Chapter 2: Deception
The knocker on Aurick’s estate door was a snarling devil’s head in polished brass. Ishtar lifted it, the metal cold enough to burn, and let it fall. The sound echoed through the silent street, too loud in the predawn gloom. Beneath her cloak, she wore a simple gown of deep emerald, one that laced up the front. Easy to remove. Her skin, scrubbed raw in a frantic bath, still felt the imprint of Drizzt’s hands, his mouth, the deep, aching stretch of him. She used it. Let the phantom sensation fuel the flush on her cheeks, the slight tremor in her hands. Fear was the currency here, and she would spend it lavishly.
The door swung open, not by a servant, but by Aurick himself. He was dressed in a robe of silver-threaded silk, his platinum hair loose around his shoulders. He looked rested, composed, and utterly unsurprised.
“The dawn’s first penitent,” he said, his voice a softly amused curve. He stepped back, granting her entry. “Come in, my dear. I’ve been expecting a visit, though perhaps not so… promptly.”
The foyer was a monument to cold beauty. Marble floors, white veined with crimson, reflected the pale light from high, narrow windows. The air smelled of frost lilies and parchment. It was clean, silent, and utterly lifeless.
Ishtar let her cloak fall from her shoulders. She didn’t pick it up. She took three steps inside and sank to her knees on the cold stone, the impact a sharp jolt up her thighs. She bowed her head, letting her raven hair fall forward like a curtain.
“Lord Aurick,” she began, her voice pitched to waver. “I have come… I have come to beg your forgiveness.”
He stood before her, watching. She could feel his gaze like a physical weight on the nape of her neck. “Forgiveness is easily granted. Understanding is more elusive. Explain.”
She wrung her hands, a gesture she’d practiced a thousand times for lesser men. “I was frightened. That… that creature. His eyes. The things he whispered.” She shuddered, remembering the rasp of Drizzt’s voice in her ear. It wasn’t hard to conjure the tremor. “He spoke of the Underdark, of chains that make yours look like silken threads. He said he would take me there, for his own… uses.” She dared a glance upward, her black and gold eyes wide. “You offered me a gilded cage. He promised only darkness. In my panic, I clutched at the nearest shield. I used you. And for that, I am deeply ashamed.”
Aurick was silent for a long moment. Then he crouched, bringing his face level with hers. His pale blue eyes scanned her features, looking for cracks in the glaze. “You expect me to believe you fear a drow rogue more than you fear my… scholarly interests?”
“Yes.” The word was a breath. “Because with you, there is beauty. There is purpose. I am a testament, you said. With him, I would be a slab of meat in a lightless pit.” A tear, perfectly timed, traced a path down her violet cheek. “I was a fool. I see that now. I want your protection. I want… I want your offer.”
His hand came out, cold fingers tracing the path of the tear. “You reek of him,” he murmured, his nostrils flaring slightly. “Sweat. Ozone. Sex. Did he touch you?”
This was the moment. The precipice. Ishtar let a new kind of fear show—a raw, shameful fear. She nodded, a barely perceptible dip of her chin. “He… he forced himself into my room. After you left. He said it was the price for his interference.” The lie tasted like ash, but she sold it with a hollow, broken look. “I felt so powerless.”
Aurick’s eyes flickered with something complex—disgust, possessiveness, a spark of dark satisfaction. Her defilement, it seemed, was not entirely displeasing to him. It made her more of a prize, a reclaimed treasure.
“Stand up,” he commanded.
She rose, her legs unsteady. He took her hand and led her not to a dungeon or a laboratory, but to a parlor. It was, as he had promised, decadent. Crimson velvet drapes, gilded mirrors that reflected the room into infinity, low tables of dark wood inlaid with mother-of-pearl. The air was thick with a cloying, expensive perfume that failed to mask a deeper, metallic scent beneath. A trio of lute players sat in the corner, their sultry melody a whisper against the tense silence.
He settled into a high-backed chair upholstered in blood-red brocade, steepling his fingers. “Your fear is persuasive. Your shame, even more so. But words are ephemeral. I require a tangible gesture of your… realignment.”
Ishtar’s heart was a trapped bird against her ribs. This was it. She approached his chair. Her fingers went to the laces at the front of her gown. She didn’t look at him; she looked at her own trembling hands as she pulled the cord, one deliberate knot after another. The fabric parted. She let the gown slip from her shoulders, pooling at her feet in a whisper of silk. She stood before him in only a thin, pearl-grey chemise, the points of her nipples visibly tight against the fine fabric, the gentle curve of her hips and the length of her violet thighs exposed.
“I will do anything,” she said, her voice dropping to a husky whisper charged with false sincerity. “Just keep me safe from him. From the dark.”
Aurick’s gaze was a clinical caress. He didn’t move from his chair. “Come here.”
She stepped over the pile of her dress, closing the distance between them. He reached out, hooking a finger in the strap of her chemise and pulling it down her arm. The cool air pebbled her skin. His other hand came up, not to fondle, but to trace the line of her collarbone, the swell of her breast, as if memorizing topography.
“The drow,” he said, his voice a low murmur. “Did he take you like an animal? Or did he pretend at courtesy?”
Ishtar swallowed, forcing the memory of Drizzt’s brutal, consuming possession to the surface. Let Aurick see its reflection in her eyes. “There was no pretense,” she breathed.
A cold smile touched his lips. “Good. Then you will appreciate the contrast.” His hands grasped her hips, turning her, and then pulled her down onto his lap, her back to his chest. She could feel the hard ridge of his erection through the layers of silk robe and trousers, pressing against the base of her spine. His arms encircled her, one hand splaying across her stomach, pulling her firmly against him, the other coming up to cup her breast. His touch was possessive, but oddly dispassionate, like a collector examining a newly acquired vase.
His lips brushed the point of her ear. “Play for me,” he whispered, nodding towards the musicians. “Show me how grateful you are.”
He meant for her to perform. To put on a show for the unseen lutists, for the mirrors. Humiliation, hot and sharp, joined the cocktail of fear and resolve in her gut. But she was a courtesan of the House of Sin. Performance was her oldest armor.
She let her head fall back against his shoulder, exposing the line of her throat. She began to move in his lap, a slow, grinding roll of her hips against the hardness beneath her. She reached a hand back, tangling her fingers in his silver hair, not to guide, but to complete the picture of submission. A soft moan escaped her lips, a practiced sound she’d perfected over a decade. It echoed in the silent, watching room.
Aurick’s breath hitched. The clinical detachment began to fracture. His hand on her breast grew more aggressive, pinching and rolling her nipple through the chemise. His other hand slid down from her stomach, over the curve of her belly, and dipped beneath the hem of her thin undergarment.
His fingers were cool and dry. They found her folds, parted them. She was slick, her body’s treacherous response to the adrenaline, to the simulation, and to the vile, unwanted memory of Drizzt’s invasion that this act recalled. Aurick let out a soft, approving hum against her neck. “See? Your body knows its true master,” he murmured.
He worked a finger inside her, then two, his movements precise, probing. It wasn’t about her pleasure; it was an inspection. “You are remarkably accommodating,” he observed, as if noting a property of clay. “The infernal physiology is fascinating. The resilience…”
Ishtar closed her eyes, retreating behind a wall in her mind. She focused on the mechanics: the grind of her hips, the pitch of her moans, the clutch of her inner muscles around his intruding fingers. She thought of Drizzt’s promise, of the relic, of the nullification of the bond. She thought of freedom.
“Enough,” Aurick rasped, his voice now thickened with a hunger that was more akin to greed than lust. He withdrew his fingers, pushing her forward off his lap. She stumbled, catching herself on the arm of the chair, her chemise now rucked up around her waist. “Bend over. The chair.”
She obeyed, leaning over the padded arm of the brocade chair, presenting herself to him. She heard the rustle of silk as he freed himself. There was no further preparation, no attempt at gentleness. He positioned himself and pushed forward.
He was not as large as Drizzt, but his entry was slow, inexorable, and cold. Ishtar gasped, her fingers clawing at the velvet. He sank into her to the hilt with a long, satisfied sigh.
“There,” he said, his hands gripping her hips, his thumbs digging into the dimples at the base of her spine. “The perfect fit for my collection.”
He began to move, a measured, rhythmic pace that was somehow more degrading than violence. Each thrust was a statement of ownership. He leaned over her, his body covering hers, his lips next to her ear. “You will attend the Guild Masters’ soiree with me tomorrow,” he said, his voice barely straining. “You will wear the crimson and gold. You will smile. You will be the envy of every man there. And when we return here, we will begin the first binding rituals. Your essence will be mine to study, to savor, to… reshape.”
With each word, each deep, possessive stroke, Ishtar felt a part of herself calcify. She made the right sounds—sharp intakes of breath, submissive whimpers. She pushed back against him, feigning a fervor she did not feel. The mirrors caught it all: the violet skin against the crimson velvet, the high elf’s focused, hungry expression, the performance of ecstasy on the tiefling’s face that never reached her deadened eyes.
Aurick’s pace quickened, losing its precision. His breaths came in short, sharp pants. His fingers bit into her flesh. “Mine,” he grunted, a final, fervent declaration. He drove deep and held there, shuddering as he spent himself inside her with a low, guttural sound.
He remained lodged within her for a long moment, his weight heavy on her back. Finally, he pulled out with a soft, wet sound. Ishtar stayed bent over the chair, her body trembling with spent tension and profound disgust.
She heard him rearranging his clothing. “The soiree begins at eight. A carriage will collect you at the House of Sin at half past seven. Do not be late.” His voice was calm, composed once more, as if discussing a trade agreement. “You may go. Clean yourself up. I expect you to be presentable.”
Ishtar slowly straightened. Her legs felt weak, sticky. She pulled down her chemise, not bothering to look at him. She retrieved her gown from the floor, but didn’t put it on. She simply gathered it and her cloak and walked, barefoot and exposed, towards the marble foyer.
“Ishtar,” he called.
She paused, but didn’t turn.
“The drow,” Aurick said, a new, sharp edge in his tone. “If you see him again, you will inform me immediately. He is an undesirable variable. I do not tolerate variables in my equations.”
She gave a single, stiff nod and pulled open the heavy door. The grey morning light hit her like a slap. She stumbled down the steps, clutching the gown to her chest, the scent of frost lilies and her own violation clinging to her skin. She didn’t look back.
Halfway down the deserted street, a shadow detached itself from a recessed doorway. Drizzt fell into step beside her, his pace matching her ragged stride. He said nothing for a block, just walked, a silent, dangerous presence.
“Well?” he finally asked, his voice low.
“I have the invitation,” Ishtar said, her own voice flat, hollow. “Tomorrow night. Seven-thirty.”
He glanced at her, his red eyes taking in her disheveled state, the grim set of her jaw. “Good.”
They walked another block in silence. The first signs of the city waking up began to appear: a shutter opening, the distant call of a milkmaid.
“He knows about you,” she said, the words tasting of iron. “Calls you a variable. He’ll be watching for you.”
Drizzt’s smirk was a ghost in the dawn light. “Let him watch.” He paused, then added, “The performance was convincing.”
Ishtar stopped walking and turned to face him. The raw, unfiltered look in her eyes was no longer part of any act. “It wasn’t a performance. Not for him. It was a transaction. Just like last night.” She pulled her cloak tightly around herself, a frail barrier against the world. “You got what you needed. Now get me out of this.”
She didn’t wait for his reply. She turned and walked towards the rising sun, leaving him standing in the shadowed street, the weight of their ugly, necessary pact hanging between them.
She turned and walked towards the rising sun, leaving him standing in the shadowed street, the weight of their ugly, necessary pact hanging between them.
The hollow clang of the House of Sin’s bell signaled the midday change of shift. Ishtar heard it through the door of her room, where she’d been scrubbing her skin raw in a copper tub for the second time that day. The lavender-scented water did nothing. She could still smell him. The frost lily perfume. The dry, academic scent of his skin. The distinct, metallic tang of his release, which she had painfully douched from her body. The physical violation was a stain no soap could lift.
A single, firm knock rattated her door. Not the maid’s hesitant tap. “It’s me.”
Drizzt’s voice. She didn’t answer. The lock clicked, picked with insulting ease, and he slid inside, locking it again behind him. He leaned against the door, his arms crossed, taking in the scene: the discarded towels, the steam fading from the tub, her wrapped in a linen sheet on the edge of the rumpled bed, her hair a damp black curtain.
“You look like shit,” he observed, his tone devoid of mockery. It was a flat statement of fact.
“Feel like it,” she replied, not looking at him.
He pushed off the door and walked to the small table, placing a stained leather roll on it. He unbound it, revealing an array of vials, delicate tools, and a singular, ugly artifact. It was a disc of tarnished silver, covered in spidery, raised runes that seemed to writhe if stared at too long. At its center was a dull, amber stone the color of a deep bruise.
“This is it,” he said, his finger hovering over the disc. “The siphon. It needs to touch her skin, just once. Her hand, her neck, doesn’t matter. The bond will jump. It’ll feel like a static shock for her, a migraine for you, and then it will be in the stone.” He tapped the amber center. “And I will dissolve it tomorrow.”
Ishtar finally looked at the thing. It seemed too small to hold the weight of her life. “How do you get it to her? You think Grisha will let a strange drow get close enough to touch her at her own exclusive party?”
“I’ll be staff,” he said, a faint, ruthless smile touching his lips. “A sommelier, perhaps. She has a taste for rare vintages from the Moonwood. I have a bottle that will guarantee me a moment at her elbow.” He gestured to a package by the door, a neat bundle of black and white fabric. “You’ll be the distraction in your crimson and gold. Aurick will be preening, showing you off. All eyes will be on you. No one notices the servant pouring wine.”
The logic was sound. Cold. She hated how sound it was. “And after? Once the bond is in that… thing. What then? Aurick will still own my contract legally. He’ll still come for me.”
Drizzt began repacking the roll, his movements precise. “Once the magical tether is gone, the written contract is just fancy parchment. Easily stolen. More easily burned. And Aurick,” he said, glancing at her, “will have other problems. A failed ritual tends to attract unwanted attention from his otherworldly patrons. He’ll be scrambling to contain the backlash. He won’t have time for a misplaced trinket.”
A trinket. That’s all she was in this. A piece moving on a board for powers she barely understood. The resignation in her belly hardened into a cold, sharp resolve. She stood, letting the linen sheet fall.
Drizzt went very still, his hands paused over his tools.
Her body was a landscape of faint bruises—the ghosts of his fingers from the night before, the newer, sharper impressions of Aurick’s grip on her hips. She saw his red eyes catalogue them, his expression unreadable. She walked towards him, the damp floorboards cool under her feet.
“You told me to remember it was a transaction,” she said, stopping just before him. Her scent—soap and her own skin—filled the space between them. “Last night. You said it was for the lie.”
“It was.”
“And what is this?” she asked, her hand coming up to trace the line of a buckle on his leather vest.
“This is a mistake,” he replied, but he didn’t move away. His gaze dropped to her mouth.
“Probably.” She leaned in, her lips a breath from his. “But you watched me walk away from his house this morning. You saw what it cost. I need to overwrite it. I need to not feel his hands on me. So this isn’t for the plan. This is for me. Another transaction. Your body for my memory.”
She kissed him. It wasn’t the desperate clash from before. This was deliberate, a slow, open-mouthed exploration that was all challenge. She tasted of vague lavender and something fiercer, metallic. Her tongue swept against his, and he groaned, a low, shuddering sound that seemed to be pulled from a deep place.
His control snapped.
He gripped the back of her head, his fingers tangling in her damp hair, and kissed her back with a devastating hunger. This was not the calculated possession of the night before. This was raw, mutual needing. He walked her backward until her legs hit the bed, and they tumbled onto the silken covers.
He yanked at his own clothes, shoving leather and cloth aside. She scrabbled at his trousers, freeing the hard, thick length of him. He was already fully erect, the skin hot and smooth in her palm. She stroked him once, firmly, and he hissed, his hips jerking.
“Fuck, Ishtar,” he gritted out.
“That’s the idea,” she breathed, rolling atop him. She positioned herself, guiding him, and sank down in one slow, relentless motion. They both cried out. The full, stretching fullness was a white-hot brand that seared away every other sensation.
She began to move, riding him with a fierce, grinding rhythm. Her head thrown back, her violet skin sheened with a new sweat. She took everything, his hands gripping her hips hard enough to bruise, her own nails scoring his chest.
“Is this overwriting it?” he growled, thrusting up to meet her downward plunge. His voice was ragged.
“Harder,” was all she could gasp. “Don’t you fucking hold back.”
He flipped her with terrifying ease, pinning her beneath him. He hooked her legs over his shoulders, bending her nearly in half, and drove into her with a piston-like intensity that stole the air from her lungs. Each stroke was brutal, perfect, a physical exorcism. The bedframe slammed against the wall in a steady, frantic rhythm.
Her climax built, a coiling, electric pressure that had nothing to do with performance. It was pure, animal response to the punishing friction, to the sheer presence of him obliterating everything else. She chanted his name, a broken litany. “Drizzt, fuck, yes, right there, don’t stop—”
He was muttering into her neck, filthy, beautiful obscenities in Undercommon and Common. “You take it so well, you tight, perfect fuck, come on, come for me, let me feel you—”
The coil snapped. She shattered, a raw, screaming release that clenched around Him, milking him, pulling his own orgasm from him with a guttural shout. He emptied himself inside her, pulsing, shuddering, his weight collapsing onto her before he caught himself on trembling arms.
They lay entangled, slick with sweat, breathing in ragged unison. The afternoon sun slanted across the floor. Distantly, the sounds of the brothel winding up for the evening filtered through the door: laughter, a glass breaking, the tuning of a lute.
Drizzt shifted, rolling to lie beside her. For a long time, they just breathed.
“That,” Ishtar finally said, her voice hoarse, “was not a mistake.”
He turned his head on the pillow to look at her. The ruthless calculation was gone from his red eyes. Something more complicated lived there now. “No,” he agreed quietly. “It wasn’t.”
He reached out, his thumb tracing the line of her cheekbone, a gesture so unexpectedly tender it made her throat tighten. Then the moment passed. He sat up.
“The soiree,” he said, business again, but his voice was softer. “Be ready. Aurick will want you pristine, a trophy. Let him believe it.”
He dressed swiftly. At the door, he paused, looking back at her lying amidst the wreckage of the sheets. “The binding he plans for you. The rituals. They involve blood, and true names. Don’t let him get a single drop. Don’t speak your mother’s name for you, if you know it.”
A new chill, deeper than all the others, seeped into her bones. She nodded.
He left. The room felt exponentially emptier.
Ishtar rose. She walked to the balcony, ignoring the tender ache between her legs—a better pain than the one from that morning. She looked out over the rooftops of Baldur’s Gate, towards the opulent district where Aurick’s manor loomed. Crimson and gold. A distraction.
Tonight, she would wear her gilded chains and smile. And tomorrow, if the gods or luck or a ruthless drow favored her, she would watch them burn.