Morning didn't care about threats or pride.
Morning cared about numbers.
Ronan sat at the counter with a slate, a stub of chalk, and a small pile of coin that looked larger than it felt. The inn was quiet in that early way—no patrons yet, only the faint hiss of the hearth waking back up and the soft clatter of Miri setting cups in the kitchen.
Ronan made the count the way he'd count rations before a dungeon run.
Coin in. Coin out. What stayed. What bled.
He counted last night's take from rooms and meals, then set it beside a second pile—money already spoken for. Flour. Fish. Lamp oil. Repairs. Deposits held. Debts waiting like wolves.
Then he looked at the damage.
Not the kind you could sweep away with a mop.
The sign outside had been scratched. Not fatal, but deliberate. A message carved into wood that had no right to feel intimate.
He wrote it on the slate anyway—because anything not written down became a ghost later.
SIGN: DEFACED — REPLACE/REPAIR SOON
He tapped the chalk twice, listening to the sound like it could tell him how close the next problem was.
He didn't have to wait long.
A heavy footstep thumped on the stairs.
Brann came down like a bear waking up—hair messy, jaw stubbled, shirt half-laced. He rubbed his face with one hand and blinked at the quiet room as if confused to find peace still existing.
"Smells better than most staging dens," he grunted, then spotted Ronan's slate and coin. "Already counting."
Ronan didn't look up. "Habit."
Brann shuffled closer, leaned against the counter, and yawned like he'd slept on feathers instead of a frontier mattress. "Update," he said.
Ronan glanced at him. "On your inspection?"
Brann nodded once, then took a mug from the shelf without asking and poured himself tea like he owned the place. "Dungeon's… twitchy," he said. "Not just monsters. Patterns. Pressure." He drank, grimaced, and added, "But your tea doesn't taste like pond water, so that's something."
Ronan ignored the insult like it was affection. "Twitchy how?"
Brann's eyes sharpened despite the yawn. "It might be pushing toward B."
Ronan went still for half a heartbeat.
A C-rank dungeon was nuisance-danger. A B-rank dungeon was a magnet.
More adventurers. More caravans. More opportunists. More predators.
More coin.
More trouble.
Brann nodded like he'd read Ronan's thoughts. "If it's confirmed, the guild will send more people. Specialists. More teams." He scratched his jaw. "We'll stay here till end of the month, probably. Finish the survey, confirm, report."
Ronan looked down at his slate again and felt his plan tighten.
End of the month meant strain. It meant demand. It meant the inn would be tested harder than it ever had.
He circled a number on the slate.
TWO ROOMS. THIS WEEK.
Brann followed his gaze. "Two rooms?"
Ronan nodded. "Two rentable rooms. Properly locked. Clean. Decent." He tapped the slate. "No 'nice-to-have.' Only what turns into revenue."
Brann grinned. "Spoken like a man who's discovered coin is a weapon."
Ronan's eyes stayed steady. "Coin buys time. Time buys leverage."
Brann chuckled. "You really are an innkeeper now."
Ronan stood. "I'm a man who doesn't like drowning."
Brann lifted his mug. "Good luck," he said, then added, more serious, "And if the gang pushes—"
Ronan cut him off. "Eat your breakfast."
Brann laughed, satisfied, and lumbered toward the dining room where his team was already gathering around maps.
Ronan watched him go, then turned toward the stairs.
Rooms.
Rowena met him upstairs with a basket of linens and a wary look like she expected him to find another disaster hidden under a bed.
"You're really doing this today?" she asked.
"I'm doing it now," Ronan said.
Rowena swallowed, then nodded. "Okay."
They chose the worst room first, not because it was smart, but because Ronan preferred brutal honesty.
The room smelled faintly of damp even with the window cracked. The bed sagged in the middle like it had given up on life. The door didn't latch unless you lifted it and shoved hard—exactly the kind of "small" problem that became a knife in the dark.
Ronan stepped in and immediately went still, letting his innkeeper sense pull on details.
Not magic fireworks. Just that quiet awareness of what was wrong.
He walked to the bed and pressed down on the mattress.
The slats groaned.
He crouched, lifted the bedding, and peered beneath. The frame's supports were cracked in two places, and the slats had been replaced with mismatched scrap boards that bowed under any weight.
"Broken slats," Ronan said aloud, as if naming it removed its power.
Rowena hugged the linen basket tighter. "I… I meant to fix it."
Ronan didn't accuse. He just moved on.
He went to the door, closed it, and tested the latch.
It clicked… then slipped open with a gentle push.
Ronan's eyes narrowed. "Door doesn't hold."
Rowena's cheeks flushed. "It sticks. Sometimes."
"Sometimes gets people robbed," Ronan said flatly.
Rowena swallowed and nodded, chastened.
Then Ronan crossed to the far corner near the window.
The wall there was darker. The floorboards felt softer underfoot. A faint sourness lived in the wood—mold trying to bloom.
Ronan knelt, ran his fingers along the edge.
Damp.
He exhaled slowly. "And this corner."
Rowena's voice went small. "It's been like that since— since last winter."
Ronan stood and looked around the room as if seeing the project in layers.
"Three problems," he said. "Bed. Latch. Damp."
Rowena nodded tightly. "Okay."
Ronan set his hands on his hips. "We strip it. Frame and mattress only. Everything else out."
Rowena blinked. "Everything?"
Ronan nodded. "If we don't see the bones, we can't fix the sickness."
Rowena hesitated, then moved.
And for the first time, she didn't try to do six jobs at once.
She focused.
They worked in a quiet rhythm—Ronan unfastening bed joints and prying out warped slats, Rowena stripping sheets and stuffing them into her basket. Ronan pulled the bedframe apart enough to reinforce it. Rowena checked linens for stains and tears, sorting what could be saved from what needed to be cut into rags.
It wasn't romantic work.
But it was intimate in its own way—two people sharing a task, sharing silence without it turning sharp.
Rowena paused once, holding a pillowcase up to the light. "Do you… do you miss it?" she asked softly.
Ronan didn't look up from the frame. "Miss what?"
"Adventuring," Rowena said, voice cautious. "The raids. The… being someone important."
Ronan's knife scraped against a nail. He pulled it free with controlled force.
"I was important because people needed me," he said. "That's not the same as wanting it."
Rowena's horns twitched. "So you don't miss it."
Ronan considered. "I miss competence," he admitted. "I miss knowing exactly what my job is the moment I wake up."
Rowena's smile flickered, small and sad. "I wake up and… everything screams at me."
Ronan glanced at her then, eyes steady. "Not anymore."
Rowena blinked at him. "You say things like that so easily."
Ronan looked away and returned to the bedframe. "They're not hard words. They're just true."
Rowena's cheeks warmed at something she didn't name.
Ronan hammered a support slat into place and tightened the joint until the frame stopped sagging. He moved like he always had—efficient, precise, not wasting motion. The innkeeper blessing nudged him toward the cleanest solutions, little corrections that made his work smoother: the right nail length, the right angle, the right board to repurpose.
Rowena watched him for a moment, then forced herself to turn back to her job.
Laundry.
She carried the basket down the stairs and into the back wash area, where the inn's tubs sat like tired animals. She filled water, added soap, and began working the linens with practiced hands.
Halfway through, she found Ronan's clothing mixed in—his shirt from yesterday, damp with sweat and kitchen heat.
She froze with it in her hands.
Succubus instincts weren't polite.They weren't patient.They weren't something you decided to indulge or resist.
They were hunger—ancient, reflexive, wired deep into blood and bone.
Rowena lifted the shirt before her mind could catch up.
She inhaled.
Warm cloth. Clean sweat. The faint bite of smoke from the hearth. Steel and leather and salt wind—him. Ronan's scent clung to the fabric like a brand, soaked into the fibers from long days of work and longer nights of quiet endurance.
Her breath stuttered.
She inhaled again—deeper this time, pressing the shirt to her face, her nose buried in the worn linen as if she could breathe him straight into her chest.
The reaction was immediate.
A sharp, humiliating pulse bloomed low in her belly, sudden and undeniable. Her thighs pressed together on instinct, a soft whimper slipping from her throat before she could stop it.
Her nipples hardened painfully beneath her clothes, tightening until the fabric brushed them and sent sparks up her spine. Her horns twitched, heat rushing into them, her cheeks burning so hot she felt dizzy with it.
"Stupid—" she whispered, breathless, but her hands didn't stop.
Her fingers slid down her stomach without permission, trembling as they slipped beneath her skirt. She gasped when she touched herself—slick already, achingly wet, her body having decided long before her pride caught up.
She pressed the shirt to her mouth, muffling the sound as she rubbed herself slowly, desperately, hips rocking against her own hand. Every breath dragged more of his scent into her lungs, and every breath made it worse—stronger—needier.
Ronan.
The name echoed in her head without sound.
She imagined his hands—steady, calloused—on her hips. His voice, low and calm, saying her name like it meant something dangerous. Her fingers moved faster, shame and pleasure tangling until she couldn't tell where one ended and the other began.
Her body betrayed her completely.
She bit down on the fabric to keep quiet as the pressure crested, her breath coming in sharp, broken pulls. When release finally tore through her, it was fast and overwhelming—her whole body tensing, horns twitching, a muffled cry swallowed by his shirt.
She slumped back against the wall afterward, chest heaving, the shirt still clutched to her face like a stolen thing.
Mortified.Satisfied.Still aching.
Rowena squeezed her eyes shut, cheeks blazing.
"…I'm doomed," she whispered.
And somehow, beneath the embarrassment, the thought didn't feel entirely unwelcome.
She jerked the shirt away like it had burned her, heart hammering.
"What am I doing?" she whispered to herself, mortified.
She glanced toward the door, as if the inn could accuse her.
Then she shoved the shirt into the tub and started scrubbing aggressively, trying to drown the scent with soap and shame.
It didn't help much.
She kept blushing anyway.
By midday, one room looked… almost respectable.
Not finished. Not ready.
But less doomed.
The bedframe in the first room was reinforced, but the damp corner still needed drying and sealing. The door latch was still loose, waiting for proper hardware.
Ronan refused to pretend.
A traveler came in around that time—cloak soaked, eyes tired, the kind of person who didn't want luxury, only safety. He asked for a room with the quiet desperation of someone who'd been sleeping in ditches.
Rowena's instinct flared to say yes immediately.
Ronan cut in gently. "One moment."
He showed the traveler the half-fixed room first.
The traveler glanced at the bed, at the door, at the corner's faint damp stain.
"I'll take it," the traveler said quickly, like he didn't want to be difficult.
Ronan shook his head. "No."
The traveler blinked, confused. "No?"
Ronan kept his voice calm. "That room isn't safe. The latch doesn't hold. The corner still breeds stink. I'm not taking coin for something that will make you regret trusting us."
Rowena stared at Ronan like he'd lost his mind.
The traveler hesitated. "I can sleep anywhere."
Ronan nodded. "You can. But not there."
He gestured to the second room—one of the less damaged ones they'd cleaned earlier. The door latched properly. The bed didn't sag. The linens were clean—Rowena's laundry smelled like soap and effort.
"This one," Ronan said. "Fair price. Deposit required. Damages paid if you break things."
The traveler looked at the room, then back at Ronan, surprised by the straightforward honesty.
"…Alright," he said slowly.
He paid without complaint.
When the door shut behind him, Rowena exhaled like she'd been holding her breath for hours.
"You turned down money," she whispered, voice half horrified.
Ronan didn't look at her. "I turned down future problems."
Rowena swallowed. "But we need coin."
Ronan's gaze met hers, steady. "We need trust more."
Rowena's throat tightened. Then she nodded, slowly understanding.
A standard.
Not "good enough."
Good enough got people hurt.
Late afternoon, Ronan knelt by the first room's door with fresh hardware in hand. He'd scavenged a proper latch plate from old stock and reinforced the frame with a thin metal strip.
He measured twice. Drilled clean. Screwed tight.
The latch clicked into place with a satisfying finality.
Ronan tested it once.
Twice.
It held.
Behind him, Rowena stood in the doorway holding a folded sheet, face pale in a way that had nothing to do with damp walls.
Ronan glanced up. "What?"
Rowena tried to smile. It didn't work.
"The butcher," she said lightly, too lightly. "He stopped answering me."
Ronan's hands went still.
Rowena rushed on, attempting to bury the fear under casual words. "It's fine. He's busy. He… he's probably just—"
Ronan looked at her fully now.
He heard what she wasn't saying.
The butcher wasn't just a supplier.
He was a lifeline. A routine. A familiar thread in her week that made the village feel less hostile. Someone she could bargain with, plead with, laugh with.
Someone going silent in a frontier town wasn't an inconvenience.
It was a warning.
Rowena's eyes flicked away, ashamed of her own worry. "I just thought you should know."
Ronan stood slowly, wiping his hands on his trousers.
His voice came calm, but it carried weight. "When did he stop?"
Rowena swallowed. "Two days ago. I sent a note. No reply. I went by his shed and… he didn't come out."
Ronan's jaw tightened.
Outside, the sea wind rattled the window like impatient fingers.
Inside, the latch Ronan had just installed clicked softly again as he tested it—solid, safe.
And Ronan realized that even if he fixed every bed in the inn, even if he polished every rule on the policy board—
Gullwatch could still reach in and take pieces of Rowena's world whenever it wanted.
He looked at Rowena, seeing the fear she was trying to swallow.
"We'll check," Ronan said.
Rowena's eyes widened. "Now?"
Ronan nodded once. "Before it becomes another 'too late.'"