Now Lycans—that's a whole different ball game.
Gods, where do I start?
First of all: manners. Actual, honest-to-gods manners. Doesn't matter if they walk in full man, half-shifted, or still smelling of forest and wet fur—they are always polite. Hold the door, kiss your hand, call you darlin' in that deep, growly voice that makes your spine tingle in places you forgot you had.
Big alpha energy. Not the loud kind. Not the insecure kind. The real deal. They don't talk about it—they just are. Smooth. Calm. Eyes like amber fire. Teeth just sharp enough to make your heartbeat stumble a little.
And the way they move? Animal grace wrapped in leather and tension. Like they're always five seconds away from throwing you over a table and making you see stars, but they wait for your nod. Consent, baby. Turns out it's sexy as hell.
I swear, one walks into a henhouse and it's chaos. Girls tripping over each other. Petticoats flying. Perfume bottles shattered. Even the madam gets flustered. Last time one came in, three girls fake-fainted just to get carried to a room.
You don't even need to pitch the services. You just look available and they pick up the scent. They always pick up the scent. One smile, one little twitch of those predatory nostrils and boom—your night is booked.
And look, I don't care what people say about the panting and the howling. You think that bothers me? Honey, half the nobles snort like dying goats and sweat like roast pigs. Lycans pant because they're putting in effort. Respect.
So yeah.
Would absolutely bang again.
For fun.
Not even for coin.
Though if they insist on paying, who am I to argue?
Now female Lycans?
Pfft. Bitches.
No, literally. And figuratively.
Don't get me wrong—they're gorgeous. All sinew and wild hair and eyes that could peel your soul. But sweet gods, they hate competition. Walk into a room and suddenly it's all growls and side glances, like you sniffed their territory without permission.
Had one rip my blouse once just because her boyfriend winked at me. Just winked. I didn't even do the full smirk. I was being polite. And boom—claws out, cleavage gone.
They prowl through the brothel like they own it. Even if they're not working. Especially if they're not working. You think the elf girls are bad? At least elf girls judge you with words. The Lycans? They judge with teeth.
And the worst part? You can't out-seduce them. They've got that raw, earthy sex appeal that makes even the virgins stammer and the furniture tremble. They just exist, half-naked, dripping in sweat and attitude, and suddenly the whole damn house is acting like they invented orgasms.
And gods forbid you land a male Lycan they've got their eye on. Oh no. That's when the real games start. The sniffing. The circling. The growl-laced "accidental" bump in the hallway that nearly dislocates your hip. I had one shadow me for two whole days like I was prey. I couldn't even pee in peace.
But hey. Credit where it's due. They do run in packs. And if one takes a liking to you—really, properly accepts you? She'll rip out someone's throat for looking at you wrong.
Still wouldn't leave her alone with your soap.
Or your man.
Or your slippers.
Or your lunch.
So yeah. Female Lycans?
Terrifying.
Hot.
Psychotic.
I'd fight beside one in a blood feud any day.
But gods help me, I'd never share a dressing room again.
See these?
These.
Two little dents on the side of my calf—right here, under the lace. No, not a tattoo. Bite scars.
Yup. Bitch.
Literal, not metaphorical. Though she was also metaphorical.
Was working a double shift, full house, the usual sweaty chaos, when this female Lycan struts in like the Moon herself sent her to ruin everyone's night. Tall. Broad. Fur in all the wrong places. Gold eyes like she'd already chosen who to maul. She didn't book a room. Just stormed in and sniffed the air like she was looking for a chew toy.
Next thing I know—bam. She's got me on the floor, teeth in my leg like I owed her rent. Didn't even growl. Just bit. Clean. Deep. Like I was a steak tartare with attitude.
I screamed, obviously. You try staying quiet with half a thigh in someone's mouth. Had to kick her off with my good foot while two drunk satyrs clapped like it was part of the floor show.
Had to see a shaman afterward. A shaman. Not a healer. Not a surgeon. A bone-chucking, spirit-sniffing, owl-eyed lunatic who made me drink something that smelled like swamp ass and bad decisions. Said it would "purify the lunar venom." I asked if that meant rabies. He said, "probably."
So, yeah. Spent the next week foaming at the mouth—not from infection, from rage. Couldn't walk right for days. Clients kept asking if it was a kink.
And Madam Zoobya? Was she sympathetic? Did she give me hazard pay? A night off? Nope.
She was pissed. Like it was my fault for getting bitten. "What did you do to provoke her, Saya?" I don't know, existed? Had skin? Smiled in her direction while breathing?
I swear, that house was a war zone wrapped in velvet.
But hey—at least I got a cool scar out of it.
Matches the one on my hip from the necromancer.
Different story. Different night.
Same level of bullshit.