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His head flies back, but it only takes him a moment to come to his senses. When he does, he lunges.

Clover screams, but it only fuels my anger.

I growl as the man lands a solid punch to the side of my jaw, and then I manage to get in two of my own. He’s a stronger grappler than I expected, likely a mercenary.

It figures out of all the men in the room, Pranmore would run intohim.

A fight breaks out around us. Lawrence yanks a man away from Pranmore, and flames burst from Ayan’s palm. Moments later, a grown man screams like a calf when it meets a branding iron.

“Stop!” Pranmore pleads. “This isn’t necessary!”

“Get Clover out of here!” I yell at Bartholomew, but it’s too late. Dagger in hand, the noblewoman stumbles into the fray.

I curse under my breath, worried she’s going to kill someone and get herself hanged for manslaughter before we can even prove she’s innocent of necromancy. Needing to end this quickly, I grasp my opponent by the back of his neck and bring his head down, kneeing him in the face and cleanly knocking him out.

As he falls to the floor, I grab Clover around the waist, pulling her back just before she stabs the man fighting Lawrence.

“Let me go!” she demands, squirming in my arms like an angry gnome.

“You can’t bring a blade to a bar fight,” I growl in her ear. “You’ll get tossed in a cell for at least a month—unless you kill someone, and then they’ll execute you.”

She turns in my arms, scowling ferociously. The side of her face is already swelling, and trails of drying blood cling to her cheek.

Letting the others finish the mess Pranmore started, I holler at Lawrence as I steer Clover toward the door, “You got this?”

The prince grins as he ducks a chair that’s swung over his head, and then he gleefully punches his attacker in the gut. “We’re good!”

The cool air is a relief after the heat of the fight, and I draw in a long breath when we step outside.

Clover staggers next to me, and I clutch her tighter.

“Are you okay?” I ask.

“A little dizzy.”

I turn her, gently taking her shoulder with one hand as I cup the back of her head with the other. “Would you stop getting yourself injured?”

“I’ll work on it,” she says wryly, looking awful. When I stroke her shoulder with my fingers, she lets out a pitiful mew. “Who would have guessed getting punched would hurt this badly?”

“Most people, actually,” I tease, but my chest pinches painfully. I hate to see her in pain—and I feel like I failed her. “Can you ride?”

She nods, and then she winces. “I think so.”

But by the time we reach our horses, it’s clear Clover’s not stable enough to stay atop her mare alone.

“Lawrence will bring your horse with him,” I tell her as I untether my gelding from the front of the tavern. “You can ride with me.”

“Can’t.” She presses her hand to her forehead as if the world is spinning.

“Why not?”

She groans as she runs her hands over her puffy cheek. “Last time I rode with you, it made my stomach jittery, and I nearly lost my head. The dreams started after that, too. Or was that before? Oh, I don’t remember.”

I stare at the woman, at a loss for words, and my breathing hitches in a worrisome way.

“You’re not making any sense.” I swallow hard, directing her toward my horse. “You must have gotten hit harder than I realized.”

She laughs, but it sounds weary. “Yes, let’s go with that.”