Uncovering a man's deepest, darkest secrets could be a challenging task, especially when said man disappeared and left Lottie to her own devices on the same night he made his solemn promise never to leave her.

She'd never felt anything akin to anger and resentment towards Cain, but in the coming days, she stewed in silent fury. What else was there to do on her own?

At first, Demon dropped by for minutes each day to shove more foul-smelling, bitter-tasting teas in her face, but once he'd deemed her sufficiently healthy again, he too vanished.

For some time, Lottie stuck to the familiar parts of the Den, praying for Cain's swift return while she went back and forth between resting in her small room and filling her belly in the large dining chamber. Soon enough, she realised he was not coming back any time soon, and this was not the life she was used to.

Growing up, while Grandma busied herself with spinning and weaving, Lottie helped around the house with cooking, baking, cleaning, sewing and gardening. After marrying Cain, she continued to do all of that and farming. For as long as she could remember, she had always been busy with something. And as her strength and health returned, every idle hour spent sitting around twiddling her thumbs only made her stew more.

When she stewed enough, she came to the conclusion that if Cain wasn't going to allow her to learn more about him, she would learn more about the Den instead.

Even outside of meal times, she began to loiter in the large chamber where people gathered and talked, gambled and fought. Sometimes, she ventured into the working districts and admired the skilled craftsmen in their works with wood, metals and leathers.

At first, she kept her head down and kept herself as small as possible as she watched and listened, but just as a gem can only disguise itself as a rock for so long, one day, she was seen even as she hid in the shadows.

"Ye good with yer needles, girl?" A middle-aged woman working wool through the spinner asked. When Lottie did not respond, the spinner said gruffly, "I'm askin' ya."

Lottie pointed to herself. "Who, me?"

"Who else, girl?"

She looked to her left and right and, indeed, she was the lone spectator in this little nook of the cavern. As inconspicuous she tried to make herself, it was rather difficult when she was the only one who wandered about on her own with nothing to do. Was the woman offering for her to do some needlework?

"Umm... I can sew," Lottie said.

"Good enough." The spinner beckoned her over with a hand.

Less than an hour later, Lottie was sitting at one end of a long table in the main chamber, smiling to herself with her head down. Except now, she wasn't just staring at the floor and her shoes, but her own busy fingers as they worked a needle and thread across the hem of a dark green sleeve.

Yes, I know some of you must be thinking to yourself: 'Perhaps the narrator has been right all along! Lottie must be stupid because who in their right mind would be happy doing something as boring and ordinary as sewing?'

But remember this, what Lottie had longed for for years was an ordinary life that consisted of ordinary, menial things like sewing. It was what she knew, what she was good at, even if she wasn't a professional tailor or seamstress by any means.

The familiarity of something as simple as picking up garments from the overfilled basket next to her, fixing every rip and tear, filled her with a sense of purpose and achievement she'd not realised she missed until she felt it again.

It reminded her of those simple, peaceful years with Cain that she'd not fully appreciated until they were gone. In a new place with new faces, that reminder brought comfort. But that comfort lasted only until she stretched her neck and found a crowd gathered around her.

"They're staring because you are the youngest needleworker we've seen here," a woman with white-blond pigtails said with her arms folded before her chest.

"And the happiest," a man with an eye-patch added. "Have you seen Trix?" he said in reference to the grumpy spinner, which prompted a few chuckles from the onlookers.

"The women we have here are better at throwin' needles than fixin' things with them," another man chimed in, earning him a kick in the shin from pigtails.

Lottie had no idea why anyone would want to throw needles around, but she wasn't ready to ask. Being the ugly spinster of Wilkins, she was used to receiving plenty of attention, but this attention from complete strangers for one of the most ordinary tasks of life was nonetheless unexpected and confronting.

As if that wasn't enough, a man plopped down to her right with one foot on the bench and his back pressing into the edge of the table. "So, you're the pretty one that got Hux in trouble with our Tenth, huh?"

Pretty one? "I'm not... I'm not pretty," Lottie squeaked, certain that they were all here to make fun of her.

He lifted a brow. "Come now, what's the point of modesty if you can't eat it?"

"Careful there," a gruff warning came from her left, and Lottie looked up to see that it was the one they called Hux, rubbing his shoulder in the exact spot Demon had laid a hand a whole fortnight ago. "This one's under Wolf's protection too."

And so began a wave of mutters.

"Really? When did Wolf start caring about anyone?"

"Why is he back?"

"Wonder where he's been hiding for years."

"You think, maybe... he's into this one?" The speaker cocked a thumb in Lottie's direction, and a few of the men chortled.

"This one is cute, but remember Wolf throwing Zafra and Marion out on their arses?"

Lottie had no idea who or what they were talking about, or why they thought she was associated with whoever they spoke of. Truth be told, she would much rather work in the quiet solitude of her own room, if only it wasn't so dark, illuminated only by a candle by the bed. By contrast, the largest chamber of the Den was also its brightest, with giant chandeliers that hung from the stone ceiling.

Amidst the crowd's chatter, she resumed her work, keeping her head down, her lips sealed and her ears open. Eventually, the crowd dispersed, perhaps when they realised just how boring and ordinary she was.

In the coming days, her life in the Den settled into a rhythm. Every day, she went into the working district where the spinner Trix or the laundress Elsie would hand her a basket of clothes and shoes to mend. Then she would make her way to the main chamber, find her spot at the end of a long table, and get down to work.

The hours flew by. Whatever it was the residents of the Den did, they ripped an awful lot of garments, and in her third week at the Den, she finally got her first glance at what it might be that these people did.

On her way back to her room one day, a shrilling cry came from one of those long, dark tunnels that Lottie had never ventured down. Her head swivelled towards the shrill, just in time to see a few men in familiar leather armour holding torches and dragging a struggling man down the tunnel. The frantic shrills came from the struggling man, and in the dim torchlight, Lottie thought she saw him with his arm cut off at the elbow with fresh blood still spurting from it.

Lottie quickened her pace and rushed back to her room, where her heart rate continued to soar and her mind filled with fear and doubt.

Was the wounded man also a resident of the Den who had an accident? If so, why were they dragging him like that?

Why were so many in the Den scarred, disfigured and missing limbs?

And all those rips she mended in shoes and garments day in, day out, why were there so many of them each day, and were they really rips at all? Now that she turned her mind to it, most of those appeared so clean-cut, like... like they really were cut. But why?

Why?

Why?

Who were her new neighbours?

What is the Den?

Overwhelmed by unease and an explained feeling of filth, Lottie tore off her linen dress and knelt down by a water bucket in the room. She dipped a rag in the water and pulled it across her skin, angry and thorough as she wiped and scrubbed. So intent she was in washing away every speck of dirt and grime that she did not hear the approaching steps, the knocks, or even the creak of the door as it inched open.

By the time Lottie looked up, there Cain was, frozen like a statue as he stared at her with a carnal hunger in his eyes.

Word count: 1,531

A/N: With this chapter, I've now hit 20,000 words!