Page 60 of Unravelled
"Tell me something worth my while…" he murmured, his fingers pressing firmly into her neck. "And then we can play together." Mira feigned a thought, letting the silence stretch just long enough before finally meeting his eyes.
"I overheard an interesting conversation earlier." The shift was immediate. Dren's smirk faltered just slightly, replaced with interest. Hooked. Mira leaned in, her lips just a breath away from his ear.
"I heard a royal guard complaining yesterday," she whispered. She felt his grip flex, his body going still, listening. She let the words drip from her lips, slow, deliberate. "They're marching through Harrow’s Hollow in four days. Well, three now I guess." Dren’s smirk returned, slow and pleased, the glint of satisfaction flickering in his dark gaze.
"Good girl," he murmured, fingers tracing the line of her throat.
She saw the way his gaze dipped to her lips, the way his hand slid from her throat to the nape, drawing her closer. His breath ghosted against her skin, his lips nearly on hers. Disgust curdled in her stomach. Mira braced herself. The curtain flew open.
“Get your hands off her.” Mira barely had time to register the words before Tharion stepped into the room. His voice wasn’t loud. It didn’t need to be. A command, nota request. The atmosphere shifted like a sudden drop in temperature. His presence swallowed the space whole, shoulders squared, jaw locked, every movement controlled, deliberate.
Dren froze. The weight of Tharion’s gaze pinned him in place, sharp and assessing. Too still. Tharion didn’t yell or draw his weapon. His presence alone radiated, making him the most dangerous thing in the room. Dren’s hand slipped back from Mira slowly, hesitantly. He swallowed hard, the smirk he wore moments ago faltering as unease crept into his expression.
“I didn’t know she had a bodyguard,” he muttered, voice thin, brittle.
Tharion didn’t blink. He stepped forward once, just once, and Dren shrunk back, hands half-raised in a gesture of surrender as his eyes flicked toward the exit.
Tharion’s voice came again, quieter now. “No,” he said. “You didn’t.”
Dren’s smirk had vanished. His face paled, realization dawning a second too late. His breath hitched, panic flickering in his eyes as his body instinctively tensed to bolt. He had his information. He wasn’t about to risk more.
"Easy now," he muttered, trying to mask his unease with bravado. "No need to start a fight over a whore."
Tharion bared his teeth and stepped forward, a low growl curling from his throat. “What did you call her?”
Dren bolted. He crashed through the curtain, shoving past onlookers, knocking a drink from someone’s hand in his frantic scramble to escape.
Mira stared at the space where Dren had disappeared, her breath still caught in her chest, her pulse thrumming like war drums in her ears.
Tharion’s dry voice interrupted, "Come on, we’re leaving."
She blinked, grounding herself. Her hands moved automatically, adjusting the robe and re-tightening the sash at her waist. When she finally looked up, met Tharion’s eyes, the emotion in her eyes was quiet but clear. Gratitude. Not loud. Not spoken. But it was there.
He exhaled sharply, before taking a step back. He turned on his heel, shoving past the curtain without another word. Mira lingered just a second longer before following.
???
Outside, the night had settled deep over Seacliffe. The streets were still alive with murmured voices, flickering lanterns, the distant sound of waves against stone. Bythe time they reached their room, the air between them was still thick, unspoken, heavy. Mira pulled the door shut, the latch clicking into place, sealing them inside. Tharion barely spared her a glance as he leaned against the wall, rolling his shoulders before pulling down his hood.
Tharion finally spoke. "I sent word to Brahn. He knows the message was delivered."
Before exhaustion could settle in her bones, Mira turned, her eyes finding Tharion from across the room. “How did you know about the pleasure house?”
He paused, rolling up the sleeves of his tunic, his expression unreadable in that way she knew meant he was choosing his words carefully.
Then, with a quiet exhale, he shrugged. “Ren and I used to come here,” he said. “Back in our… less disciplined days.”
Mira blinked. That was not what she’d expected to hear. “You? In a pleasure house?” she echoed, more amused than anything else. There was no trace of jealousy in her voice, just curiosity, and maybe a bit of disbelief.
A flicker of amusement, tugged at the corner of his mouth. But he didn’t rise to the bait. He was already moving past her, reaching for his flask of water like the question had been purely hypothetical. She watched him for a moment, then asked, more quietly,
“Why did you stop him?” Tharion drank, wiped his mouth on the back of his hand, and finally met her eyes.
“You’d done the job,” he said simply. A beat. “You needed an exit.”
Mira frowned slightly, studying him. “You might have ruined it,” she said, a brow lifting. “If I hadn’t already told him what I wanted him to believe.”
Tharion didn’t flinch. “I was just outside,” he replied, calm. “I waited for the right moment.”
