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into place a moment too late. A whorehouse. A favor.
    A disguise.
    Juliet’s voice roared from inside the brothel. “Wilder, I told you to bring that girl inside.” Satira flinched. “I think I might hate you a little.”
    “No you don’t, sweetheart. You just wish you did.”
    A woman met them just inside the door. “Wilder Harding, how did I know you’d—” She stopped short when she caught sight of Satira. “Hello there.”
    She was beautiful. Perfect brunette curls swept back from her heart-shaped face to frame an elegant neck. Juliet might be hiding her wealth on the outside, but she’d clearly lavished it on the girls, if the cut and quality of the brunette’s corset and skirt were any indication.
    20
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    Wilder’s Mate
    Satira became painfully aware of her own appearance—her sunburned nose, uncombed hair and the dusty, ill-fitting clothing she’d worn for more than a day. She felt like a gawkish child as she averted her gaze. “Hello.”
    The woman held out her hand with a friendly smile. “I’m Polly.”
    “Satira.” Her own hand was dirty and far from elegant, marked from chemical burns, with chipped nails even Ophelia had given up trying to keep neat. She shook Polly’s hand gingerly and wished Wilder far, far away before her growing awareness of him turned her into a witless fool. At least she could still remember her manners. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”
    Polly cast a sidelong glance at Wilder. “Surely you didn’t bring the girl here just to scandalize her, you terrible man.”
    “On the contrary. I have your boss’s marker, and I plan to call it in.”
    “What did you have in mind?”
    Wilder’s hand slid up Satira’s back to toy with her hair. Her body reacted with embarrassing speed, a shiver claiming her as his fingers stirred the strands of hair that lay against the sensitive back of her neck.
    One fingertip graced the side of her throat, and her nipples tightened with the first whispers of true arousal, so ill-timed she barely heard the rest of his words. “A disguise. We’re headed to the Deadlands.” The whore’s eyes widened. “She’s got an awful pretty neck for that kind of destination.”
    “So little faith in me, Polly Ann.”
    She rolled her eyes. “Come with me, Satira. If you’ve been riding with this scoundrel, you could undoubtedly use a respite.”
    Satira stepped away from Wilder’s hand, crushing the tiny jolt of loss under the boot of her ruthless practicality. “Thank you. I’d appreciate that.”
    “I know you would, honey.” The woman led her down the hall and up the stairs. “Ever fancied having another hair color?”
    She hated herself for wondering—even for a moment—if Wilder preferred his women with dark hair.
    “Not particularly. It would make for a useful disguise, though, I imagine.”
    “That’s why I asked.” She stopped outside of a closed set of double doors and eyed Satira. “You’d make a pretty redhead. Nothing brassy like Juliet, but something darker.” Her hair had never been important enough for her to balk at the idea. “I’ll trust your judgment.”
    “Mm-hmm.” Polly tapped her chin. “And clothes…”
    Only two types of human women roamed the Deadlands—those whose time was rented, and those who were outright owned. A free woman who set so much as a toe across the border was all but asking to become the latter. “I think I might murder him in his sleep.”
    “Bet you won’t be the first woman to try.” Polly turned and pushed open the double doors. “Though I think I have an idea that might put Mr. Harding in his place.”

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    21

    Moira Rogers
    “What idea is— oh .” Satira’s mouth fell open as she stepped over the threshold and into the most glorious room she’d ever seen.
    Warmth radiated from the far wall, where a shining row of drums must have held enough heated water for every person in the settlement to take a bath. Elegant copper