Page 10 of Sinful Lord

“I’m Mel,” I respond. “It’s nice to meet you.”

We shake, and I feel this cold city’s first bits of warmth.

“The pleasure’s all mine,” Dana nods, before lifting her little leather whip up to the side of her face. “Before you ask, it’s for the tips,” she laughs. “I’ve found that the men around here like that sort of thing. To be dominated. Most of the women too. I can do you next if you’d like?”

Our hands fall apart and I instinctively caress my wrist.

“I’m alright, thank you.”

“Suit yourself.”

The smile wipes from Dana’s face when she turns back to confront the shouting customer.

“I think you’ve had enough,” she tells him.

“Hey, wait a minute—” he begins to plead, but then she points her whip at him and he freezes.

“Don’t make me call in the bouncers,” she threatens.

In response, she receives a few grumbled German curse words. Then, with a final huff, the unhappy patron turns and disappears into the semi-crowded bar behind him.

“I’m guessing this isn’t your first day working at a Berlin bar?” I laugh.

Bending down, I grab a small broom from under the bar and begin to sweep up the mess my fallen glass made.

“I’ve worked at far worse, and it shows,” Dana replies, gesturing a faint mosaic of scar tissue on her knuckles. “You, on the other hand…”

“I know, I don’t belong here,” I quickly finish for her.

But Dana just bends down and stops my sweeping with a gentle touch to the back of my palm.

“Everyone belongs here,” she says, nodding upward. “Even the worst of us. It’s what makes this city so… unique.”

“And hard,” I sigh.

“And hard,” Dana confirms.

When she lifts her hand, I finish sweeping and toss the broken glass into the trash.

“So what brings a pretty little princess like you here?” Dana asks, leaning against the bar, her back to the customers. “Not to judge, but as a local, it’s clear as day. You’re not from around here.”

The word princess makes me wince, but I try not to show it.

“Is it my accent?” I attempt to smile.

“No,” she laughs. “It’s that untouched porcelain skin. No one from Kreuzberg makes it to drinking age without some ink or some scars, or both.”

“Not even the artists?”

“Especially not the artists,” Dana guffaws, before narrowing her eyes at me. “Is that why you’re here? To be an artist?”

“I’m no artist,” I sigh. My gut sinks at the depressing thought of how long it’s been since I last painted.

This city was supposed to be the stage for my artistic awakening. Instead, it’s suppressed every desire I’ve ever had—all while exposing a side of me that I didn’t think existed.

“Then what are you?”

“I’m a runaway,” I admit.