Thing with lycans—thing I always forget, and I mean always—is silver burns them. Doesn't just sting, no, it sears. Smokes. Blisters. Leaves little puckered welts like love bites from angry gods. So when I said ten silver, he nodded. All quiet-like. No fuss.
Now I'm halfway up a muddy slope, huffing, dragging a sack of coins that weighs more than most small livestock. It jingles with every step like it's mocking me.
He paid. Technically. Ten silver. Equivalent.
In copper.
All of it.
Every last grimy, soot-stained, piss-smelling coin scraped from the bottom of a dozen tavern floors. The bag's the size of a melon and about as awkward to carry. No straps. No dignity.
I stop, shift the weight on my hip, glare at the hill ahead, then down at the sack. "You smug hairy bastard," I mutter. "Could've just handed me a scroll that says 'Fuck You' and saved me the back pain."
This is why I hate dealing with lycans. Not the claws. Not the teeth. Not the risk of getting mauled mid-thrust when the moon hits them wrong. No, it's the accounting.
Next time? Payment up front. In something non-allergenic and non-fucking-transferable. Gems, maybe. Dragon scales. Or sex coupons redeemable only when the moon's down.
Because tonight?
I got railed in a barn by a part-time puppy and walked away richer in coins, poorer in self-respect, and one limp away from hurling this bag straight into the Dragon's smug face. Let him count it.
I hope it jingles all night and drives him insane.
***
At camp, of course he smells it before he sees me. Copper and sweat. Hay and… other things.
I dump the sack by the fire with a clank that echoes judgment. My back aches. My thighs ache. My everything aches.
He doesn't even look up at first. Just exhales through his nose in that long-suffering, oh-I-guess-the-harlot-lived-again way of his.
Then: "Local Lycan," he says. Not a question. A diagnosis.
I shoot him a look as I start peeling off my sash. "Don't start."
He peers over the edge of his tail coil, spots me arranging coins into sad little piles on a flattened bit of bark. Big ones here, thin ones there, bent ones in their own pathetic heap. I'm halfway through counting the goat tokens when he finally snorts.
"So," he drawls, smoke curling lazily from one nostril, "did the big bad doggy hump your brains out before or after he paid you in scrap metal?"
"He paid," I mutter, stacking ten grubby copper bits into a wobbling tower. "Just not in silver."
The Dragon hums. "Mmm. That must've been considerate of him. Wouldn't want to sizzle his bits off mid-climax."
I glare. "He was upfront about it."
"Oh, I'm sure he was. Upright too, I bet."
"Eat gravel."
One of the towers collapses. I say nothing. Just start restacking. The copper's already leaving green stains on my fingers. One of the coins has a hole and what might be dried blood on it.
He leans closer, amused. "Tell me, did he whimper when you spanked him? Or was that before or after the tree-pissing ceremony?"
I freeze. "You watched?"
"I smelled. You think marking territory is subtle?"
I groan and shove the goat token into the fire. He watches it curl.
"Did he give you fleas again?"
I stick out my tongue. "You're just jealous."
"I'm serious," he says, one clawed finger gesturing vaguely at my thighs. "I had to burn the bedroll last time."
"Dogs have fleas," I say sweetly, rearranging my coin piles like a queen with no kingdom and a really shitty treasury. "Humans have lice."
He narrows his eyes. "And lycans?"
I scratch the back of my neck. Slowly. "...Both."
He groans. "Brilliant. Lovely. I'll just torch everything then. Shall I start with your crotch or your coin purse?"
"You touch either and I'm telling Gregory you finally admitted to being curious."
He makes a sound like he swallowed his own tongue.
I smirk. "That's what I thought. Now hush. I'm counting my hard-earned copper goat tokens and dignity scraps."
He stares. "The only thing hard-earned here is your impending rash."
"Say that again," I snap, "and I'll sleep with your tail wrapped around me tonight just to guarantee cross-contamination."
He recoils like I flashed him a holy relic. I beam.
That's right. Victory. Petty, itchy, flea-bitten victory.