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"You've fucked me, Brekker. Even Haskell is furious. Did you truly think we wouldn't know it was you?”
He stood there defiantly, his smug grin plastered on his face. He was barrel scum, the worst the city had to offer, and here he was standing mere inches away from her. The smile was a front, she had come to discover, a face he wore to maintain control. He had nothing to be smug about, stripped bare because he was a man who killed those he made deals with and thus was not to be trusted. He was a snake, with the potential to harbor a blade or a gun in the fabric of his clothes. And in his bareness she saw the results of his last meeting that left him beaten black and blue, because Haskell's few remaining men had found him before he could find them.
"Your contract states that Haskell's men can use you as they fucking wish. And yet... four. You've costed Haskell four fucking men and that comes out of my coffers, Mr. Brekker. I have to pay that fool for offering him you,” she continued, her mouth sneering in disgust as she referred to him.
If he didn't have further use, and he was lucky he did, she would have killed him then and there. He stayed silent, a good choice in his current predicament.
"Do you think you can just murder them all... and be free?" She laughed, the sound grating and sharp even to her own ears, "You're worse than he is. A breach of contract... multiple, because I am now certain the first missing man was you as well, and that's punishable.”
“The contract is void,” he ground out, “It was void the moment they broke the agreement.”
“Did they?” She stood, rounding her desk to stand directly before him. “And what agreement might that be?”
Kaz inhaled, straightening his back impossibly further. Whatever he had to say, it would be good.
“That I'm kept alive.”
The laugh tore from her chest almost painfully. Haskell was aging out of the barrel life, and his men, though young, reflected that. They were pathetic.
“Sweetheart, if those men could kill you, you might have some bigger problems.”
A dark shadow crossed over his face as his shoulders hunched forward. She didn't know how far they had gone, but they'd certainly done something irreversible to him.
“I'm required to be their fucking doll,” he spat, “Without agency, without power and you expect–”
She slapped him. His face shot to the side, the words lost in his throat. It was clear he hadn't expected the hit, which in itself was a surprise. He was always five steps ahead, as the barrel would say. He stayed that way, gaze glaring at the floor, so she planted her fingers just around his jaw and forced him back to face her. A faint mist coated his eyes, something she had never expected to witness in a man like Kaz Brekker.
“You should get dressed. The last three are rather upset that you killed their friends.” She released his jaw, finger by finger, to slowly trail her nails over the freshly pinkened flesh, still slightly darkened from past bruising. “Lest you'd prefer to be ready-for-use for their arrival.”
She could hear his breath quicken, and it was clear she’d found the answer to her curiosity. He certainly had the body for it.
“Here? They're coming here?”
“Of course–”
“You bitch.”
“Now now,” she soothed, knowing full well she was only angering him further, “I can't have you killing any more men, can I? I know what you're planning – three more, you're itching for it. Telling yourself it can't be that hard.”
She reached over to a small chest and pulled out a few pieces of clothing, fabrics and styles commonly used at the pleasure houses, silks meant to drape over the skin and follow the curves of the body, thin enough they were barely there. She imagined it would be best to keep his chest bare, the bruising that coloured his skin imitating a shirt on its own. They'd be pleasantly surprised to see the results of their fervor the moment they walked in.
“Perhaps they'll go easy on you,” she murmured, shoving the pants into his hands. “But they want you dressed to start with. They want a fight. They want you to struggle to retain your dignity.”
He glared down at her before finally bending over to tuck a foot into one of the openings. She rounded him immediately, admiring the curves of his body, the angles and slopes. He'd do well even into his forties, sixties even if he kept up with himself, she was certain, with a form and a history like that. As she came back around after his second leg was fitted like the first, and he stood straighter as he pulled the pants the rest of the way up, she caught the pink flush across his cheeks. She could barely see it, covered up by the green and the blue from the hits he had taken, but that only made it all the more alluring. A secret only she knew.
“Good,” she said approvingly, looking him over, “And these.”
She reached out to hand him a set of suspenders.
“The pants fit,” he objected.
“Shut up and put them on. Think of them as reins.” She wished she could save his expression in her memories forever. He was clearly horrified by what her words implied. How innocent. “You don't have a choice, Brekker. I will have you killed, and then I'll go after the rest of your…”
She didn't need to finish, trailing off as he reached out and snapped the suspenders from her fingers. They stretched perfectly over his shoulders, slipping down just over his chest and clipping snugly onto the waistband of the pants. He was a sight. Even the effects of the beating he had received only seemed to make him all the more enticing. He was tough enough to take a beating like that and still stand on his own two feet.
“Your potential in my trade is unlimited,” she mused, the stirrings of something in her own body making her feel restless. “If only you weren't so stubborn.”
She checked the time, estimating that Haskell's remaining men would arrive in another few minutes. He was ready by all intents and purposes, clothed appropriately for his worth, trembling from anger and helplessness, bound mentally to her every whim. They'd be pleased with what was waiting for them, and for once, perhaps she'd have the opportunity to finally witness what all the fuss was about.
It wasn't hard to understand why Haskell's men kept coming back, superficially, but she didn't understand why they were so obsessed with a man who would fight back, who was becoming more risk than he was worth. Perhaps, the allure was being able to punish what felt unpunishable. Much like the vengeance Kaz himself had long been guided by.
A door slammed open in the distance. She glanced at the time once more, and listened to count how many sets of feet. Three, as she expected.
Kaz visibly tensed, his hands darting to the straps digging into his skin, possibly irritating the already tender flesh on his chest. But there was something else pulling at his face, something desperate and unhinged. Was it… fear?
His fingers scrunched the suspenders, twisting them as the steps clamored toward them. For a moment, the stretchy fabric seemed to twist into a noose.
Perhaps it was time to start sending someone to keep an eye on him.