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“Oh shit.” Artem sat, now watching her on the dancefloor too. Freedom dazzled in her eyes as the lights flashed down on her smiling face, her hair wild as Breighly encouraged her to spin and spin.

“But what about you? Where does your heart lie?” Artem’s question caught him off guard. “You have the alliance, right? You and Emara are promised to each other?” Artem sounded like he had found a loophole, a way to encourage him to talk.

He ran his teeth over his lip. Torin shook his head. “I will not marry her without her willing consent. I will refuse it.”

“What?” Artem snapped his head towards Torin. “You can’t do that. They will exile you for being disloyal to your clan. Your oath will be stripped, and your title removed.”

“I will not push her into something that she doesn’t want.” He met Artem’s gaze.

“I respect that, man, I really do. But you can’t be disloyal to your clan. It’s an oath we took as children.” Artem’s brow tightened.

“Exactly. We were children.” Torin’s sharp tone cut its way through the music that seemed to disappear as the depths of his conversation unfolded. “We didn’t know what love meant as children. We didn’t fully understand what taking the oath meant either, not really.”

“Now you are the one being ridiculous.” Artem sat forward, leaning in with a pointed finger. “You are Torin fucking Blacksteel. You are the definition of what a hunter is and what it means to take the oath. You are the first-born son of Viktir Blacksteel. You were always destined for the fate of the oath.” When Torin didn’t respond to his pep talk, Artem ran a hand over his face. “Look, you have plenty of time to work that out between you both. Just be open to the idea.”

“That’s if she doesn’t kill me first.” Torin smirked.

A raspy laugh left Artem’s throat. “True, but you will have me there to get in between you if it comes to that.”' He patted Torin on the shoulder. “Man, Blacksteel…” He couldn’t hide his smile. “We don’t bat an eyelid at demons trying to rip into our flesh, but we shit our pants at the thought of falling in love.” Artem looked ahead again. “We don’t let ourselves dream of that kind of fate. Fairy tales don’t happen to men like us, and it’s easier if we don’t get attached to the idea that it could be possible.”

Only once in a blue moon did men like them get that chance.

Torin remembered that Artem would play the same part for his clan; he, too, would marry for an alliance, being the first-born son of the chief commander, and second-in-command of Clan Stryker. It was clear that he had the same concerns about settling for a marriage proposal that meant an unhappy life and nothing but your sword and the next battle to look forward to.

“No sign of who you are being aligned with?” Torin asked.

“Nope.” Artem took a drink before raising his glass into the air. “So I am going to enjoy what I can whilst I can. Fuck, I might even be brave enough to ask the pretty wolf for a dance.”

“Knock yourself out. But don’t come crying to me when she breaks your heart or the alpha breaks your neck. I did warn you.”

“I look forward to it.” He grinned from ear to ear and propelled himself out of the chair.

Torin watched as Artem moved onto the dancefloor beside Emara and Breighly, manoeuvring around the crowd they had attracted.

About an hour later, Breighly had proven that the alpha was well and truly nowhere near this tavern as she writhed on top of the bar, dancing. She had paid everyone in the tavern attention—except Artem. Torin laughed as jealousy filled his friend’s eyes. She knew what she was doing, and Torin appreciated the social politics of it; he had once used the same tactics to win over his interest for the night. Kiss someone else, someone that wasn’t the one you wanted to kiss, and see how they reacted. He watched as Emara danced with anyone who clung to the beat of the music, and it seemed everyone flocked to her naturally, interested in Breighly’s new friend.

Either that, or they already knew who she was.

He had promised himself that he wasn’t going to interfere with the rest of Emara’s night, but as she swayed on her heels, almost falling, Torin was at her side in a flash. “Woah. Are you okay?” He steadied her.

“Are you okay?” she slurred back.

Thorin, give him strength. Was he the only person as of late who wasn’t getting rat-assed drunk? Gideon, and now Emara? Did that mean he had turned into the sensible one? Fuck, no! He would need to find a way to rectify that immediately, but he would tend to Emara first.

“Do you need to go home?” he asked her.

“To the tower, you mean?” She slapped his shoulder and laughed.

“Yes, to the tower.” She swayed again, and he placed a hand on her hip to steady her properly. “What have you been drinking?”

“Not your rum, so you”—she bopped his nose with her index finger— “don’t need to worry about that.”

Torin blinked in disbelief. Did she just bop his nose?

He stopped himself from laughing before he plastered on his mask of responsible guard. “I am taking you home, let’s go.”

“No, I think I will stay right here.” Her head still moved to the music, and her arms were floating like a butterfly in spring. “I like it here.”

“Oh yeah? Well, you are drunk, and I would prefer to get you home in one piece. And this is top secret”—he leaned in—“but those shoes are extremely high, and I am scared for your ankles.”