Chapter 65 Rusty Instincts

Between explosions of light, they traded bites from the treats they had bought—a piece of sugared fig, a shared skewer of caramelized fruit, warm bread torn into small, considerate pieces.

Each taste seemed to stitch them closer: laughter after a bad joke, an exchanged glance when a particularly loud set of rockets painted the sky a furious red.

Twice, Alexander threatened to take Elaine’s hat—an affectation she’d bought for the disguise—and twice she flicked it back at him, smiling.

When the final, largest shell roared and blossomed into a crown that rained sparks like melted starlight, Alexander sat up and pressed his forehead to hers. "Promise me we’ll have nights like this," he whispered, voice small under the lingering light.

Elaine’s hand cupped the back of his head; fingers threaded in his pinned hair. "I promise," she said. "On condition you learn to carry one heavy thing now and then."

He laughed into the curve of her neck. "Deal. But only if you keep carrying my impulsive purchases."

"I’ll carry them," she agreed, and they settled back as the last embers faded and the city murmured back to ordinary sound. The moon-pin at his hair flashed in the darkness, and

Alexander’s ribbons trailed like small, colourful echoes of the fireworks above—beautiful, temporary, and entirely, irrepressibly his.

The market’s hum had turned into a raucous tide by late evening—lanterns popping alive, hawkers calling last offers, spices steaming in the cooling air.

They’d split for a moment the way couples do in crowds: Alexander distracted by a stall of painted ribbons; Elaine tugged toward a vendor hawking candied figs. It should have been a breath, a turn, a reconnecting smile. Instead, the crowd folded them into different currents.

He only noticed too late that he’d lost sight of Elaine. The ribbons in his arms felt heavier, the moon-pin at his nape a small, bright weight against his neck.

He threaded deeper into a narrow lane to skirt a mound of crates, thinking she would be waiting at the next corner. Light thinned; the air smelled of damp straw and old fish. Shadows grew teeth.

Three silhouettes slid from deeper shade as if they’d materialized out of the alley wall. No greeting, no stall-voice—just rough grips and hungry eyes.

Goons?

"Come with us," the tallest one said, voice like gravel. His breath smelled of stale ale. "We don’t need any theatrics tonight."

Alexander’s first instinct was indignation. Were they threatening him? How dare they?! "No," he said, the single word steady as a blade.

The man who had spoken lunged. A hand grabbed his scarf; another reached for the crescent pin at his hair.

Instinct moved quicker than thought. Alexander twisted, skirts whispering as he pivoted, and struck the first man’s wrist with the muscle of his forearm.

The man yelped, surprised; Alexander followed with the heel of his hand into the ribs of the second. The third tried to flank him, but Alexander ducked and planted his foot hard into the man’s shin. The alley answered with curses, the slap of heavy boots, the sharp clack of a thrown elbow. He kicked him flying using his quickness, generating enough force for the man to cough up some blood instantly.

"Fucking bitch!"

Adrenaline sang hot in his veins. He moved not elegantly but efficiently, each action a reaction—slap, shove, sidestep—meant to create space.

For a moment he had the upper hand—the tall man staggered, clutching his wrist; the second hunched over, winded. Alexander’s breath came in ragged pulls; every muscle vibrated with the raw clarity of fight.

Then someone struck the back of his head.

The blow was sudden and final—a blunt force that splintered the night into white starbursts. The world tipped. Sound smeared. His knees folded as if cut from under him. He hit the cobbles with the wind knocked out of him, the taste of iron blooming in his mouth.

Argh, I have gotten... too... comfortable in this life. My instincts have gotten rusty. I was too careless.

Hands—many hands—reached down. Rough fingers gripped his shoulders, hauled him half upright, then pushed him forward. "Move," the tall one hissed, a predator’s patience in his tone. "You come with us. Quiet."

He felt the world narrowing to a tunnel of sound: the rasp of breathing, distant laughter, the slap of a cloak. The men’s voices ordered him like a coiled animal they meant to leash. They wanted him to follow—they wanted whatever made him valuable to their hands.

Fuck!

They were the goons of slave dealers!

Alexander tried to speak but a wet warmth spread at the corner of his mouth—blood, hot and startling. His limbs refused obedience. Someone cursed and shoved him along the alley, boots scuffing the stone.

Panic fluttered—sharp, bright—but it hit a wall of exhaustion and pain. The world narrowed further; the faces above him blurred like watercolour. He tried to drag in air. The lungs betrayed him.

A ragged breath hit his ear.

"Keep him quiet."

A coarse hand slapped a linen square across his nose and mouth. The cloth smelled faintly of lavender and something bitter. It muffled his protests immediately. He gagged, fought for a breath that wouldn’t come clean.

The last thing he registered before darkness folded him was the sensation of being manhandled—pulled upright, dragged toward a narrower cut in the alley that opened onto a quieter courtyard.

Their footsteps were urgent now, quick and precise. "This way," the tall one urged. "Don’t let him go. Someone will come looking."

Through the fog of half-consciousness, he heard them arguing—their voices like clipped stones. "You said you’d get him to follow," one accused. "You were supposed to charm him, not break him."

"He was worth the coin," the tall one answered. "Enough to pay our debts and then some. He’ll fetch a price."

"Charm?"

"Look at us, then look at him. Do you think this omega will even give us a minute of his life?"

"Let’s get out of here. We can talk about this later."