Attica had always scorned a man’s touch, so much that she would not consider becoming a whore, but Rom had convinced Madame Terly to teach her to seduce a man into lowering his guard long enough for her to lift his purse. No one had ever confirmed her suspicions, but Attica believed the reason most of the other guild members left her alone was because they feared Rom’s wrath.

As Rom met her gaze now, though, she saw none of that protectiveness. He looked resigned. After a brief moment, the big man simply looked away without a word. Attica gripped her dagger tighter and turned her attention back to the man kneeling at her feet. She realized that he had been speaking, begging, and pleading, but she had heard none it. Attica felt like she was in a different room—alone—looking in on this one through panes of glass. Even the sounds seemed to be muffled. Then, in an instant, it was as if there was a pop, and everything was clear and crisp again. The stench of body waste, blood, and death filled the air, her face was cold and damp with sweat, her chest and throat burned, and Marson was blubbering at her feet.

“Please! You don’t have to do this! I’ll serve you! I’ll be loyal, I swear it!” Marson howled.

The new guildmaster was suddenly at her side, although she had not seen him move. “Here.” He pointed to a place at Marson’s neck.

Without giving herself a chance to think about what she was doing, Attica plunged the dagger forward with perhaps more force than was necessary. She pulled her hand back quickly, terrified of what she had done. The dagger had not quite hit the correct angle at the spot the guildmaster had indicated, and Marson yowled and struggled in Kendt’s grip.

The guildmaster frowned. “That was poorly executed. It will take a long time for him to die. Withdraw the blade and draw it across his throat at an angle this time,” he said as though he was explaining how to carve a bird for supper.

Tears fell from Attica’s eyes, and she gritted her teeth and gripped the dagger hilt. She did as the guildmaster bade, and blood sprayed across her chest as it gushed from the dying man’s throat. No, not a man. Marson. She knew his name. She had spoken to him once or twice. She would not forget the man she killed in cold blood.