stated. "But the pain dulls after awhile, doesn't it? After you accept it. Now I can remember the fond things about him, not just how painful it was when he left us. My one hope is that he died well." She laid a hand on his thigh, as though he were the one in need of comforting, although the gesture was more for herself. His hand covered hers and gave a squeeze. "Look at us sitting here like two crying doves."

"Not doves," she weakly joked. "They don't live in sewers."

"No? I don't fancy comparing myself to a skeever."

"Stop," she nudged him. "Oh, I must a look a mess."

"But you're feeling better?" he probed.

"Not better, but more in control."

Divines, she really would have been a mess if Mercer had died on their trip. She'd handled death so indifferently for so long, yet some of the people she'd allowed into her life here in Skyrim...she couldn't be indifferent to them. Thieves at least were always risking their lives, but Tilma hadn't been a warrior destined to die in battle or sneaking into danger. Maybe that was why Prim felt so blindsided, and Mercer...Divines, but what about Mercer? Simply going after Karliah held the possibility of death, but she couldn't imagine him dieing.

"Vilkas said they're scattering her ashes in two days," she shared. "I'd like to be there to pay my respects. It's only right. She didn't have any blood relatives left."

"Then you should go, but not alone. You shouldn't be going anywhere alone after what happened with the assassins. That's not up for debate," he firmly added when she frowned.

"Dagon's balls," she murmured. "I'm not a child."

"It's got nothing to do with that," he corrected her. "The others weren't targeted. They don't need to be as cautious, but you're a different story. Would you really object to some company? I'll go with you."

"You don't mind?" she asked, making him chuckle. "What about the guild?"

"Mercer will mind the guild. He's not going anywhere. The man's practically a caged wolf in case you haven't noticed, and that's not likely to change until spring. The snow can't melt fast enough for him."

"Because of Karliah," Prim knowingly stated. "He was so frustrated that we couldn't reach her. I...I don't wish to pry, Bryn, but you don't seem to want her dead as badly as Mercer does."

"I would like to see justice for Gallus," he spoke. "But it's been a long time since I yearned to shed blood for him. She should die, lass. Don't misunderstand me on that point, but if anyone deserves to take her head, it's Mercer. He knew Gallus far longer than I did, and I wasn't as close to Karliah. Until now, I accepted that she'd faded into the darkness. I certainly never thought to see her again, and I made terms with that—let go of the anger. It wasn't worth keeping. Now..." His green eyes brimmed with conviction as they found hers. "I'll go after her if I get the chance, but it's not something I need to do. I'm not driven to it like Mercer is."

"Twenty some years is a long time," Prim mused.

"Aye. Loss heals, lass. You remember that while you think about your friend."

She nodded, knowing such truths, but also knowing that it took time. She would help scatter Tilma's ashes and close this chapter in life, saying goodbye as best she could. Brynjolf stood and pulled on his boots, a jacket sliding over his tunic.

"I'll let Mercer know that we're leaving in the morning," he stated.

"Do we need to tell him?" she questioned, glancing over her shoulder. The guildmaster was sitting now, seemingly focused on the ledger, although it was difficult to tell from this distance. "We can do a job while we're out to make it worth guild time. He was short-tempered yesterday. Sapphire said that he reamed out Vipir for botching a job."

"It's nothing I can't handle," the redhead dismissed. "I'd rather tell him now than come back and find out he needed something and couldn't find us. If you're still feeling sad, you might head over to the Ragged Flagon. Delvin is having one of his nights. I'm sure that he wouldn't mind company."

"I think that's a good idea."

And the only appealing option she had, especially since accompanying Brynjolf to Mercer's desk would mean exposing her puffy eyes to the guildmaster. She'd rather keep her dignity intact as she rose and headed for the Flagon, and really, her gut just knew that Mercer would be displeased with what Brynjolf shared.

The tavern was quiet, only one lantern remaining lit. It hung from the ceiling over the bar, a brazier set in the room's middle nearly extinguished, although the hot coals still burned. Delvin Mallory had pulled a chair close to the meager flames, and nursed a tankard, seemingly oblivious to Prim's arrival until she drew into the light. She greeted him and pulled a chair over to his side, wondering what kept the man awake. Of course, he always kept odd time, often the last to leave the Flagon on any given night, but sometimes he lingered well into morning with nothing but his own company. For someone who spoke their mind so bluntly, the man could be downright secretive when he wished it.

"Well, well," he mused. "There's another soul awake."

"I'm not sleepy," she responded. "And figured you could use some company on your solitary vigil."

"Is that how it is?" he smiled, sounding as gruff as ever. Even when he whispered, his baritone carried more than other voices. "I suppose that's why your eyes are all red. Keeping me company is a terrible burden."

"Ha. Very well," she conceded. "I'm heading out tomorrow for a funeral."

"Oh? Serious stuff, funerals. I only went to one. Decided I didn't need to go to another." He finished off his tankard and set it on the floor, rolling his neck to work out the kinks. "I'm flattered you want my company, but I'm not sure I'll be the best thing for you right now."

"Don't be silly," she smiled. "I think you're perfect company right now. Something's clearly under your skin too. We might as well sit and be miserable together."

"You ain't going to cry, are you?" he asked.

"No. I promise."

Delvin probably wouldn't know what to do with a crying woman, although he'd proven rather sympathetic on various occasions. His manner and bluntness seemed but the trappings of a warm heart to her. A diamond in the rough, she decided. Delvin was utterly unrefined, but wonderful nonetheless. She eyed his tankard and considered grabbing one for herself, but decided against it. She didn't need alcohol to muddle with her emotions.

"So you know what's bothering me," she stated. "But what about you?"

"Can't a man enjoy a little quiet in his favorite tavern?"

"Sure," she shrugged. "But I know you a bit better than that."

His face turned, and she noticed a discoloration and puffiness near his right eye, as if he'd been hit. Given the lack of darker bruising, it'd either been a light strike or only recently received.

"Divines, Delvin. I hope you didn't get into another match with Maul."

"I can handle a bet with Maul. Don't you worry about that. This beauty," he said, pointing to the tender flesh, "was a gift from Vex."

"What did you do?" Prim leveled, not unkindly but critical enough. "If you're serious about her, Delvin, you've got to change tactics."

"Oye, woman," the man frowned. "What makes you think I deserved a slap to the face?" He grumbled and crossed his arms, looking away from her. She immediately regretted being so critical, especially when this was obviously bothering him. "And I've never said a thing about being serious. She's a right beauty, of course. Damned good thief too."

"Alright," she relented. "Maybe I spoke too soon. So how did you get slapped?"

He was silent a moment, a boot tapping against the floor.

"I kissed her."

"What? Really? Like full on the mouth?"

"She was wonderful," he mused. "Didn't bite me or anything. We were in the training room and got to talking. The dim lighting seemed all right. You women like that sort of thing."

Not in a musty training room. Not really, but Delvin had at least made an effort to get it right. Maybe he'd taken Sapphire's lecture on wooing women seriously after all, but Prim's mind was still slightly boggled. She frowned in thought.

"So wait," she spoke. "Vex kissed you back?" He said nothing. "Delvin, did she kiss you back? That's important."

"I think so, yeah," he affirmed. "She didn't say anything though. I'm not sure whether that's good or bad. Usually I'm already taking someone to bed when the kissing starts. She just sort of...she left."

"After slapping you?"

"Nah. That's what she did when she saw me in the Bee and Barb. Complete misunderstanding. That drunk woman fell on my lap while blabbering about some guy named Sam."

"Oh, Delvin," Prim sighed with a smile.

"What?"

"Nothing. It's a good thing she slapped you."

"Tell that to my face."

"I'm being serious. If she didn't like you, she wouldn't have bothered. She didn't like the other woman being on your lap after you kissed her."

Just like you wouldn't begrudge Haelga so much if Mercer didn't visit her. She inwardly cringed, again so very aware that the distance between herself and the guildmaster had returned since their trip. Maybe the breakdown of barriers had been illusionary after all, but after everything they'd been through and shared, surely she wasn't just some disposable recruit anymore.

"You've got a chance with Vex," she stated. "I think so at least."

"Maybe I'll kiss her again and see."

"Maybe you should explain what happened first."

"I don't know why women need so many steps between meeting and getting cozy," he grumbled, but a playfulness had returned to his voice, telling Prim that he wasn't entirely serious about the comment. "She hasn't been with anyone since Vald. That was months ago. She must be ready for a tumble."

"I don't need to hear any of that," Prim dully noted.

He chuckled and uncrossed his arms. Good. She'd helped lift his spirits, and she felt much better herself. She'd always known there was more to his interest in Vex than a passing whim. She felt vindicated as the man stretched his legs with a yawn.

"Don't do anything to ruin this," she warned. "Or I will slap you myself, Delvin. Vex isn't impulsive. If she's considering you, she's been thinking about it for awhile."

He said nothing as he stood and placed his tankard on the bar counter.

"You good to sleep, Prim?"

"Maybe. I'm going to stay here for a little. Go ahead. I'm not going to burst into tears."

I'll just indulge in some nostalgia. And she did, thinking on Tilma and the Companions, and before that, the long list of people she'd seen pass away. Some had died by her hand, some in front of her, others far away and the news only reaching her slowly. Her father had already been imprisoned and slated for execution when she'd fled Daggerfall. His fate had been sealed like so many others, but she'd promised him that she wouldn't bow to the king anymore. She could imagine that last meeting between them so perfectly, in the prison, where she'd been granted a single visit with him.

"I'm leaving. Now that mother's gone, it will come for me."

He'd understood—hadn't shed a tear as she just had for Tilma, or as she had for him as she'd left the prison. Stealing from the king had been for father and family as much as herself, and now that she knew the king had died by her hand, she wondered. Did her father live? Probably not. He'd been dead in her mind so long that she couldn't imagine him still being alive. Mourning was painful to bear, and dashed hope had the power to reignite it. Better to leave him dead, her tears already shed. As Brynjolf had said, it was best not to reopen old wounds.

Brynjolf knew that Mercer wouldn't be pleased with his words, not so much because two of the man's most valuable resources were taking a trip, but because it was for a funeral. He could perhaps omit a detailed reason and let Mercer think that this was guild business, but the man would know. He always knew. Lying to Mercer Frey and thinking it would go completely unnoticed was unwise, especially in such a case like this, when Prim's condition had almost certainly been noticed. No, Brynjolf had learned long ago that reporting all pertinent facts to the guildmaster was not only a matter of self-preservation, but good for the welfare of the entire guild. If the guild's leaders couldn't be honest with one another, they were in dire straits indeed.

"Prim and I plan to leave for Whiterun in the morning," he stated.

"Because?"

Mercer flipped the ledger on his desk shut, and granted Brynjolf undivided attention. The man had stopped working the moment Brynjolf had stood from Prim's bed, and the redhead knew it. He again thought of that desk drawer filled with notes about Prim and Karliah, and a trace of unease surfaced. His gut said that Mercer would be especially irked that Prim of all people was taking a trip, and he still couldn't pin down why the guildmaster had taken such an interest in the woman. There had been more sensuous and skillful recruits in the past. Vex was certainly eye-catching and talented, but Mercer had never spared her attention. Then there'd been that Redguard woman a while back, the one with the sultry voice and sharp sword. She'd been undeterred in her pursuit to bed Mercer, but after succeeding, learned that the man wasn't about to spare her time outside the bedroom. She'd wanted to gut Mercer before the gold had finally dried up, taking her with it.

The guildmaster wasn't bedding Prim. That much was clear to Brynjolf. He wasn't even entirely sure that Mercer's interest in the woman leaned that way, but then again, Mercer tended not to betray outward signs of attraction. He'd only learned about the Redguard's success because the woman had bragged about it. Well, that and she'd made an awful lot of noise that one time in the training room. In any case, everyone except Delvin seemed to be oblivious to Mercer's undo use of and interest in their newest member. The signs were subtle, yes, but Brynjolf made his gold catching subtleties.

"Someone close to her died," he explained. "She'd like to pay her respects."

"Did you know this person? Then I don't see why it requires two people."

"The lass shouldn't be going alone. We'll see what we can collect while we're there. We don't have much of a presence in Whiterun. It will do good to make a mark. Besides," he risked adding, "we can't put everything on hold until spring."

"Nothing is on hold," Mercer sternly countered.

"Aye. But it hasn't been a good month," Brynjolf dourly noted.

"Your little protégé's lack of work isn't helping."

"She's been training and working on combat. She's determined to be more than ready for spring. I wouldn't exactly call that a lack of work, Mercer. I told her how dangerous Karliah is."

"I don't suppose her training has anything to do with hunting bandits or trolls, does it?"

"She's a headstrong, lass," Brynjolf grinned. Mercer was touchy enough today without the conversation steering into tension. "I wouldn't put it passed it her. We both know that she keeps busy. The guild isn't all she has."

Mercer's silence was acknowledgement enough. They both knew of Prim's association with the Companions, but how much Mercer knew, he couldn't be sure. The man looked controlled but tense, jaw tightening before he reached into his desk and tossed a folder letter onto it.

"Take it. I expect a haul from Whiterun, and make sure it's clear that the guild's responsible. Maybe we can find some new clients."

Brynjolf carefully read through the letter's contents. There was a runaway mage hiding out in the Temple of Kynerath, and he carried a very valuable object taken from the Arcane University in Cyrodiil. The university wanted it back. The job sounded reliable and promising, almost like the kind they would have gotten in the old days.

"Who sent this to us?" he asked.

"The guild in Cyrodiil. They don't have the manpower to handle it, and the Thalmor have been collaborating with guards to root them out. They're not taking the risk of sending someone this far. This could be big," Mercer intoned. "Don't mess up."

"Never," Brynjolf smiled. "It's about time we had some good news."

He tucked the letter into his tunic and regarded the guildmaster with renewed energy. The man didn't look impressed by the job offer, but it boded well. Mercer was shrewd and would appreciate just how important this was.

"That's all," the man dismissed, attention again focused somewhere beyond Brynjolf.

"Aye. We'll see you in a few days."

He'd barely turned when the guildmaster rose and left.

Haelga ran a cloth over her statue of Dibella, polishing until it was as flawless and beautiful as the day she'd bought it. If those hooligans ever got into a jolly ruckus and dumped mead on the goddess again, she would kick them to the streets. How dare they tarnish lady Dibella! Most of them scoffed at her devotion, but not if they'd known everything that was involved with Dibellan arts. Oh no, if those men knew the things she could do, they would stare slack-jawed and moon-eyed. Dibella would take delight in their interest and sooth their need for affection, just as Haelga could but wouldn't. No, there were secrets to be kept, and the ones she selected were few.

There. The statue was clean and the candles at the base relit. It was too late to be cleaning, and she longed for bed. Throwing the rag down, she straightened the counter and made for the stairs, a faint click briefly making her pause in question. Maybe she'd heard nothing. She continued to her room and closed the door, incense thick in the air. Here was her sanctuary, where she opened her arms to those needful or otherwise desirous of physical touch. The power of touch was underestimated by so many, but she knew—oh, did she know!—that intimacy was integral to physical and spiritual well-being.

She removed her boots and outer clothing, leaving her in a simple dress. Sweet Dibella, she was tired. She never heard the lock on her door being picked, and didn't realize an intruder was present until his arms wrapped around her, one covering her mouth. She was trying to scream when a mouth met her ear.

"Don't tell me this isn't one of your fantasies."

She ceased struggling, unnerved but also aroused. The familiar voice could only be Mercer, the most difficult and infrequent of her guests. Difficult, because he clearly had no respect for Dibella nor her own purpose in bedding him. He was almost terrifying in his severity, and at first, she'd doubted approaching him, but by the nine, he was good. Quick and ruthlessly effective.

"How did you get inside?" she breathed.

"Tsk. Tsk, Haelga. The door, of course."

His cold tone frightened her. He was never exactly warm, but he seemed furious right now, both in tone and the harsh grip he kept on her waist, refusing to let her face him. He pulled her clothing off, even as he left his own intact. She knew that he was probably a hopeless case and that she should just tell him to leave, especially right now. He would never care a wit for her or Dibella, but as he pushed her forward, making her brace herself against the wall, she felt only ecstasy—ecstasy because more than ever, she felt just how much he needed this. He entered her quickly, setting a rhythmic pace and grinding into her oh so wonderfully. Yes, he needed this. The way his hands seized her hips and his breathing quickened—the very fact that he was here at this time of night—told her everything.

She lost herself in his movements, letting go and quickly followed by his release. He withdrew and spilled his seed onto the floor rather than within her, just as always. His arms wrapped around, their bodies molded together as they leaned against the wall. He didn't kiss or caress her. He never did, but his grip was almost possessively distressing tonight.

"If you needed this so badly, you could have knocked," she spoke, still recovering. "I would have let you in. I would have understood."

"Hmpf."

He released her, fastened his trousers, and left, just as silently as he'd arrived. She stood there a moment, and finally crumbled onto her bed, flushed and pleased. The woman who truly captured that man's attention would be blessed when it came to the erotic.