Chapter Ten: Lies, Loss, and the Price of Flesh

The sun crept over the rooftops of Flea Bottom, casting long shadows across the grimy streets. Thomas was already hard at work, the kitchen filled with the heady, pungent smells of bubbling stews and roasting meats. The cookhouse was now his—his kitchen, his rules—and he moved through the space with the confidence of a man who knew every corner, every cracked pot, and every secret spice that made his bowls worth more than just survival.

Marla bustled around the tavern, her daughters helping with the morning rush. The patrons shuffled in, a ragtag mix of workers, drunks, and desperate souls seeking a brief escape from the misery outside. Marla poured ale and flirted with the regulars, her smiles broad but tired, her cleavage on full display, drawing in coins and tips with every wink and laugh.

But beneath her cheerful facade, Thomas could see the strain—the subtle tension in her movements, the slight grimace when a customer's hand lingered too long on her waist or brushed a little too close to her breasts. The men were getting bolder, their touches more insistent, and it was starting to wear on her.

Thomas watched her closely, his mind half on the food, half on Marla as she worked her way through the crowd. She shot him a look from across the room, her eyes dark with frustration and need, a silent plea for release. He set the ladle down, wiping his hands on his apron before slipping into the back room where Marla had already disappeared.

She was waiting for him, leaning against the wall, her chest heaving, flushed from the rush of the day. "I can't take it," she whispered, her voice thick with pent-up desire. "Those men… all their hands… I need you, Thomas. Now."

Thomas nodded, his hands already working at her skirts, lifting them just enough to push her panties aside. He pressed her against the rough wooden wall, his cock hard and ready as he slid inside her with one rough thrust. Marla moaned, biting her lip to keep quiet as he fucked her fast and hard, the urgency in every movement clear. The wet, rhythmic slap of their bodies echoed softly, drowned out by the distant noise of the tavern beyond.

Marla clung to him, her fingers digging into his shoulders as he pounded into her, each thrust quick and deliberate, his hips snapping forward with a fierce, practiced rhythm. Thomas grunted, driving deep, their breaths mingling in ragged gasps as he chased his release, Marla's quiet moans spurring him on.

He spilled into her, a low groan escaping his lips, and pulled back just as quickly, tucking himself away as Marla straightened her dress, cheeks flushed and eyes glazed. "You're too damn good at that," she whispered, still breathless, her hand lingering on his chest before they slipped back into their roles—the busy cook and the overworked barmaid, each hiding their own secrets behind practiced smiles.

The day passed in a blur of sweat and noise, Thomas's focus on the food, his hands moving with the automatic precision of a man who'd spent too many years perfecting the art of survival. But as night fell, the mood in the tavern shifted. The door swung open, and Terric stepped inside, his face still bruised, dragging a City Watch guard in tow. The room fell silent, the patrons' eyes flickering between Thomas, the guard, and the angry man pointing a shaking finger at the cook.

"That's him!" Terric shouted, his voice tinged with desperation. "That's the bastard who hit me!"

The guard stepped forward, eyeing Thomas with a cold, calculating gaze. "You got something to say about this?" he asked, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword. "This man claims you assaulted him."

Thomas kept his expression calm, meeting the guard's gaze without flinching. "I didn't touch him," he said simply, his voice steady. "I was here, cooking, all day. You can ask anyone."

One of the regular patrons, an older man missing most of his teeth, stepped forward, his face pale but determined. "It was me," the man said, raising his left hand. "I hit him. He came at me first, so I gave him what he deserved."

The guard's eyes narrowed, suspicion flickering across his features. "And you'll swear to it?"

The man nodded, extending his left hand further, offering the last two fingers. "For the King and the City Watch," he said, his voice firm despite the tremor in his arm. "Take them, if you need proof."

The guard nodded curtly and drew his knife. With a swift, brutal slice, he severed the man's fingers, the dull thud of flesh hitting the floor followed by a sharp, pained gasp. Blood poured from the wound, staining the tavern's wooden planks, but the man's resolve didn't waver.

Terric's voice broke through the tense silence, his outrage spilling over. "It wasn't him! It was Thomas! I saw it with my own eyes!"

The guard wiped his blade clean, his expression bored. "He's admitted guilt. That's all that matters." He turned on his heel, marching out of the tavern without another word, leaving Terric fuming at the door.

Terric stormed up to Thomas, his face twisted in a sneer. "How much did you pay him to take the blame, huh? You don't have the coin for that kind of loyalty."

Thomas watched him coolly, his expression blank. "Didn't pay him a thing," he said, his tone casual. "Just offered him free bowls of brown for the rest of his days. Some men find value in things other than coin."

Terric's eyes blazed with anger, his words tumbling out in a furious snarl. "You think you're better than me? You don't know what it's like to need it. She was the only one selling herself for knuts, the only one I could afford."

Thomas stepped closer, his voice low and controlled, but filled with quiet rage. "You think you're the only one with a need? I live with it every damn day. But I pay her, like a man. And if she says no, I find someone else. I don't hit her because I can't have her." He grabbed Terric by the collar, pulling him toward the door. "Get the fuck out. Find your own cure, and stay the hell away from mine."

He shoved Terric into the street, slamming the door behind him as the patrons murmured in hushed voices. The tavern felt tense, every eye on Thomas as he wiped his hands on his apron, his face betraying none of the anger still simmering beneath the surface.

As the last patrons trickled out, Thomas locked the doors, the weight of the day settling on his shoulders. Marla was already waiting, leaning against the counter, her expression soft and knowing. She pulled him into the back room, their bodies pressing together as he kissed her, slow and deep, his hands sliding beneath her dress as he pushed her onto the worn table.

Marla's breath hitched as Thomas entered her, his thrusts slow but forceful, each movement deliberate as he filled her again and again. The table creaked beneath them, each thrust sending small shudders through the wood, the sound mingling with Marla's soft, needy moans.

Thomas gripped her thighs, pulling her closer, his cock driving deep as Marla wrapped her legs around his waist, her fingers digging into his back. "You're insatiable," she whispered, her voice a breathless mix of frustration and desire. "I don't know how you keep going."

Thomas chuckled, his pace quickening, each thrust punctuated by the sharp, wet sounds of their bodies meeting. "You keep saying that," he murmured, his breath hot against her ear. "But you still come back for more."

Marla arched beneath him, her nails raking his skin as she bucked her hips, matching his rhythm. "I like it," she admitted, her voice hitching with each movement. "But four times a day… I don't have the strength."

Thomas thrust harder, his release building as he buried himself deep inside her, spilling into her with a final, forceful thrust. He stayed there, his cock still throbbing as he lay on top of her, their bodies slick with sweat and spent desire. "Don't worry," he said softly, his voice a low rumble against her neck. "I'll find someone else."

Marla laughed, her breath coming in shallow gasps as she ran her fingers through his hair, pulling him closer. They lay together, tangled and exhausted, as the night settled around them, their hearts still racing from the fierce, unspoken bond they shared—a bond forged in the dark corners of Flea Bottom, where pleasure and pain were two sides of the same dirty coin.

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