My Femboy System-Chapter 46: Old Maid

There are high places in this world meant for gods and gamblers.

I stood at one now, on the topmost balcony of Greed’s grand temple—an open precipice of cut stone and windless heat. The floor beneath me whispered with dust and faded grandeur, crushed gemstones glittering like the remains of lost kingdoms.

Below, the casino writhed like a creature with too many hands—dealing, stacking, scheming. The pit at the center—the true pit—glowed like the mouth of an ancient forge, surrounded by players who didn’t flinch when losing fingers, fortunes, or futures.

And beside me?

She leaned.

A stretch of shadow, perfume, and gold.

Her name hadn’t been offered yet, but her body spoke volumes.

Tall, lean, and dangerous, her dark jackal ears flicked as if catching every secret wafting through the room. Her lips were slick with something that tasted like smoke and confidence, her chain-draped silhouette reflecting torchlight with sin-soaked precision.

She was going to eat me alive.

I knew it.

And yet I still hadn’t decided whether I’d let her.

"See them down there?" she murmured, amber eyes sliding over the railing like oil. "The ones in the pit. You feel it, don’t you? That charge? That intelligence? Those aren’t your average coin-flinging beggars. Those are old sharks. Nobles. Exiled princes. Fallen archmages with debts and diseases."

I didn’t reply.

My eyes were locked on the games below—the ones where a woman was offering up her own name in exchange for a seat, where a man played with a blade to his own throat, betting whether he’d bleed or bluff. It was madness. Ritual, beautiful madness.

The jackal woman chuckled, the sound curling around me like silk spun in shadows. "When you entered the casino," she whispered, "I felt it. You carry something dangerous. Something magnetic. I had to see if that pull was real."

I turned, ever so slightly, just enough to meet her gaze without flinching.

"And did you find what you were hoping for?"

Her hand slipped against my chest, fingers trailing down the lapel of my coat with a possessive slowness. "Mm. That depends."

"On?"

"How many crowns you’ve got to offer, darling." Her grin was all fang. "Because I don’t play with men who can’t afford to lose."

I gave her the faintest, laziest shrug.

"Seventy-five."

Her ears twitched. "That’s it?"

"Pocket change," I said smoothly. "It’s all I’ve got on me."

It was a lie of course. I had registered over sixteen thousand worth in chips—pen, dagger, and party, but I wasn’t about to show her my cards this early.

She laughed, rich and low, her voice oozing with danger. "Oh, sweet thing," she purred, "with only that much, you’ll be stripped and swallowed by the time you finish your first round."

Her fingers trailed higher, nails scratching just enough to tempt the skin beneath. I barely heard her. My mind rested on other things—other players. One in particular.

Vincent.

Where the hell was he?

I scanned the pit, the balcony, the gilded halls below, and found nothing. Not a shadow. Not a silhouette. Nothing.

My distraction didn’t go unnoticed. Suddenly, the jackal women’s fingers closed around my chin. She yanked me into a kiss that shattered breath and memory, wet, deep, and unbearably demanding. It was the kind of kiss that left bruises behind your teeth.

My eyes widened as she moaned into my mouth, licking into me with a hunger not quite human. Her hand slipped under my coat, over my ribs. I pulled back to protest—

But she was already dragging me by the collar toward a side door.

"Don’t talk," she whispered. "Dance."

The private room exploded around me—plush pillows spilling like silk entrails across velvet floors, the walls humming with heat and something darker. The air was thick with scent—jasmine, sweat, dust, and sin—burning low and slow in my lungs like incense ground from old secrets.

She spun me with the ease of a creature born for this—pushed me back with a growl caught between threat and invitation, and kissed me again, hard and wet, until we tumbled onto a divan that purred beneath our weight like a beast welcoming blood.

And we danced.

Gods, did we dance.

I caught her wrists, slammed them gently above her head, teeth grazing the ridge of her shoulder.

She didn’t flinch.

She laughed—low, dangerous—and bucked her hips into mine, grinding with a rhythm that bordered on ritual.

The ache in me sharpened, heavy and hot beneath my clothes, as she rocked against me with every ounce of confidence she’d stolen from a hundred lovers and made her own.

"You smell like lies," she whispered against my neck, voice thick as honey left too long in the sun. Then her tongue—hot and slow—drew a wet line up my throat, savoring me like something forbidden.

"Sweet, sharp little lies."

She inhaled—deep. Her nose buried against my skin, her breath catching. A moan, barely restrained, vibrated through her.

"You wear danger like cologne."

"You’re insane," I muttered, though it came out as more of a prayer than a protest. My hands dug into her hips, dragging her down harder against the pressure between us.

"I’m interested," she corrected, peeling off her top with slow, theatrical disdain—exposing skin that shimmered under the lantern light, smooth and gold-touched, made for worship or war.

"And bored."

The shower was her idea.

Steam curled like smoke around our silhouettes as she led me in, the stone tile burning beneath our feet. She shoved me into the wall with a savage grace, her grin wide enough to suggest knives.

The water hissed down her back in rivulets, and before I could react, she turned her back to me—presenting herself against the glass with a taunting tilt of the head and a wicked hum.

I pressed in close, my body flush to hers, one arm braced against the wall, the other wrapped around her waist like a claim. She gasped—sharp, involuntary—as our hips met and the water slid between us like silk pulled taut.

There was no conversation.

Only contact.

Only breath, movement, and the hot slap of water against skin.

She moved like she was chasing something—faster, harder, then slower, teasing. Her laughter burst from her lips like a wild note struck too hard on a piano. It rose, sudden and unrestrained, echoing against the tiles like mockery and music.

Her head fell forward, tongue slipping past her lips, drool spilling down her chin, trailing her chest in fat, glistening beads. Her hands clawed for purchase on the glass, her knees wobbling beneath her as her body shuddered in rhythm with every pulse of contact.

I paused.

Just a heartbeat.

She turned her head slightly, lips still parted, eyes half-lidded with bliss or delirium—I couldn’t tell which. She grinned, breath hitching between broken moans.

And then, in a voice that oozed more than the water sluicing off her thighs, she whispered:

"Perfect."

We collapsed back into the private room, damp and boneless, barely wrapped in sheets. She nestled against me, tail twitching behind her.

"You’ll want to meet him," she murmured against my collarbone.

I blinked, still half-dazed. "Who?"

"A friend of mine. He plays deep games. Dangerous ones. But he’s generous. Double, triple, even tenfold return—if you’re brave enough."

I let the silence stretch.

It thickened between us like warm syrup, sweet and slow. Outside the alcove, the temple-casino hummed faintly, the distant clink of coins and lazy jazz spilling through cracks in the sandstone. But here—in this strange, close warmth, with her breath rising and falling against mine—everything felt still.

It was a trap. Obviously.

But that was the point and I needed more money if I was going to have any chance of battling Vincent on fair grounds, let alone escape this floor if everything went south.

"I was hoping someone like that would find me," I murmured, brushing damp strands of hair from her eyes. Her lashes fluttered, lashes far too delicate for someone so dangerous.

She chuckled low in her throat, the sound curling like smoke, and nestled closer. "Then you’ll do nicely."

Her body pressed into mine like a well-tuned threat. I blinked, but sleep tugged at me like a tide pulling down a wounded swimmer. She fell into slumber beside me. I paused, just for a moment, just enough to keep myself from arousing suspicion.

Perfect.

And then I slept.

When my eyes opened—

We weren’t alone anymore.

Seven men, maybe more. Scarred and filthy, wrapped in threadbare sashes, stinking of sweat, greed, and something sour. Their grins were too wide, eyes too bright. Hungry. The kind of hunger that didn’t end with food.

Cecil Valen, I thought grimly, was not having a good morning.

My fingers twitched toward my coat.

"Relax," the jackal woman said. "They’re with me."

Her voice cut through the tension like silk on skin. At her command, the men stepped back. Like trained dogs. But then came the eighth.

He didn’t so much walk as drift. Hunched beneath layers of white robes that dragged like funeral cloth, he seemed less like a man and more like something remembered. Wisps of thin white hair floated around his face like cobwebs. His skin was crinkled parchment. His eyes—barely visible beneath folds of ancient skin—gleamed faintly with a presence that spoke volumes.

"I am Oberen," he said. "This is Jazmin," he then remarked, pointing toward the Jackal women beside me.

The room bowed.

Not theatrically, reverently.

Jazmin stood, kissed my cheek, and helped me to my feet, brushing imaginary dust from my sleeves like a lover or a priestess.

"We’re going for a walk," she murmured.

The others parted without question. We passed under a crooked stone arch into a hallway on the opposite end of the third floor I hadn’t seen before. It was narrow and uneven. Cut from aged sandstone. The air was thick with the scent of dust, old incense, and dried ink.

Ruined guests lined the walls, pressing deeper into the shadows. Some backed away in fear. Others just watched with what seemed to be a look of pity.

None of them met my eyes.

We stepped into a chamber that might once have been a bar, or a prayer hall. Now it was forgotten. Tables lay broken, wood warped by time or heat. Sand covered the floor like a burial shroud.

But one table still stood. A poker table, cracked and sun-bleached, its felt top faded to the color of old bruises.

"Sit," Oberen rasped.

I obeyed.

Jazmin settled onto my lap like a house cat claiming her throne, purring softly as her fingers trailed along my jaw. Oberen leaned forward, voice sandpaper-soft.

"I don’t deal in gold," he said. "Not anymore. I deal in chances. And the people in this Tower—people like you—they deserve one."

His eyes shimmered, catching some invisible light.

"I’m old. Spent. I know I’ll never climb higher. But you...you might. And if I can help shift the scales, just a little, I will."

What a load of bullshit.

I tapped the table lightly. "What’s the wager?"

"One chip," he said.

"Value?"

"Five crowns."

"And if I win?"

"Double."

Simple. Elegant. A perfectly crafted lie.

I smiled faintly, the edges of my lips barely curving. "Alright," I said. "Let’s play."

Oberen gave a slow, deliberate nod, his weathered hands resting lightly on the table. "My hands aren’t what they used to be. Nothing fancy. Something simple."

With a slight creak, he produced a battered deck of cards from beneath the table. The worn edges were frayed, and the backs were faded, but the cards held a quiet authority.

"How about Old Maid?" he suggested, voice rough but steady.

I smiled wider this time—slow, measured, the kind of smile that carries secrets beneath its surface.

Then the game began.

The first round was clumsy, deliberate. I let him see every twitch, every flinch as I drew. My fingers fumbled the cards, trembling just enough to sell the act. My smile stretched too wide, too desperate—an open invitation to be underestimated.

I played the fool.

And I lost.

The joker—the Old Maid—was left in my hand, cold and mocking.

Oberen chuckled softly, the sound like dry leaves rustling in forgotten winds, as he folded the cards with brittle fingers.

"Beginner’s nerves," he said kindly, eyes twinkling with a hint of patience.

I nodded, letting my shoulders sag, wearing the look of a man half-broken and half-beaten.

He leaned forward, voice sharpening, eyes narrowing. "Let’s play again. This time... two chips. Ten crowns. And I’ll raise," he said. "Twenty-five."

He tossed his in with a soft clink.

He dealt once again.

I took my cards and held them close.

Then—

I smiled.

Not the smile of a man hoping to win.

No—this was something else entirely.

It was slow and deliberate. The kind of smile that didn’t just curl lips—it slithered across my face like silk soaked in venom. It held no joy, only hunger. Not the hunger of a gambler, but of a thing that knew the house was already on fire and had struck the match itself. My eyes didn’t glint—they gleamed. Dangerous. Calculated. A mirror turned inward, laughing at its own reflection.

It was the smile you see in the dark just before something terrible was about to happen.

Not too wide, but just enough.

Not to win, but to begin the madness.

May the heavens preserve this man, because I was about to send him into hell.

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