Seraphina adjusted her loose blouse—the only wearable thing in this ruin of a manor—and calmly walked down the crooked staircase as someone pounded on her front door like they were trying to collect a soul, not a debt.
Behind her, the cat followed, tail high, like a supervisor clocking in for emotional support and judgmental stares.
Another knock. No—bang.
She opened the door.
Two men stood outside. Both large, both angry, both wearing expressions that suggested they hadn't read the part of the job description where it warned: Do not mess with reincarnated nobles who smile during knife fights.
"Baroness Ashgrave," one growled. "You owe the Bank of Goldern thirty-four gold crowns and two coppers. Pay now or—"
SLAM.
She shut the door in his face.
Turned around.
Thought.
Then opened it again.
"Sorry," she said sweetly. "Had to emotionally prepare."
The man looked stunned.
Seraphina reached behind the doorframe, pulled out a small dagger—one of the few things in the manor that wasn't falling apart—and twirled it lazily in her fingers.
"Now, shall we discuss an... alternative repayment plan?"
The taller of the two collectors opened his mouth to threaten her. That was cute.
Before he could finish, something dropped from the rooftop.
Landed between them with a heavy thud.
Shirtless.
Scarred.
And absolutely not supposed to be there.
The stranger straightened slowly, flicking messy black hair out of his eyes and giving her a look that said "I may or may not have just escaped from prison, do you mind?"
Seraphina blinked.
He was... quite tall. Lean. Sharp around the edges. One of those faces that looked like it had seen war, betrayal, and probably someone get stabbed over a gambling dispute.
"Baroness?" the shorter debt collector said nervously.
She didn't answer. She was still evaluating.
The shirtless stranger looked her dead in the eyes. "You're in danger," he said.
"Oh, honey," she purred. "I am the danger."
Then she stabbed one of the debt collectors in the thigh.
Not lethally. Just enough to make a point.
The stranger blinked.
The cat meowed.
And Seraphina, already tired of polite conversation, pointed the dagger at him next. "Now. Who are you, why are you half-naked, and are you good at following orders?"
He hesitated. Then grinned, crooked and charming.
"Rhys. Spy. Fugitive. Professional liar."
She tilted her head. "Do you respond well to collars?"
"I... what?"
"Never mind." She turned. "You're hired."