Chapter 6; A Lady Like Yourself

ARWYN

Despite Leigh's stern warnings, I couldn't resist the allure of the Wreath. Pete's stronghold over the establishment was undeniable, his ownership extending far beyond just the physical arena. He had a knack for turning violence into profit, and the crowds flocked to witness the spectacle of men grappling and trading blows, each vying to prove their dominance.

But the Wreath wasn't just a playground for testosterone-fueled brawls. It was a melting pot of desires and ambitions, where men and women alike sought entertainment, excitement, and sometimes, something more.

Women graced the stands alongside men, their presence a testament to the universal appeal of the Wreath's offerings. Some came for the sheer thrill of the spectacle, while others found themselves dragged along by partners eager to partake in the festivities. And then there were those who wandered the shadows, their intentions less noble, seeking pleasure and profit in equal measure.

It was a world of excess and indulgence, where the wealthy flaunted their riches and the desperate sought their fortunes in the sweat and blood of the fighters. And amidst it all, Pete reigned supreme, his pockets lined with the spoils of his enterprise.

The sun sank low on the horizon, casting elongated shadows across the dusty street leading to the Wreath. I relinquished my horse to Willy, the stable boy, slipping him a silver coin as a token of appreciation before striding purposefully into the bustling establishment.

Inside, the atmosphere crackled with anticipation, the scent of sweat and leather mingling in the air. The din of clashing metal and boisterous cheers filled the space, enveloping me in a cacophony of sound. The arena sprawled before me, its packed earth and wooden stands a testament to Pete's dominion over the place.

Spotting Pete amidst the throng of fighters and spectators, I navigated through the crowd with determined strides, ignoring the lascivious laughter of women draped in garish attire that left little to the imagination. They were on the prowl, seeking their next conquest amidst the chaos of the arena.

I couldn't help but marvel at their audacity, contrasting it with my own practical attire—leather pants, a loose tunic, and a sturdy corset—eschewing the frivolity of their wardrobe choices. My satchel hung from my shoulder, a constant companion in my journeys through the Wreath.

As I approached Pete, one of his lackeys intercepted me, whispering something in his ear. Pete's gaze swept over me before he turned and made his way toward his office, his purposeful stride leaving no room for doubt. I followed in his wake, anticipation gnawing at my insides as I prepared for whatever lay ahead.

Pete's office exudes an eerie stillness, a stark contrast to the bustling chaos of the arena outside. As I step into the room, the heavy oak door shuts behind me with a resounding thud, sealing off the outside world.

Seated at the head of a large mahogany table, Pete's piercing gaze follows my every move, his eyes ablaze with a mixture of curiosity and barely contained fury. Two of his loyal lackeys flank him, their presence a silent reminder of his authority.

I brace myself for the inevitable scolding, but to my surprise, Pete's voice cuts through the tense silence like a blade, calm and composed.

"How old were you when I took you in, Arwyn?" His words hang in the air, heavy with significance, and I raise a skeptical brow in response.

"Uhmm..."

"Spit it out, little lamb," he interrupts, impatience creeping into his tone.

"Eleven. Sire," I reply, my hand instinctively tightening around the strap of my satchel. What game was he playing with this question?

"Eleven. Good," Pete acknowledges with a nod, his gaze flickering with a hint of nostalgia. "I remember you back then—a scrawny little thief with fire in your eyes. You didn't know your full potential, but I saw it. I knew you could be something unstoppable, so I took you in. I fed you, gave you coin, gave you purpose."

His words hang in the air, weighted with significance, and I can't help but feel a surge of conflicting emotions. Pete had been like a father to me in those early years, providing for me when no one else would. But his motives had always been shrouded in secrecy, his generosity a facade for his own ulterior motives.

As the memories of my tumultuous upbringing flood back, I steel myself for whatever revelation Pete is about to unveil. Whatever his intentions, one thing is certain—I won't be caught off guard again.

" If this is about the Tailoress..."

Pete's hand crashes down on the weathered wooden table, the sharp sound reverberating through the room and causing me to flinch involuntarily. His eyes bore into mine with an intensity that sends a shiver down my spine.

"Do not interrupt when I'm speaking, girl, or you'll find yourself off to the kitters," he warns, his voice a low growl that brooks no disobedience.

The kitters—a fate worse than death for someone like me. A desolate journey aboard one of Pete's abandoned ships, condemned to sail the treacherous seas in search of trade with distant lands. It's a place of hardship and misery, where survival is a daily struggle and cruelty reigns supreme.

I swallow hard, my heart pounding in my chest as I realize the gravity of my mistake. "I'm sorry," I mutter, bowing my head in submission.

Pete lets out a heavy sigh, his expression softening slightly at my apology. "Don't make me out to be the villain, little lamb. I'm not your enemy—I'm your savior. I plucked you from the slums and gave you purpose, and I'll continue to support you as long as you prove yourself worthy."

I lift my head, meeting his gaze with a mixture of remorse and determination. "I'm so sorry. I won't mess up again."

"You've already had two chances, girl, after I retired you," Pete reminds me, his tone tinged with disappointment. "The Tailoress was your second opportunity, and you squandered it. You couldn't even secure her signature on the papers before she threw you out."

"She already knew. Someone must've tipped her off," I explain, my words stumbling over each other in a desperate attempt to justify my failure.

"Enough! No more field work for you," Pete's voice cuts through the air, his eyes boring into mine with unwavering intensity. "You're off duty again."

"But Pete, I need the money to feed. My sisters—" I start, desperation creeping into my voice, but he raises a hand to silence me.

"They'll be fine," he interrupts, his tone firm. "Leigh works at the Glory Rivet, and you'll be working here in the Wreath."

My heart sinks at the thought of returning to this wretched place, where men revel in violence and women are mere objects of desire. I swallow hard, trying to push down the rising tide of nausea that threatens to overwhelm me.

"But I'll never pass as a man-pleaser," I protest weakly, forcing a chuckle to mask my discomfort. "Look at me. I don't even own any flattering clothes."

"You're not working as a wench, Arwyn," Pete clarifies, his tone surprisingly gentle. "You'll be working in the infirmary."

"The infirmary?" I repeat, taken aback by his unexpected offer.

"Yes. You'll tend to the bruised men after they've finished a fight, and you'll do it well because I'll be checking on you from time to time."

Pete knows about my healing abilities, and it's typical of him to try and exploit them for his own gain, even after I've disappointed him time and time again.

A sly smile tugs at the corners of his lips. "Heal them nice and good, because we'd love for them to come back with more money and in good health the next day."

I nod, resigned to my fate, even as anger simmers beneath the surface. It may not be what I had hoped for, but at least I won't have to stoop to the level of pleasing these brutes.

As I step out of Pete's office, a sense of bitterness lingers in the air, mingling with the acrid scent of sweat and despair that permeates the Wreath. It's a reminder of the sacrifices I must make to survive in this unforgiving world.

Curse the soldier who tore my father from me, leaving me to rely on a man like Pete for survival. It's a bitter pill to swallow, but rebellion courses through my veins, fueling my reckless pursuit of danger in the hopes of overcoming the bitterness that festers within.

I stand before the bar, my gaze fixed on the fighting arena, where the roar of the crowd mingles with the clashing of metal and the grunts of combatants. The air is thick with tension and excitement, the atmosphere charged with raw energy that crackles in the air.

As men throw money into the net, urging on their chosen fighters with raucous cheers and jeers, I can't help but wonder what could be accomplished if all this wealth were poured back into the economy, rather than squandered on senseless brutality.

Two women saunter by, their laughter ringing out like tinkling bells as they gossip and point towards a figure standing shirtless in front of the arena. His dark hair ruffles in the breeze, his broad back a testament to years of rigorous training. He paces the corners of the arena with the grace of a predator, his movements fluid and confident.

He must be one of the fighters, I realize, my curiosity piqued by the sight of him. I'm not a regular patron of this place, and I usually avoid lingering to watch the fights, but there's something about this man that draws me in. He exudes a quiet strength and a rugged charm that sets him apart from the rest.

Young and handsome, with a physique sculpted to perfection, he possesses an aura of mystery and allure that is impossible to ignore. Surely, he must possess a certain level of skill to have earned a place in the arena.

As he strides purposefully, his voice booming towards the arena, the glint of a jewel catches my eye. It's a deep, fiery red, reminiscent of a ruby, and it's set into the hilt of a dagger secured at his waist. That dagger alone could fetch a small fortune, perhaps even ten gold coins or more.

Suddenly, my spirits lift at the sight of such potential wealth. With renewed determination, I adjust my course to intercept the young man, hoping to relieve him of his valuable possession. He's completely engrossed in the spectacle of the fight, oblivious to my approach, which suits my intentions perfectly.

With practiced precision, I feign clumsiness, pretending to stumble into him with an exaggerated squeak of surprise. His reflexes are quick as he reaches out to steady me, his strong arms wrapping around my waist in a protective embrace.

I'm captivated by the mesmerizing shade of honey brown, framed by thick, sweeping lashes that accentuate the coy smile playing on his handsome face.

With a swift, practiced motion, my fingers deftly slid to his belt, skillfully loosening the dagger from its sheath. His attention elsewhere, he remained oblivious to my clandestine maneuver as I deftly tucked the prized weapon into the back of my pants.

"Easy now" he says as I regain my balance, I shoot him a mischievous grin, taking note of the playful glint in his eyes. "Sturdy shoes are essential in these parts, especially with the kind of ruckus happening around here," he remarks, his voice laced with amusement.

I chuckle softly, adjusting the straps of my satchel. "Noted," I reply, my tone carrying a hint of amusement.

Curiosity tugs at him, evident in his next question. "What brings a lady like yourself to the Wreath? Searching for inspiration or perhaps contemplating a daring escape from the ordinary?"

Oh, I'm no lady, yet he's none the wiser. After all, I emitted a delicate, almost fragile sound upon our collision, granting him the liberty to assume I originate from esteemed lineage.

I raise an eyebrow, a smirk curling on my lips. "Perhaps a bit of both," I respond, my tone defiant. "But mostly, I'm here to shake things up a bit."

His chuckle rings through the air, and I feel a surge of excitement at his reaction to my boldness. "Well, you certainly have my attention," he admits, a grin playing on his lips.

I meet his gaze, mischief sparkling in my eyes. "Glad to hear it," I quip, starting to saunter away, hands still clasped behind my back and holding the dagger in place.

His voice stops me in my tracks. "Wait," he calls after me, curiosity evident in his tone. "I never got your name."

With a coy grin, I meet his gaze once more. "Arwyn," I offer, my voice laced with a touch of intrigue, before swiftly blending into the bustling throng, eager to evade any potential pursuit.