Chapter Text
Stella paced the lavish room, feeling the nerves tightening in her chest. She glanced down at her phone, considering the idea she’d been toying with for the past fifteen minutes—calling the meeting off. She could call him, throw out some excuse, tell him something had come up. Even better, say nothing at all, and he’d probably get the message. He'd be pissed for a while but he'd get over it or she'd make it up to him somehow. She tapped her fingers against the back of her phone, hesitating. Maybe this was a mistake. She picked up the receiver, ready to dial the number.
And then she heard it, the unmistakable sound of boots and spurs thudding down the icy hall, echoing as they approached. The footsteps had a measured rhythm, and with every approaching step, she felt her plan locking her in place. Striker’s shadow stretched over the threshold as he reached the door, and with an air of casual authority, he stepped inside without hesitation.
He stopped, glancing around the room before fixing his almost serpentine eyes on her, his brow arched in mild annoyance. He had a new scar on his face since last they'd met; a hideous burn mark of sorts. It did little for his looks but it did add to the aura of danger that followed him in. There was a predatory quality in his gaze, a readiness to dismiss whatever she had to say if it didn’t live up to his expectations.
“All right,” he drawled, crossing his arms and leaning one shoulder against the doorframe. “What kind of ‘job’ you got in mind, princess? Hope it’s more than just some fancy chore, or I’ll be on my way.”
Stella took a steadying breath, forcing herself to meet his gaze. She adopted a confident smile to mask her unease. She couldn’t let him see her falter, not now. She was aware that if she broached the topic too candidly, he was likely to just take off. This would require a bit of guile and tact.
“This isn’t… a typical task,” she admitted, a carefully measured tone in her voice. “It’s a job that requires a certain… finesse. Strength. Discretion and loyalty.”
Striker raised an eyebrow, looking her over with clear disdain. “I can provide all that, sure,” he said, the edge in his voice as sharp as his glance. “But you ain’t really answerin’ my question.”
She straightened, brushing off his tone. “I need you to… have sex with someone.”
There was a pause. Striker’s face shifted as the words sank in, his eyes narrowing as if he hadn’t heard her right. Then his expression twisted, and he scoffed, taking a step toward her. “You’re jokin’,” he said flatly, the disgust evident in his voice. “This is some sick joke of yours?”
She steeled herself, determined to keep her composure. “I don't waste times on jokes, Striker. Like I said, this isn't exactly typical.”
But he only shook his head, a sneer pulling at his mouth. He gave a bitter, humorless laugh. “You nobles are somethin’ else. You really think I’m just here to be your plaything, huh? Some… puppet for whatever sick fantasy you got rattlin’ around in that twisted head?”
“It’s not like that,” she said sharply, trying to regain control of the conversation, but he wasn’t finished.
“Maybe you've forgotten, I ain't some fancy escort! I'm an assassin!” he spat, his words laced with contempt. “Go find yourself one of those Lust-ring prostitutes if that’s the kinda… entertainment you’re lookin’ for. But I ain’t for sale.”
He watched her, his jaw clenched, the silence pulsing between them. She took a careful breath, keeping her tone even. “I don’t need a Lust-ring lackey, Striker. I need someone discreet—someone who knows what they’re doing. Someone ruthless and not afraid of doing something a little dangerous. Someone like you.”
Her calm response didn’t ease his scowl. Instead, it seemed to make him angrier. He eyed her with a look that was almost dangerous, one that conveyed he wasn’t nearly as swayed as she might hope. In his eyes she saw the flicker of an idea take form, the wrong idea, and it didn't seem to sit well with him either.
“So that’s it, then? You're looking for someone to rough up and degrade someone unfortunate? Is that what you’re askin’ me to do? ‘Cause let me tell ya, I not a damn rapist for hire neither.” His lip curled as he glared at her, the disgust in his gaze burning into her.
Stella held up a hand, taking a small step closer and giving a mock laugh. “Rape? No, nothing like that,” she insisted, letting a touch of exasperation creep into her voice. “The… ah... target would be perfectly willing to receive you, if you must know. It just needs a certain touch that only a man of your caliber can offer.”
“Man of my caliber? What in the Hells is that supposed t'mean?” he spat out angrily.
She could see the gears turning in his mind as he glared at her, torn between distrust and anger. She had anticipated his hesitation but not the fury, the way it seemed to harden him. There was a flash in his eyes, a moment of conflict, as though he were weighing her words against his simmering resentment.
“It means” Stella said, continuing to advance on the much smaller imp. “That your target would benefit from a night of passion from someone with your... qualities and... status.”
Striker let out a harsh laugh, crossing his arms. Despite Stella towering over him, he didn't back down. “You nobles are somethin’ else,” he muttered, looking her over like she was some bizarre curiosity. “You really think I’d debase myself like that just to satisfy some highborn's … fancy?”
Stella’s jaw tightened, but she saw a crack, a brief flicker of intrigue she could work with. “Oh? You'll kill and torture for money but not something like this?” she challenged, cocking her head with an arched brow. “Is it a matter of pride? I’ve heard men make excuses before when it comes to these things, usually when they’re overcompensating for something.” She paused briefly, letting him digest her words a little before pressing on. “What's the matter? Something wrong with your--” Her eyes flickered down to his crotch for a moment before meeting his eyes again. “If you're not capable I suppose I could make do with finding someone else whose 'up' to it.”
Striker’s eyes darkened, his face hardening in open defiance. “Hey now! Ain’t nothin’ wrong with my performance or my manhood,” he shot back, his words quick and heated. “So don’t start throwin’ that out there.”
“Apologies. Then perhaps I was mistaken,” she replied smoothly, letting her tone drop just enough to pique his curiosity. “Although I thought a man like you would be interested in the idea. A noblewoman, at your mercy? Wanting to be ravished? No strings attached.”
He stood in silence, and she saw the conflict play across his face. For a second, she thought she’d pushed him too far, that he might stalk out and slam the door behind him, leaving her in frustrated solitude. But there was something in his eyes—a spark of consideration, reluctant but unmistakable.
“What exactly are you askin’ me to do?” he finally demanded, his voice low and guarded. She sensed the faint crack in his defenses, the edge of uncertainty. “Just so we're on the same page here...”
She took her time, letting the tension build, knowing that this was her in, her eyes steady on his as she spoke. “What I need from you is to tend to the needs of a certain someone, who… needs a touch of passion,” she said, each word deliberate, her voice holding an air of restrained suggestion. “Someone who deserves more than the polite charades we nobles put on. They need something raw, something untamed. They need someone like you.”
Striker flashed her an indignant smile. “What you're saying is, your someone wants to fuck a 'filthy commoner', is that it?”
“Well, if you must put it like that. Then yes.” Stella said and nodded as if it was the most matter of factly thing in the world.
Striker let out a low chuckle, folding his arms and giving her a look that dripped with derision. “This really how far you highborn types go for a new thrill, huh?” he sneered, the amusement in his voice laced with disdain. “Slummin’ it with someone like me, like it’s some kinda dirty little adventure? Just another way for you nobles to keep your lives ‘interestin’ without riskin’ a damn thing.” His eyes narrowed as he studied her, smirking. “Bet you sit around with your little noble friends, whisperin’ about us ‘dangerous types’ and how you use us like it’s all a game. Well, hate to disappoint, but I ain’t your damn amusement, princess. If you want a clown to dance for you, go to a damned circus!”
But Striker’s gaze lingered, and she could sense him mulling over her proposition in his mind. He was still cautious, still holding back. “And who’s this… ‘someone’ anyway then? Some friend of yours that's too timid to take care of her own needs?” His tone held an edge of suspicion, though he seemed to soften, intrigued despite himself. Suddenly suprise flashed across his face as if he'd just realized something. “Do not tell me this is some sort of party favor for that daughter of yours!”
The mention of her daughter hit her like a slap, but she recovered quickly and disguised her unease with laughter.“Octavia? Oh Hell no, perish the thought!” That seemed to ease Striker's worry. “Your target, as I said previously,” she began, letting her voice drop to a sultry whisper, drawing out the moment. “Is a noblewoman, and-- quite fetching, really. Someone I think deserves to be taken out of her stuffy little world for a while. Someone who needs a treat.” Striker's eyes narrowed and she could swear she heard him hiss as she dropped that last word... treat. A thought was beginning to occur to her, regarding Striker's character, something she already knew about him-- about all commoners really--. They hated to be treated like objects, even though that was their lot in life. Perhaps if she toned down her derision of him, he could be swayed to the deal.
She leaned in slightly, lowering her voice further. “What I mean to say, Striker. This lady, she longs for something raw, something that makes her feel alive, something she can’t experience among her peers. Something we nobles just aren't cut out for. She... needs you. You were the first person that came to mind. Someone like you could show her how thrilling it can be to break free from her constraints.” The silence that followed felt like it stretched on forever. Striker’s expression flickered with interest at first, his curiosity piqued by the idea of an untamed encounter with a noble.
“This someone-- this noblewoman have a name?” Striker asked, almost grumbling. He looked as if he was almost ready to accept the proposal.
She held his gaze for a long moment, watching him with a glint of something more deliberate than the evasive coyness she’d shown before. Slowly, the tension in her shoulders seemed to ease, and her expression shifted. The pretense dropped. She'd seen enough of his reaction now to know that he was indeed interested in what she was suggesting, there was no need to play coy any longer.
“I suppose I should drop the pretense,” she said, her voice smooth, almost challenging as she let the truth settle between them. “I’m the one I want you to… handle.”
Striker’s eyes narrowed, the air between them charged with a new tension. Stella’s boldness caught him off guard, and he searched her face as if trying to find any sign of deceit.
Striker took a step back, his jaw tight. “Are you serious right now?” he snapped, the incredulity cutting through his voice.
Her cheeks flushed, a mixture of defiance and vulnerability flashing across her face. “Yes. I want…” Her voice trailed off, but under his unrelenting gaze, the confession finally slipped out, breathy and raw. “I need someone who can… take control. To make me feel powerless,” she whispered, each word pulled from her with agonizing reluctance. “To ravish me and make me feel … desired.” She hardly believed she'd spoken the words out loud.
Stella’s gaze held steady, the confidence from her confession flickering but not fading. She let the silence stretch, expecting his surprise to give way to eagerness. In but a few moments, she'd have something she'd secretly desired for so long, something she wasn't supposed to allow herself for sake of being a proper lady and for the sake of safety.
“Well, ain’t that something,” he drawled, shaking his head with a bitter laugh. “Little Miss Royal wants to play at being powerless and... taken. You got any idea what you’re askin’, Stella? Or do you think I’m just some damn fool you can snap your fingers at?”
She met his gaze, her pride battling with the humiliation creeping up her face. “I'm asking you because I know what you’re capable of, Striker,” she shot back, defensive but trying to keep her tone steady. “I thought you were ruthless enough to understand.”
“Oh, I understand alright,” he retorted, stepping closer, his gaze burning with contempt. “But do you? You’re a spoiled, sheltered princess lookin’ for thrills. You think you can just order up some ‘powerlessness’ like it’s a damn luxury service, like you’ve got any clue what that word even means.” He scoffed, shaking his head. “What you're asking for ain’t some game, Stella! Being like that... being powerless is a pit that swallows you whole, and there ain’t no safeword to bring you back, not from me.”
She flinched but still held her ground. The way he was defying her demand was something she wasn't used to and it flooded her with a mixture of anger and... something else. She was beginning to think she'd misjudged him. Why wasn't he jumping at the opportunity? “And what would you know about it?” she retorted, though the challenge in her voice sounded thin.
“More than you,” he bit back, the disdain in his voice unmistakable. “You want me to make you feel weak? Powerless?” His lip curled as he looked her over with a sneer. “You don’t want that, Stella. You want to pretend you’re not the one always pulling the strings. You got no idea what it’s like to actually be at someone’s mercy. None of you nobles do! And you sure as hell wouldn’t survive it.”
Her face flushed, a mixture of anger and humiliation darkening her cheeks, but she said nothing, her pride keeping her mouth pressed tight. There was a certain truth to his words.
He took a step back, his expression hard. “Find someone else for your fantasies, ‘cause I don’t play pretend. ”
With that, he turned on his heel and strode out, leaving her alone, his parting words ringing in the empty space between them. The door closed with a heavy finality, and Stella stood there, humiliated, frustration simmering beneath her skin. When she came to her senses she yelled.
“I don't want to pretend!” But there was no one there to answer her.
***
A few moments later, Stella stood before the mirror, her fingers brushing through her feathers as she attempted to compose herself. The reflection staring back at her was one of irritation and disappointment. How could he have rejected her so easily? What idiot would turn down the chance? The thought pecked at her, the rawness of her earlier vulnerability now simmering into resentment. There was nothing to be done about it now though.
With a frustrated sigh, she slipped out of her dress and into her nightgown, the fabric soft against her, a small comfort in an otherwise bitter evening. It was a delicate, silky fabric that left very little to the imagination, being partially see-through, perfect for sleep. She paused to look at herself in the mirror one last time. A vain luxury, she knew, but she couldn't believe that anyone would turn... this down. She was tall and elegant, her white-feathered body well maintained and pristine. Every proportion screamed of her nobility and breeding.
She stood at the foot of her bed and her heart still raced from the mixture of anger and longing that coursed through her veins. Damn Stolas for planting this foolish idea in her head. She'd find a way to get back at him somehow. She had wanted this, had laid bare her desires, embarrassed herself through her confession and all that damned imp had done was walk away saying she had no idea what she was asking for. It felt like a betrayal, but she had to remind herself that she was noble; she shouldn't really stoop as low as to have an imp tend to her desires. Yes. She'd sleep and in the morning this would all be just a bad memory.
Just as she was about to get into bed and bury herself in the pillows, a faint glimmer caught her eye. Before she could react, a glowing rope sailed through the air, wrapping around her with a swift grace. It coiled around her, binding her up tight and she felt her strength sapped immediately as if by holy magic. She gasped, feeling her limbs grow weak as the rope settled tightly around her body, rendering her helpless. She fell onto her bed with an indignant 'oof' and panic surged through her as she turned to confront her assailant, only to find Striker leaning against the doorframe, a devilish grin plastered across his face.
Wide eyed, she blinked in confusion. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” she demanded, her voice a mix of indignation and disbelief, her heart racing again, but for entirely different reasons this time.
Striker broadened his grin. “Just thought I’d see if you meant what you said earlier,” he replied, his tone laced with mischief. “Didn’t you say you wanted to feel… powerless?” He sauntered over to her, looming over her on the bed as she squirmed. “Well, you're looking mighty vulnerable right about now.” He pulled something out of his jacket.
Stella’s breath hitched as she caught sight of the blade of Striker’s knife as it glinted in the dim light. Moments later it was grazing her neck just enough to prickle her skin. Her pulse hammered under the sharp edge, her entire body frozen as the gravity of her situation finally settled in. Fear crackled through her like a lightning strike, unlike anything she’d felt before. She realized that she was helpless and that Striker could kill her at any moment. Her mind reeled, searching for solutions to her predicament, but found none.
She was helpless.
Striker watched her intently, his grin growing darker, relishing her vulnerability, her barely-contained terror. His hand moved deliberately, keeping the knife steady as he leaned closer, until his hot breath brushed her cheek.
“What’s the matter, princess?” he drawled, eyes alight with cruel amusement. “Not used to bein’ at the mercy of someone you can’t control? You still think this is a game?” His voice dropped to a whisper, and the edge of his knife pressed just a fraction deeper, sending a fresh wave of shivers down her spine.
“Now do you see? How foolish what you were asking for earlier, really was? You know, this is the same knife I used to give your husba-- ex-husband his recent scars.”
Every logical part of her mind screamed to break away, to order him off her, to somehow regain control, to get this filthy commoner off of her. But something else—the embers of her earlier desire—kept her silent. Amidst her fear she found what she had expected earlier, thrill of being so completely overpowered, her fate at the whim of someone so… unyielding. It would have been different, if she wasn't restrained by his rope, she realized. She'd never have gotten what she wanted from the experience that way.
Striker’s sneer widened as he took in her expression, his gaze cutting through her like a knife itself. “Now then, ma’am. Why don’t you tell me exactly what you want to do about your predicament?” he taunted, bringing his face close to hers, letting the weight of his control settle over her. “Seems to me, as I suspected, that you’d like to be let go. Maybe crawl back to your sheltered life, where everythin’ goes your way. Am I right?”
Stella stared at him, her breath shallow, her heart still racing. He undoubtedly expected her to beg, to retreat behind the shield of her status, to prove him right. But knowing what she knew now, she rebelled against that. She held his gaze, her voice low but steady, surprising even herself with how easily the words came.
“No,” she whispered, feeling a surge of defiance that caught even Striker off guard and then a faint smile formed on her face. “This is... I... need this.”
Striker’s brow arched and he was visibly taken aback, as if he'd expected her to break down, beg for mercy and scream for her release. His expression melted into something darker then, a shadow of intrigue as he studied her face. He chuckled, the sound dark and almost approving. “Well... color me surprised. You were... actually serious?” he murmured, tightening his hold on her. “You truly want to go down this path?” He paused, letting the blade trail lightly along her collarbone and brought it down lower towards her chest, drinking in every shudder, every unguarded reaction.
Stella swallowed... hard. But looked into his eyes and nodded almost frantically.
“Yes, please.” She couldn't believe she'd used that word. It was rarely used, even among peers and never towards a commoner such as this one.
“Just… one thing,” Stella added, her voice softer now, almost hesitant. Her gaze flickered down, cheeks flushed with a vulnerability that felt foreign on her. “I’m… inexperienced with this sort of thing. I rarely... ah... I haven't often...”
Striker’s grip relaxed, though the heat in his gaze didn’t. For the first time, his smirk softened, a glint of understanding mixed with his usual cocky confidence. He took a half-step back, easing the knife from her throat and letting it fall to his side. “Is that right?” he drawled, letting the words hang in the air a moment. “Well, I can’t say I’m surprised. That ex-husband of yours didn't quite strike me as the type to... tend to you. Especially in this way. Must be part of the reason you wanted him killed.” He gave a humorless laugh.
Her cheeks burned under his scrutiny, the admission making her feel both raw and surprisingly safe. His hand moved from her shoulder, and he traced a finger along the bound ropes that held her, his touch gentle but unyielding.
“Lucky for you,” he said, his voice dropping to a low, reassuring murmur, “this ain’t my first rodeo. I know how to handle something as… delicate as you.” He chuckled, the sound laced with his usual mischief, but there was a note of care now, too. “You’ll be fine… Probably.”
He began to take off his coat and though his grin remained wolfish, she caught a glimpse of something almost reassuring in his gaze— almost like an unspoken promise that he’d keep her safe even while heading down this dark path with her. As he leaned in again, she took a steadying breath, letting herself sink into the unknown, her heart racing with a thrill she’d never felt before.
Damn that meek fool Stolas. He'd been right...
***
Stella blinked awake, the morning light slanting sharply through the thin curtains, pulling her from the hazy remnants of an unusually deep sleep. She stretched, and in that movement, felt a raw, dull ache run through her body. Last night had taxed her dearly. Her senses flooded with a mix of emotions—disgust and intrigue in equal measure. She could still feel him. The memory of Striker’s hands, his audacity, the absolute disregard for her nobility as well as lingering echoes of her undignified coos of pleasure, lingered like a burn. She'd been bound, her strength depleted by the holy rope for most of the encounter, something which ensured that she remained at his mercy, but now, she was free with only a few chafing marks left by the rope where it had bitten into her.
The sheets beside her were cold. He’d left without a word, gone as soon as he’d 'finished' with her, and that, somehow, left a sting of shameful satisfaction. Part of the experience as well. He was discreet and had slipped away like a shadow in the night... that was another thing she liked about him.
The experience had been jaw-dropping, unlike anything she’d imagined possible. He was everything she wanted in a man—except that he was, unfortunately, an imp, but that was part of the experience. It was infuriating, really, to have felt powerless, degraded, and yet thrilled. He was every bit the opposite to her only other 'partner' in life, Stolas. Striker hadn’t treated her like a trophy or a title. He’d treated her like… someone he actually wanted to ravish. She both loved and hated the thought but found the thrill undeniable. She sighed, her cheeks coloring as she wondered if she'd now be cursed to contact him again the next time she wanted to be desired or... "brought low". She rolled her eyes at herself, deciding she'd bury the thought until she was desperate enough. No, this was likely a one time thing, a decadent indulgence that she'd allowed herself this one time.
After she’d gathered herself and dressed, Stella summoned the servants to arrange breakfast. She was alone with her swirling thoughts until the servants guided her brother into the dining area. Andrealphus strode in, refreshed from his latest trip, having spent the night elsewhere. His sharp, icy eyes fell on her and he smiled his signature smirk at her. His presence settled her, as it always did, though she could never explain why. He was her anchor, the one who understood her in ways no one else could.
“Good morning, dear sister. You look positively glowing this morning!” he greeted smoothly, settling across from her as a a tiny imp-servant placed delicate porcelain cups before them. They exchanged pleasantries over breakfast, talking about inconsequential things—politics, gossip, events, and other minor engagements. As they spoke, she could feel the memory of Striker begin to fade into a distant ache, smoothed over by Andrealphus's reassuring words and presence.
By the time they sat for their usual tea later in the day, Stella’s worries over last night had faded to mere traces. She lifted her teacup delicately, taking in the familiar aroma which was perhaps a bit too pungent this time-- a hearty blend, as Andrealphus began to talk about his recent ventures. A few sips in, however, she felt her head grow light, as though her thoughts had softened, her focus drifting. These dizzy spells often happened to her, perhaps a bi-product of a delicate upbringing and her noble constitution. Perhaps last night had taken a greater toll on her physically and mentally than she'd anticipated. These dizzy spells weren't too unpleasant but they did leave her a bit out of sorts. She frowned and brushed it off, finding comfort instead in Andrealphus’s voice, which she clung to, his words like a balm to her fogged mind.
She could hardly make out what he was saying “...It’s very important that you heed my advice over the next few days…” his voice dipped into a familiar, soothing cadence, and she nodded automatically, agreeing even though the meaning of his words hovered just out of reach. She felt calm, serene, even as her grip on her thoughts weakened. The distant throb of last night’s encounter flickered across her mind, but she dismissed it. She looked forward to regaining her composure with a few deep breaths and a calm evening.
As they finished their tea, as she felt her focus sharpening again, slowly but surely, Andrealphus leaned back, studying her with a confident smirk before a servant arrived carrying a slip of paper, handing it to Andrealphus. He studied it and then slipped it across the table towards Stella. She raised a brow as she unfolded it, confusion prickling through her as she read it. It was a.., bill from Striker for 'services rendered'. Well... he wasn't wasting any time collecting his fee, was he?
“Did you hire him… for something?” Andrealphus’s tone was casual, but there was an edge beneath it, a glint of suspicion she’d seen him use on others. “I thought I'd made it clear that you weren't going to go after Stolas anymore, that you'd leave worrying about him to me. If so you shall have to call it off immediately!”
Her cheeks flushed. “No! It wasn't anything like that, Andrealphus. I needed him for… something else. Don't worry darling!” She kept her tone steady and as playful as she could, falling into playing role of a ditz as she often did with her brother.
“Ah, I see” he replied, sounding appeased. “Good. It would have ruffled my plans.”
Stella’s brow furrowed. She wanted to ask what he meant, but the dizzy haze hadn’t fully lifted, and a weariness sank into her bones. She’d had enough of questions and half-thoughts today. With a dismissive wave, she excused herself, slipping away to the sanctuary of her room to regain her focus.