Eris Vanserra had not set foot in a pleasure house in decades.

He had not needed to.

Desire was a tool—something to weaponize or temper. Like a blade. Like a smile.

But tonight, the walls of his father’s court felt like a noose.

Beron’s voice had grated in his ears for hours. His brothers with their half-baked plots and sharper tongues. The crown pressing heavier against a brow not yet his, but all too soon.

So he’d fled.

The Red Lady.

Its sign glowed like blood in moonlight. Painted lips curling above gilded doors. An ancient temple once built for worship, now dressed in red silks and sin. It made his skin crawl.

The Autumn Court always masked its filth with beauty.

The place was full. Bodies tangled in the open, the sound of moans and whispered names echoing like corrupted prayers. It reeked of desperation. Of candle wax, sweat, and sex.

Two females in sheer gowns greeted him. Their eyes widened at the sight of him—recognition, reverence—before they pressed to his arms like flowers desperate for sun.

He let them lead him. Let them parade him through satin-curtained halls where music and sighs drifted like incense. Males lounged, drunk and panting, while females—some laughing, some vacant—poured wine down bare throats.

It was debauched.

Still, he needed this.

Needed someone else’s skin to quiet the storm within.

But even as he thought it, his stomach turned.

Because in every room, with every glance, he saw it.

The way females here were touched. How their smiles were too wide. The bruises powdered over. The trembling arms beneath silk. He had seen it as a boy—how his mother flinched at his father’s voice. How no male in their circle saw females as anything more than property.

He’d sworn, when the power was his, it would end.

He would burn it out from the roots.

No flicker of desire stirred in him when he met the house’s master—a portly male with a too-wide smile and too-white teeth.

“What sort of female are you seeking tonight, my lord?” the man asked.

Eris opened his mouth to answer. To say he didn’t care.

That he needed distraction. Release.

But his answer never came.

Because his attention snapped—not to the man, not to the giggling women—

But to the corner.

Where a male had his hand wrapped around a female’s wrist.

She didn’t cry out. She resisted with her whole body. The twist of her arm. The stubborn stance. No one else noticed. No one cared.

But he did.

Eris moved before he could think.

The fire in his chest sharp and clean—not to destroy, but to claim.

“I’m sorry to interrupt,” he said, voice low, edged in steel, “but this is my female for the night.”

The male blinked. “She wasn’t—”

Eris turned his head slowly. “Are you saying I’m mistaken?”

Silence. Then retreat.

He didn’t look back. His eyes were on her now.

She stared at him, wary. Chin lifted in defiance. But he saw it. The collarbones too sharp. The bruises beneath powder. The eyes begging not for pity—but for dignity.

Rage coiled in him. Not white-hot, but cold. Clear. He stepped closer, offering his hand.

“Come with me.”

Not a command. A promise.

And perhaps it was madness, or guilt, or some ancient part of him yearning to do something right—but when her fingers slid into his palm, he closed them gently around hers, as if she might vanish if he dared to grip too tightly.

And Eris Vanserra, for the first time in a long, long while… didn’t feel like burning the world down.

He just wanted to save a single spark from going out