Chapter 92: Counting to Twenty

By midday, half the otter-kin village turns out to see them off, waving from the docks and calling farewells across the water as the carriages rattle back onto the sun-baked road toward Fenwick’s Crossing, where Kamiko’s brothel, and the last of Lucien’s business here, is waiting.

Inside the carriage, Lucien and Kamiko fall into easy, familiar shorthand over the last of the trade details, numbers and dates passed back and forth like they’ve been doing this together for years instead of two weeks, while Brina sits pressed against the window, a soft, dreamy smile frozen on her face, eyes fixed somewhere out past the passing trees.

“I hate that you’re leaving tomorrow,” Kamiko says, glancing up from her notes. “I hope we get a little private time in before then.”

Brina giggles from her corner of the seat.

Kamiko turns on her, grinning. “I can’t wait to tell your mother you finally got your howl.”

Brina’s smile vanishes on the spot, replaced instantly by a flat, thoroughly unimpressed stare.

Kamiko just snorts in response.

“For what it’s worth,” Lucien adds, entirely too pleased with himself, “it was an amazing howl. Rattled every single bone in my body. Felt like a little orgasm every time.”

Brina scoffs, rolling her eyes hard enough to strain something. “You’re both perverts.” She turns back toward the window, and her smile creeps right back into place, wider than before.

“Welcome to the club.” Lucien chuckles.

Kamiko giggles into her notes.

By sunset, they roll back into Fenwick’s Crossing, the sky gone soft pink and gold behind the rooftops, a handful of townsfolk catching sight of the returning carriages and calling out greetings as they pull up outside the brothel. Everyone piles out, stretching muscles stiff from the road, boots crunching against the familiar cobblestones.

Val rolls his shoulders, slaps his stomach with a satisfied grunt, and announces, “I’ll meet you at the inn. Going to find something to eat.”

“That better not be a someone,” Lucien warns, pointing a finger at him, eyebrow raised in genuine suspicion.

“I haven’t eaten a single person in three weeks. I deserve a medal.” Val scoffs.

Lucien squints. “Who did you eat three weeks ago?”

Val waves a dismissive hand, already turning to go. “You barely knew the guy.”

“Val!” Lucien yells after him, scandalized. “Who was it?!”

Val just laughs, walking off without a backward glance, already lifting one hand in a lazy wave over his shoulder.

“This is going to keep me up at night,” Lucien mutters.

“He’s probably just messing with you,” Kamiko offers.

“He’s probably not,” Lucien says, with the weary certainty of a man who’s known Val far too long to hold out much hope. Lucien pouts, arms crossed. “I’m going to need to do a proper employee headcount this week.”

Kamiko laughs, looping her arm through his. “Working with that dragon certainly keeps things interesting.”

“I could do with a little less of his particular brand of interesting,” Lucien groans.

They head inside, past the familiar velvet drapes and the low, warm glow of firelight, and the moment the door swings shut behind them, a tide of girls descends, swarming Lucien and Kamiko both with hugs, kisses, and delighted greetings, half a dozen voices all talking over each other at once about how quiet the place has been without them.

“I survived my divine punishment, ladies.” Lucien beams, throwing his arms wide. “Thanks entirely to the motivation and assistance of one especially wonderful wolf-kin.”

Every eye in the room swings toward Brina at once, who looks between the crowd of girls and Lucien, turning progressively pinker with every passing second.

The girls pounce on her in a single, perfumed wave, congratulating her, demanding to know what it was like, begging to hear her howl in person, one of them already tugging playfully at her ears to see if they’ll perk up on command. They sweep her off deeper into the building in a cloud of gossip and floral scent, Brina overwhelmed, stammering half-answers to three questions at once, tail wagging despite her best efforts to look composed.

She glances back over her shoulder at Lucien and Kamiko. They both give her a wink in unison.

She laughs, shaking her head, and lets the girls carry her away.

Kamiko stretches, arching her back with a long, satisfied groan, tail curling lazily behind her. “I can finally get what I’ve been waiting all week for.”

Lucien perks right up, chest puffing out, smirk sliding into place, all traces of the earlier headcount grumbling forgotten in an instant. “Sorry to have kept you waiting so long. I’ll make sure to—”

“A proper bath,” she cuts in, deadpan.

“I’d love to join you.” He chuckles. “Help you unwind properly. I’m quite confident in my finger work, if I do say so myself.”

Kamiko gives him a slow, smoky smirk over one shoulder. “I could use a hand,” she says, already walking away, hips swaying, tail flicking lazily behind her, the hem of her gown trailing just enough to keep him watching every step.

Lucien bites his lip, admiring the view for exactly one appreciative second before hurrying after her, boots slipping slightly on the polished floor in his haste, catching her around the waist. He glances back, searching the room for Serenith, who’s already drifting off toward another hallway entirely, wings tucked in tight, something unreadable in the set of her shoulders.

“You’re not coming?” he calls.

“Go ahead,” she says, not bothering to turn around. “I’ll be right there.”

He squints after her a moment, shrugs, and lets Kamiko pull him along, already too distracted by the sway of her hips to properly chase the thought any further.

A while later, in Kamiko’s private bath, candlelight flickering warm and low against the tiled walls, she lies soaking in water gone thick with steam, head tipped back against the rim, eyes half-lidded, groaning low and unsteady, both hands gripping the edge of the tub hard enough to whiten her knuckles, eyes rolling back with every fresh wave of it. Beneath the surface, Lucien works with the same patient, methodical thoroughness he brings to everything else, tongue tracing slow, deliberate patterns that have her hips bucking helplessly against his mouth, and the water ripples in slow, spreading rings with every twitcha and shudder that rolls through her.

Lucien’s head breaks the surface a moment later, hair plastered flat, grinning, chin dripping. “How long was that?”

She sighs, thoroughly, blissfully satisfied. “Lost count after about five seconds.”

He pouts, resting his chin on the edge of the tub, water dripping steadily off his hair and onto the tile. “I’m trying to beat my own record here. You need to actually focus and count this time.”

She giggles, breathless, one hand still braced white-knuckled against the tub’s rim, chest still heaving from the last round. “Fine. I’ll try again.” A wicked little smile. “Might make it to twenty this time,” she purrs, already reaching down to guide him back between her thighs.

He disappears in a froth of bubbles, and her moans pick right back up where they left off, echoing softly off the tiled walls, rising steadily in pitch as the candles burn low and the steam thickens around them both, her thighs trembling tighter around his shoulders with every renewed effort on his part. Water sloshes rhythmically over the tub’s edge, pooling across the tile in widening dark patches neither of them spares a single thought for, both far too preoccupied with the count currently in progress.

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