Chapter 1: Wine and Whispers
The air in the House of Sin was a visible haze, thick with sandalwood incense and the sweat of expensive perfumes clinging to damp skin. A lute player in the corner plucked a repetitive, sultry melody, one string slightly flat. Ishtar moved to it, the silken bells at her hips and ankles whispering a counter-rhythm to the clumsy tune. Her body, a pale violet curve against the burgundy drapes, was a lesson in controlled suggestion. Each roll of her hips, each arch of her spine, was calculated to draw the eye and loosen the purse strings of the men slumped in the plush chairs.
They watched, glasses of wine forgotten in their hands. A dwarf, his beard stained with ale. A human merchant, fingers twitching as if already counting out coins. Their desire was a palpable heat in the room, but it washed over Ishtar like a tepid bath. She smiled, a practiced curl of her lips that didn't touch her black and gold eyes. Her gaze slid over their rapt faces, a gentle inventory, until it snagged on the far archway.
He stood there, a shadow dressed in finer shadows. A drow. Silver hair, clean and stark as moonlight, fell over shoulders clad in dark, supple leather. His eyes were a smoldering red in the dim light, fixed on her with an intensity that felt like a physical touch. It wasn’t the dull hunger of the others. This was appraisal. A predator recognizing another predator, or perhaps evaluating prey.
The music ended. Ishtar swept into a low bow, the horns that swept back from her forehead nearly grazing the polished floor. Polite applause pattered through the room. She rose, accepting a goblet of water from a serving girl, her eyes darting back to the archway.
He was gone.
A familiar chill, unrelated to the draft from the street door, traced a line down her spine. She forced another smile, gliding towards the merchant. “Perhaps a private audience, sir? The upstairs rooms are… conducive to deeper conversation.”
Before the man could stammer his agreement, a new presence suffocated the space around her. A scent of frost lily and cold metal. Aurick.
“She is otherwise engaged,” a smooth, high voice stated. It wasn’t loud, but it cut through the murmur of the room. The high elf, Aurick, stood beside her, his hand closing around her upper arm. His grip was deceptively gentle, his long fingers like bars of chilled steel. His platinum hair and elegantly pointed ears marked his heritage, but his eyes—a pale, hungry blue—spoke of obsessions that ran far deeper than bloodline.
“Lord Aurick,” Ishtar said, her voice a melodic balm. “I had not seen you.”
“You never do, until I am upon you.” He leaned in, his lips nearly brushing the curve of her pointed ear. “I grow weary of this dance, my sweet infernal. My offer stands. My estate. Your freedom from this… place.” His other hand came up, a thumb stroking over the knobs of her spine where her back dipped. A claim. “In exchange for permanent companionship.”
Permanent. A gilded cage. A specimen in his collection of the fiend-touched. Ishtar’s heart hammered against her ribs, but her face remained a placid mask. “You honor me. But my contract with Madame—”
“Can be bought. I am buying it. In 3 days.” His tone final. He began to steer her toward the grand staircase.
Panic, sharp and acrid, rose in her throat. She glanced desperately toward the bar, the door, anywhere. And there he was again. The drow. Leaning against the polished mahogany, swirling a dark liquid in a crystal glass. His red eyes met hers. He gave a slow, almost imperceptible blink. Then his gaze flicked to Aurick’s hand on her arm, and back to her face. A question.
Ishtar made a decision. It was a gamble with potentially lethal stakes, but the alternative was a slow death in Aurick’s manor. She stumbled slightly in her heels, a convincing little trip that made Aurick’s grip tighten. As she righted herself, she let her gaze lock with the drow’s again and gave a faint, deliberate shake of her head. No. I do not want this.
The drow’s expression didn’t change. He took a slow sip of his drink.
Aurick was pulling her up the first step. “I have a new scroll of binding I am eager to test. Your fiendish essence will make the enchantments sing.”
The words coiled in her gut like a snake. Ishtar planted her feet. “Lord Aurick, please. I have a prior commitment. A patron awaits me.” She was lying, and badly.
“He will be compensated for his disappointment.” Aurick’s voice lost its silken edge. It was now pure, cold authority.
“The lady says she has a prior commitment.”
The voice was a low, dry rasp, like stone sliding against stone. It came from the bottom of the stairs. The drow stood there, one hand resting casually on the pommel of a short sword at his hip. He wasn’t looking at Aurick. He was looking at Ishtar, as if Aurick were simply an inconvenient piece of furniture.
Aurick stopped, turning with glacial slowness. “This is none of your concern, ssinssrigg.” The Undercommon slur for drow was delivered with dripping contempt.
“It became my concern when she shook her head at me.” The drow finally shifted his burning gaze to the high elf. “Means ‘no’ in most languages. Let her go.”
The tension in the air snapped taut. The lute music had stopped. All pretense of conversation died. Aurick’s smile was a razor cut. “You are in over your head, dark one. This is a matter of lawful contract.”
“I see a frightened woman being dragged upstairs against her will. That breaks a few laws, even in this sewer.” The drow took a step up. He moved with a liquid, silent grace that was more threatening than any shout. “The hand. Off.”
For a suspended moment, Ishtar thought Aurick would draw the slender wand at his own hip. His pride warred with the practical reality of a armed drow in a crowded brothel. With a sound of disgust, he released her arm. “This is not over, Ishtar. You are a testament to the infernal, and I will have that testament for my study.” He shot the drow a look of pure venom before descending the stairs and stalking out into the night.
The room exhaled. The lute player fumbled back into a tune. Ishtar’s knees felt weak. She leaned against the banister, looking down at her unlikely savior.
He ascended the steps until he was standing before her. Up close, he was older than she first thought, fine lines at the corners of those startling eyes. The scent of him was strange: ozone, old leather, and something coppery.
“Prior commitment, was it?” he asked, a faint smirk touching his lips.
“It is now,” Ishtar breathed, summoning every ounce of her professional charm. She placed a hand on his chest, feeling the hard muscle beneath the leather. “My room is this way. I am… grateful.”
His hand covered hers, not pushing it away, but holding it still. His skin was cool. “Gratitude is cheap. Information isn’t. Who was the elf?”
“A persistent patron.”
“He wants to bind you. That’s more than persistence.” His red eyes searched her face, missing nothing. “He’s a problem. And now, so am I, by association. That makes you my problem.”
He was right. Aurick would have eyes on the door. He would have men waiting. This drow was now her only viable exit strategy. “My room,” she said again, more insistently. “We can discuss terms in private.”
He watched her for another long moment, then gave a single nod. She led him down the hall, away from the noise, to her private chamber. It was opulent—a large bed piled with silk cushions, a balcony overlooking the darkened street, a bathing area screened by a beaded curtain. She locked the door behind them.
Before she could turn, his hands were on her shoulders, turning her to face him. His touch was not rough, but it was utterly assured. “The performance is over, tiefling. You’re not grateful. You’re terrified. And you think I’m your way out of whatever hell that elf has planned for you.”
Ishtar’s mask shattered. The fear, held at bay by adrenaline, rushed in. Her tail, usually held in a graceful curve, dropped and twitched anxiously. “His name is Aurick. He’s a warlock with a taste for fiendish blood. He doesn’t just want to own me. He wants to… study me. To pull me apart to see what makes a tiefling tick. Permanently.”
The drow listened, his face unreadable. “And you are what? A simple courtesan caught in a bad situation?”
“I am an infernal doll to him,” she fired back, her chin lifting. "An object to warm his bed at night and for him to tear apart in the name of knowledge whenever he pleases." Ishtar spoke, feeling uneasy. "I escaped Avernus in search of freedom and a better life. I don't want to be a slave to a man like Aurick."
Ishtar pushed past him and sat down on the edge of her bed. "But I cannot run either. I'm legally bound to Madam Grisha until my contract is bought out by a patron, or I manage to pay it off... and I still have a few years left to." She explained, pointing to her neck. Barely visible, a shimmer of red appeared as sigils ran across her neck and then disappeared, the sign of a magical contract. "So... it seems it's only a matter of time until he buys me." Her shoulders slumped.
Her shoulders slumped. The defiance leaked out of her, leaving only the exhaustion she hid beneath the kohl and silks. The room, usually her sanctuary of calculated seduction, felt like a cage with very visible bars.
The drow didn’t move from his spot by the door. His red eyes traced the now-faded sigils on her neck. “A soul-bond contract. Nasty bit of work. Your Madam owns you until the ink—or the magic—fades.” He finally stepped away from the door, moving with that silent prowl. He didn’t approach the bed. Instead, he went to the balcony, nudged the curtain aside with a sword pommel, and scanned the street below. “He’ll have watchers. Probably two. One by the tavern sign, one pretending to be a drunk in the gutter.”
Ishtar watched him. This wasn’t a patron. This was a professional. A chill that had nothing to do with fear skittered down her spine. “Why did you help me?”
He let the curtain fall back. “I don’t like slavers. And high elves who toy with infernal binding magics… they tend to make messes. I dislike messes.” He turned to face her, leaning against the wall. “My name is Drizzt.”
A drow name. Simple. It told her nothing. “Ishtar.”
“I know.” He pushed off the wall and walked to the small table where a carafe of wine sat. He poured two glasses without asking, brought one to her. Their fingers brushed. His were calloused, sword-calloused, and cool. “So. You’re a prisoner with a gilded cell. He’s a predator with the gold to buy the key. And in three days, he does just that.”
“Yes.” She took a gulp of wine. It did nothing.
“What do you want, Ishtar?”
The question, so blunt, stunned her. No one had asked her that in years. What did she want? She wanted to not be afraid. She wanted the phantom scent of frost lilies gone from her memory. She wanted to own the skin she was in. “I want out. Of the contract. Of this city. Away from him.”
Drizzt sipped his wine, thoughtful. “Breaking a soul-bond requires either the contract holder’s voluntary release, full payment of the bonded debt, or the death of the holder.” He listed the options as if discussing market prices. “Madam Grisha won’t release you. You can’t pay. And killing her would just transfer the bond to her next of kin, which solves nothing.”
“So I’m fucked.” The vulgarity fell from her lips, raw and true.
A slow, razor-sharp smile spread across Drizzt’s face. It transformed him, carving years and lethality into his features. “There’s a fourth option. It’s not in the legal texts.”
Hope, dangerous and fragile, prickled in her chest. “Tell me.”
“The contract is magic. All magic can be corrupted, redirected… or stolen. If the bond can’t be broken, it can be transferred to someone who would immediately nullify it.”
“Who would do that?” she breathed.
“Me.”
The single word hung in the incense-heavy air. He set his glass down. “I have… certain relics. One of them can briefly hold such a bond. If I can get close enough to your Madam, I can trick the magic into leaping to me. I am not bound by her terms. The bond would dissolve in my possession within a day.”
It sounded insane. Impossible. Like a children’s fairy tale. “Why? Why would you take that risk? For a stranger?”
His red eyes held hers. “Because Aurick is not just your problem. He’s been sourcing components for a cabal that wants to open a stable gate to the Hells. Your ‘essence’ would be a powerful key. Stopping him saves more than just you.” He took a step closer. “But it’s not free. My help has a price.”
Of course it did. Everything did. Ishtar straightened her spine, the courtesan sliding back into place. She let a smile touch her lips, let her eyes grow heavy-lidded. She stood, letting the silken wrap she wore gape open slightly. “I have coin saved. Not enough to buy my contract, but enough to be… generous.”
Drizzt laughed. It was a short, dry sound. “Put your weapons away, tiefling. I don’t need your gold.” He closed the distance between them. He didn’t touch her, but his presence was an undeniable pressure. “I need your expertise. Your access. I need you to get me invited to the private party Grisha is throwing for the Guild Masters tomorrow night. I need to be close to her.”
Ishtar’s performance faltered. “That’s… a very exclusive event. Even I would need a specific patron’s invitation to attend as a companion.”
“You have one. Aurick will have received his. You will convince him to bring you as his guest.”
The world tilted. “Have you lost your mind? After what just happened downstairs? He’ll drag me to his manor the moment I’m within reach!”
“No, he won’t.” Drizzt’s hand came up, and he did touch her then—a single finger under her chin, tilting her face up. His touch was electricity. “Because you’re going to go to him tonight. You’re going to apologize. You’re going to tell him you were overwhelmed, scared of the drow, that you’ve reconsidered his… generous offer. You will beg for his protection, and you will secure that invitation. You will make him believe you are already his.”
Her stomach churned. “I can’t.”
“You can. You’re a survivor. And this is how you survive.” His thumb brushed the line of her jaw. It wasn’t a caress. It was a measurement. “This is my price. Your compliance. Your acting skills. Your body, if that’s what it takes to sell the lie to him.”
Revulsion coiled cold in her gut. But beneath it, a fiercer heat—the heat of a possible future. She saw the calculation in his eyes. This was a transaction. A brutal, ugly trade. Her body for her freedom. A night with a monster to escape him forever.
“And you?” she whispered. “What do you do while I’m… selling the lie?”
“I’ll be watching. Ensuring he doesn’t decide to leave the party early with his new prize.” His gaze was merciless. “Can you do it?”
Ishtar closed her eyes. She saw Aurick’s pale eyes, his collection jars, the cold silver tables in his basement workshop. She felt the ghost of the magical bond around her neck. She opened her eyes and looked at Drizzt—at the sharp planes of his face, the danger that clung to him like a second skin. A different kind of danger.
“Yes,” she said, the word a stone dropping in the quiet room.
Something shifted in his expression. The professional detachment cracked, just for a second, revealing something darker, more visceral. “Good.”
He didn’t move away. The space between them crackled with the unsaid, with the vile bargain they’d just struck. Her heart hammered against her ribs, a frantic drumbeat of fear and a sharp, unwanted spike of adrenaline.
His hand was still on her jaw. Slowly, his other came up to cradle the side of her neck, his thumb resting over her racing pulse. “You’re shaking.”
“I’m terrified,” she admitted, the truth laid bare.
“Don’t be.” His voice dropped, a low rasp that vibrated through her. “He’s just a man. A vicious, obsessed man, but flesh and blood. You know how to handle those.” His head dipped, his lips a breath away from hers. His scent—ozone and leather—filled her senses. “Consider this a rehearsal. To steady your nerves.”
It wasn’t a request. It was a command, and one her body, traitorously, was already obeying. The part of her that was all survivor, the courtesan who knew how to use desire as both shield and weapon, rose to meet him. She let her lips part, a silent invitation.
He took it.
The kiss wasn’t gentle. It was a conquest. His mouth was hot and demanding, his tongue sweeping past her lips to claim hers. It was nothing like the sloppy, wine-soaked kisses of patrons. This was pure, focused intensity. One hand fisted in her long, black hair, tilting her head back to deepen the angle. The other slid from her neck down her spine, pressing her flush against him. She felt the hard lines of his body, the rigid outline of weapons and armor, and beneath that, the unmistakable, growing hardness pressed against her belly.
A moan caught in her throat. She shouldn’t want this. This was part of the transaction, another layer of use. But her body, starved for any sensation that wasn’t feigned or forced, ignited. She kissed him back, her arms winding around his neck, her fingers tangling in the shocking softness of his silver hair.
He broke the kiss with a sharp nip to her lower lip. His red eyes were glazed, pupils blown wide. “Tell me to stop,” he breathed, the words a challenge.
She knew she should. This complicated everything. Instead, she reached for the clasp of his leather vest. “Fuck you,” she whispered, her voice husky.
His grin was predatory. He let her fumble with the straps for a second before his own hands moved with devastating efficiency. He didn’t undress her; he uncovered her. The silken wrap was torn aside. Her delicate corset lacing snapped under his pull. Cool air hit her skin, followed immediately by the searing heat of his palms on her breasts. He weighed them, his thumbs circling her nipples, making them peak into tight, aching points.
“Beautiful,” he murmured, but it sounded like an assessment, not a compliment. He bent his head and took one nipple into his mouth. He sucked, hard, his tongue lashing the sensitive peak. Ishtar cried out, her knees buckling. He held her up effortlessly, switching to the other breast, his teeth grazing just enough to make her gasp.
Her own hands were frantic, pushing his vest and shirt off his shoulders. His skin was smooth and pale, marked with old, silvery scars—a map of violence. She traced one along his ribcage, and he shuddered. So he was not entirely unmoved.
He straightened, lifting her as if she weighed nothing, and carried her to the bed. He laid her down on the silks, coming down over her, caging her with his body. One knee nudged her thighs apart. The rough material of his trousers rubbed against her inner thighs, a maddening friction. She was already wet, a slick, hot ache pooling between her legs.
“Drizzt,” she gasped, her tail thrashing against the sheets.
He captured her mouth again, swallowing her breath. His hand left her breast, slid down her stomach, to the juncture of her thighs. He didn’t tease. One long finger pushed into her, curling upwards. She arched off the bed with a sharp cry.
“So ready,” he growled against her lips. He added a second finger, stretching her, pumping in a rough, rhythmic cadence that had her seeing stars. His thumb found her clit, applying a perfect, ruthless pressure. “Is this what you need? To forget?”
“Yes,” she sobbed, her hips meeting his thrusting hand. The coil inside her wound tighter, a frantic need obliterating thought. This wasn’t about him, or the bargain, or Aurick. This was pure, desperate sensation.
He withdrew his fingers suddenly. The loss made her whimper. She heard the rustle of clothing, the clink of a belt, then he was back, the hot, heavy weight of his cock pressing against her entrance. He didn’t ask. He didn’t hesitate. He looked down at her, his expression a mask of fierce control, eyes burning into hers.
“This isn’t for you,” he said, his voice ragged. “This is for the lie. Remember that.”
Then he surged forward, burying himself inside her in one deep, punishing thrust.
Ishtar screamed. It was too much, too fast. He was big, stretching her to the point of burning fullness. For a moment, he was still, buried to the hilt, letting her adjust. Sweat dripped from his brow onto her chest. His control was a visible, trembling thing.
Then he moved.
He set a brutal, driving pace from the start. Each thrust was a claim, a punishment, a promise. The bed rocked against the wall. He hooked an arm under her knee, hiking her leg higher, changing the angle, hitting a spot that made her vision whiten. Pleasure, sharp and shocking, lanced through her. All the fear, the desperation, the ugly bargaining, melted into a raw, physical fire.
“Gods,” she chanted, “fuck, yes, right there…” Her claws dug into the muscles of his back, surely drawing blood. He grunted, his pace never faltering.
His mouth was at her ear, his breath hot. “You can take it. You’re stronger than you look.” He pistoned into her, the slap of skin on skin a frantic rhythm in the room. “You’ll go to him. You’ll smile. You’ll let him touch you. And you’ll think of this. Of me fucking you. It’ll keep the disgust off your face.”
His words were as vulgar as his actions, and they sparked something fierce in her. She met his every thrust, her hips rising to meet his, taking all of him. “You arrogant… bastard,” she gasped.
He laughed, a low, harsh sound, and slammed into her harder. “Yes.”
The coil snapped. Her orgasm ripped through her without warning, a violent, convulsing wave that clenched around him, pulling a ragged shout from his throat. He drove into her once, twice more, then stilled, his body bowing as he spilled himself deep inside her with a guttural groan.
For a long moment, there was only the sound of their ragged breathing. The scent of sex and sweat and incense hung heavy in the air. Drizzt collapsed beside her, one arm flung over his eyes.
Ishtar lay there, staring at the canopy, feeling the heat of him seep from her body. The reality of what had just happened—what she had agreed to—crashed back in. Her skin felt too tight. Her mind was clearing, and with clarity came a cold, sharp dread.
He shifted beside her. When he spoke, his voice was flat, all business once more. “Dawn is in a few hours. Clean up. Put on your best dress. You go to him at first light, before he has time to stew in his anger.”
He sat up, his back to her, and began pulling on his clothes with quick, efficient motions. He was leaving. The transaction was complete.
Ishtar pushed herself up on her elbows. “Drizzt.”
He paused, buckling a sword belt around his hips. He didn’t look at her.
“Thank you,” she said, the words feeling absurd and essential.
He finally glanced over his shoulder. His face was once again the cool, impenetrable mask. “Don’t thank me yet.” He nodded toward the balcony. “And clean the blood off your claws before you see him.”
Then he was at the window, a silhouette against the pale pre-dawn sky. He melted over the railing and was gone, silent as a shadow.
Ishtar lay back in the tangled, sweat-damp silks. The ache between her legs was a blunt reminder. The ghost of his touch still on her skin. Outside, the first grey light of a Baldur’s Gate morning began to bleed into the room, illuminating the path to her own personal hell, and her only, desperate way out.