Can I keep you?

Kaz Brekker didn’t need a reason. You had heard that phrase probably a thousand times ever since you had arrived in the barrel. It was more than word on the streets, it was public knowledge, it was the mantra the people of Ketterdam lived by, the easy answer, given almost as an afterthought, whenever someone dared ask the motivation behind Dirtyhands latest brutality.
So, in hindsight, you probably should have thought twice before grabbing the bullet that had shattered your bedroom window and throwing it back at him at the yell of “Hey, assbutt! Is this yours?”

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Kaz Brekker didn’t need a reason. You had heard that phrase probably a thousand times ever since you had arrived in the barrel. It was more than word on the streets, it was public knowledge, it was the mantra the people of Ketterdam lived by, the easy answer, given almost as an afterthought, whenever someone dared ask the motivation behind Dirtyhands latest brutality: The Bastard of The Barrel didn’t need a reason, he did as he pleased, as he saw fit, as his mood bloody well dictated.

So, in hindsight, you probably should have thought twice before grabbing the bullet that had shattered your bedroom window and would have burrowed it’s way into your skull, if it wasn’t for your supernaturally fast materialki reflexes, marching all the way down the stairs and into the side walk, and throwing it back at him at the yell of “Hey, assbutt! Is this yours?”

In your favour, you could only say that nothing, absolutely nothing in his stunned face as he turned around and stared, no, glared at you for a whole two minutes before apparently deciding you weren’t worth his time and went back on his way with his lackeys, could have warned you about his next actions. About the way he had set on fire your master’s ships, warehouses and even his home, with all of you inside, until the merchant himself had dragged taken your arm and dragged you all the way to the Crow Club, were he unceremoniously dropped you at a bouncer’s feet, a handsome, tall guy you had recognized as the sharpshooter from before.

“I feel like I need to apologize in behalf of your former master,” The guy, who had introduced himself as Jesper, said, helping you get up and guiding you inside, “some people simply don’t know how to treat a lady…”

You straightened yourself, dusting your clothes with as much dignity as you could munster.

“I’m not sure grisha girls are considered ladies… Wait, what do you mean former master?” Came your sligthly panicked question.

Jesper simply smiled,

“The boss will explain you everything when he gets here” he winked, closing the door and leaving you alone in what you assumed was Brekker’s office.

Once alone, you allowed yourself to really panic. What had Jesper meant with “former master”? Had he sold your indenture? Did you belonged to The Dregs now? Why? How? As a grisha, you were valuable, maybe not so much as a squaller, definitely not as much as a healer or a heartrender, but fabrikators had their uses. You knew The Dregs had money, they were the kings of Ketterdam after all, but Kaesar would have never sold you, not voluntarily. Oh, saints, was that what all those attacks had been about? Had Brekker been pressuring Kaesar to sell you? But why? What could Brekker possibly want a fabrikator for, especially if the rumours were true and he already had a durast at his service?

Maybe, you thought with a shudder, maybe it didn’t have anything to do with your abilities, and all to do with extracting revenge from you… You knew heartrenders were sometimes employed in the brothels, did The Dregs owned any? You felt like crying, was that your fate now? You knew how lucky you were, or had been up until now. You knew where most of the girls that arrived at the Barrel after the civil war ended up, you had been fortunate of ending up in a merchant’s house instead of, let’s say The Menagerie. Even if he did made you feel uncomfortable sometimes, his gaze lingering on you for too long.

That train of thought was interrupted by the sound of steps outside the door, and you knew who was behind it even before it flew open, the thump of his cane on the floorboards impossible to mistake. Kaz Brekker in the flesh stood in the threshold, gawking at you as if he couldn’t quite believe you were there. As if he hadn’t done everything in his power to get you there.

“What am I doing here? Why am I here? Is it true? That I no longer belong to the De Joongs?”

Brekker opened his mouth, but no sound came out. He took a step towards you, invading your personal space, and flinched. He seemed to rethink his course of action and stepped back, circling his desk and taking his place behind it, gesturing at you to take the sit in front of it. For a second, you thought about remaining standing, just to spite him, but you recognized antagonising him further was, in all likelihood, not the best idea, you did allow yourself a frown as you sat down, though.

“Well?” You demanded after another long, silent moment passed under Brekker’s unwavering gaze. Once again, he didn’t reply, simply choosing to keep staring at you, elbows resting on his desk, face resting on his hands.

What the hell was going on? Was this some kind of intimidating technique? Silently ogling at your opponent to make them uncomfortable? If it was, you refused to cave in. Raising your chin, defiantly, you finally met his eyes…

And couldn’t stop your audible gasp, as your heart lost it’s rhythm, skipping a beat, only to resume it with a vengeance, galloping wildly inside your chest like a runaway horse: You knew those eyes, those unfathomable indigo irises. You had known them your whole life, had seen them before you were born, at the making in the heart of the world.

Brekker’s face broke into a smirk, as if to say ‘There you are! I knew you would get there!’. He stood up again, rounding the desk to stand in front of you, the action far less ridiculous than before, gone were the uncertain fumble, the nervous energy, his movements were precise now, deliberate. Two gloved fingers took hold of your chin, softly encouraging to stand to. You obliged him without resistance.

You were so close now, that when he opened his mouth, you felt his warm breath over your face. Somewhere in the back of your mind, it surprised you, for some reason you had always imagined Ketterdam’s demon to be cold. But he wasn’t, was he? No. He wasn’t some supernatural, nightmare creature: He was a man, and a very handsome one now that you allowed yourself to notice.

A part of you knew what he was going to say now, but you couldn’t stop the shiver that ran through you as he whispered the words, the ones you had branded inside your wrist ever since you could remember, the ones you had read over and over again and wondered about during countless sleepless nights,