I stared at it.
The silk gown had been hoisted unceremoniously up to Lady Maribel Vauntherine of House Corthwyn's waist, revealing something I hadn't expected to see outside of a fetish auction in the Sable Pits of Seebulba.
A chastity belt. Full metal. Arcane runes etched like insults around the trim. Polished to a ceremonial gleam. There was even a gemstone in the locking mechanism. Emerald, of course. Classy.
"Is that… a decorative piece?" I asked, voice flat.
She blinked at me, eyes glossy with embarrassment. "It's functional."
"I gathered."
The thing looked less like a garment and more like a siege weapon. If modesty had teeth, it would be this. I'd heard of belts like these—whispers in backrooms and whorehouse tales, always spoken with a mix of disgust and disbelief. I just never thought I'd meet someone who actually wore one. Still wore one.
I crouched to inspect it. "So, uh. Voluntary or…?"
She flushed. "It was his idea."
"Ah."
"My husband," she added, as if I needed clarification. "Lord Quenrith. He said it was for my protection. From temptation. And highwaymen. And stable boys. And improper thoughts."
I raised an eyebrow. "Did it work?"
She scowled. "It chafes."
I nodded in solemn agreement. "As all good marriages do."
A puff of warm, sulfur-scented air rolled in from behind us.
Maribel squeaked, clutching her skirts. "Are you absolutely sure he's not going to eat me?"
I sighed. "For the last time—he's a tamed dragon."
Behind us, a deep, rumbling voice purred with mock offense.
"I am not tamed. I am simply… emotionally invested in civilization."
The Dragon lounged in the shade of a half-dead tree, talons neatly crossed, wings tucked like a cloak. His eyes glittered with amusement, like a cat watching a very dumb bird hop closer.
I shot him a look. "Don't scare her. She's been through enough."
"She's wearing a torture device forged by patriarchal insecurity," he muttered. "I think a little existential dread might be a step up."
Maribel whimpered again. I patted her knee.
"Relax," I said. "If he wanted to eat you, he wouldn't be talking."
Dragon huffed.
I tilted my head. "Right?"
He made a show of inspecting his claws. "Let's just say I'm pacing myself."
It all started earlier that morning, when we were trudging along one of those backroads that wind between hills and glens like a drunken goat looking for its dignity. I was debating whether to pretend to sprain my ankle for sympathy—or lunch—when the underbrush to our left exploded.
Out she burst.
Barefoot. Silk nightgown in tatters. Tiara still perched on her head like royalty got lost on the way to a sacrifice. Bangles clinking on her wrists and ankles like windchimes in a panic. She had so many toe rings I thought she'd robbed a traveling anklet merchant.
She shrieked when she saw the Dragon.
Then she screamed.
Then she begged not to be eaten.
Then she fainted.
That took all of thirty seconds.
What followed was half an hour of me coaxing, reassuring, bribing, and—eventually—pouring cherry wine down her throat until she stopped shaking long enough to remember how language worked.
Well. Three shots, to be precise.
By the time she slurred out her name—Lady Maribel Vauntherine of House Corthwyn, like it still meant something—I was already plucking twigs from her hair and weighing how much trouble we were about to inherit.
She thought I was a witch.
Which was rich, coming from someone who looked like she'd just fled an enchanted boudoir mid-ritual.
Apparently, her loving husband—Lord Quenrith the Unbearable or something—had locked her in a crumbling tower of an old keep. Wouldn't let her bathe without supervision. Wouldn't let her read. Had the servants whispering prayers outside her bedroom. Jealous. Possessive. Probably inbred. The works.
She'd overheard that he was bringing in a Witchfinder General to "cleanse her spirit" of seductive urges and "flights of madness."
That's when she ran. Into the woods. In the night. With nothing but her nightgown and generational trauma.
I told her not to worry about the Witchfinder.
She blinked. "Why?"
Behind me, the Dragon groaned. "Oh gods. Must we?"
I shrugged. "He's not a problem anymore."
"He was flammable," the Dragon muttered.
I smiled sweetly. "And now he's a cautionary tale told in charcoal."
Maribel gasped. "You killed a Witchfinder General?"
"Technically," I said, "he did the roasting. I just provided the moral support and a list of grievances."
The Dragon puffed smoke through his nostrils. "You called it a 'light toasting of institutional misogyny.'"
"It was," I said. "Besides, the screams stopped eventually."
"You're safe now," I told her, pouring a fourth shot. "We're the good guys."
She nodded slowly. Then asked if the Dragon was trained.
He huffed again.
I eyed the belt again, as one might eye a cursed artifact or particularly smug pie vendor.
"So," I asked, gesturing vaguely at her hips, "do you want to get out of it?"
Lady Maribel pressed her legs together with the dainty modesty of someone who still thought modesty could save her.
"It chafes," she said.
"Right. But like... maybe you're into that?"
She looked genuinely confused. "Into... chafing?"
I shrugged. "You'd be surprised what people like. Some pay extra. Had to ask."
She blinked, then shook her head.
"Okay then," I sighed, tucking a loose strand of hair behind my ear. "Let's pick the damn thing."
I reached into the depths of my bodice and pulled out my emergency hairpin. Not my best one. That one I used on noble doors and dumb suitors. This one was slightly bent and once used to skewer a grape, but it would do.
I knelt in front of her, inspecting the lock. Elegant. Compact. Runes I couldn't read but that judged me all the same.
Dragon shifted behind us. "Do you actually know what you're doing?"
I gave him a look. "Please. I've picked more complicated mechanisms drunk, upside down, and mid-orgasm."
He muttered, "And humble, too."
I inserted the pin and started working. The tumblers were delicate, precise. Not your average brothel padlock.
ZAP.
A jolt of blue light shot up my wrist. I yelped and fell backward, hair frizzing slightly and teeth vibrating like tuning forks.
"Ow," I hissed, shaking out my hand. "Is it magical?"
Maribel nodded apologetically. "Mildly."
"Define mild," I snapped.
She looked thoughtful. "It used to sing hymns when I tried to touch myself."
I blinked. "Oh."
"Also," she continued, "the lock is enchanted to respond only to my husband's touch. He said I deserved only the best."
I rolled my eyes so hard I saw my past lives. "Of course he did."
Lady Maribel, somehow misunderstanding my sarcasm for interest, straightened her back and lifted her chin. "It's a Selveren-Locke Series Five, you know. Commissioned directly from the Rune Artificers' Guild in Ventress. Inlaid with purity wards, tracking glyphs, and sealed by Master Enchanter Gremius the Third. He's the royal supplier."
She said it like she was showing off a couture gown, not an armored vice for her nethers.
I blinked. "Gremius the Third? Oh! I've been restrained by his work."
She gasped. "Really?"
"Chains," I said, grinning. "Gilded. Engraved. Absolutely sensual runework. Prestigeous pleasure house in Lolika, the one with marble floors and complimentary incense. Had to sign a waiver."
Lady Maribel looked stunned. "But... that's the man who made—"
"Yep," I said. "His gear holds up. Especially when you don't enchant it to smite the user."
Dragon muttered, "Your standards for craftsmanship are baffling."
I shrugged. "I appreciate good binding. It's an art."
The Dragon tilted his massive head, squinting at me. "Wait. Hold on. Are you telling me... they have slave girls chained up in designer chains?"
I grinned. "It's a very prestigious establishment."
He stared for a moment. Then just said, flatly, "Oh."
Not angry. Not scandalized. Just the kind of oh that suggested a distant reevaluation of civilization and everything wrong with it.
Lady Maribel looked caught somewhere between horror and curiosity. I poured her another shot of cherry wine before she could ask more questions.
Dragon yawned. "I could melt it off."
"You'd crisp her," I snapped.
He shrugged. "Just the outer layer."
Maribel whimpered.
I rubbed my singed fingers. "No melting. She's delicate. And not fireproof."
Dragon sighed. "Fine. Then we find someone with less combustion and more illegal locksmithing."
I groaned. "Great. We're going to have to talk to someone with stains on their apron and questionable ethics."
He grinned. "So, a colleague of yours."
I flipped him off with my scorched fingers.