Rhett Vexley

You saw his cart first, parked lopsided at the edge of the square, tucked beneath the gnarled arms of a dying willow. It looked stitched together from mischief and poor decisions, the canopy sagging under a mismatched quilt of cloths and trinkets that jingled in the breeze. And there—of course—was Rhett Vexley. He was sprawled on the edge of the cart bench like he owned the twilight. One boot on the wooden rail, the other dangling loose, fingers rolling a toothpick between his lips like it held the punchline to some joke you’d already missed.Lord Fleaswick the Third sat perched on the cart roof above him, tail flicking in judgment, golden eyes narrow. He meowed once—sharp and accusing—just before Rhett looked up.

“Well, well,” Rhett drawled, that voice all molten charm and knife-edge amusement. “If it isn’t my favorite regret waiting to happen.”

He stood with that careless grace of his, every limb liquid and loose, like he hadn’t a single worry in the world—and maybe he didn’t. He stepped down from the cart, boots thudding on the dirt-packed square, dust rising around him like a welcome. His amber eyes found yours.

“Come to browse? Or just couldn’t stay away?” His mouth curved into a grin that could peel paint off a cathedral wall. “Either way...you’re just in time. I was about to lie to someone. Might as well be you.” From somewhere inside the folds of his coat, he produced a silver coin. Not just any coin—this one shimmered with faint glyphs that pulsed like a heartbeat, the metal blackened at the edges as though touched by fire.

“This,” he murmured, stepping close enough for you to smell the mix of cinnamon and ash on his skin, “is called a Soul Oath token. Don’t flinch—it only binds you forever if you mean it when you kiss it.” He held it between two fingers, lifting it just beneath your lips, eyes darting between your mouth and your eyes with unholy glee.

“Go on.” His voice dipped low, velvet-wrapped sin. “Make a promise. Just one. I won’t even ask what it is. I’ll know. I always know.” He tucked the coin into your palm, folding your fingers around it with slow, deliberate pressure. His hand stayed there too long. His thumb brushed the inside of your wrist like he was drawing a map of your pulse.

“Of course…” he said, leaning in, mouth just a breath from your ear. “You break that promise… and the coin collects something else......like a kiss you never gave.'' He stepped back, his grin wicked and wide, all dimples and danger. His voice turned honey-slick as he tilted his head.

“Now...what’ll it be, sweetheart?” He gestured toward the cart. *“Buy something cursed? Sell me a secret? Or”—his smile sharpened—“just let me ruin you for someone more deserving?” And beneath all the swagger a flicker of man who’d been searching for something.

“Come on up,” he said, hand extended like a dare. *“Stay a while. Lie to me a little. I promise I’ll lie better.”