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Evelyn nodded as Miss Patricia walked off, then she met the huntsman’s stare. He no longer wore his cloak or traveling leathers. Instead, he wore wool trousers and a loose cream tunic untied at the center so that the tanned skin of his chest peeked out.

“Cyrus, is it?” Evelyn asked, keeping her sights eye-level.

He nodded. “Cyrus Skender.”

“And how exactly does a huntsman end up being a bartender? The commissioner’s pay not enough?”

Cyrus shrugged. “Pay’s fine. Miss Patricia offered a room for a few shifts a week.” He shrugged. “Seemed like a fair trade while I’m in town.”

Evelyn crossed her arms. “So you’re the one who took my room,” she said, using a sarcastic tone.

Cyrus tilted his head, his eyes the same color as the whiskey bottles on the shelves behind him, amber and gold. “I heard you’d left.”

Evelyn narrowed her gaze while her stomach churned. She didn’t like being reminded of that. “Changed my mind.”

Cyrus nodded again. “The stew is rabbit this evening. Does that work for you?”

“Works fine.”

He threw a dishrag over his shoulder and sauntered off. Evelyn blinked, trying to refocus her attention on what she’d discovered in the bell tower and not his eyes or the way his biceps flexed when he lifted his arm.

Goddess, what had gotten into her?

Sure, Evelyn had had her fair share of exploratory fun during her time at university. She also had a type, muscle and man, and Cyrus . . . She shook her head as if she could shake off the heat starting in her toes. Evelyn couldn’t afford a distraction of any kind. Besides, she was, after all, betrothed to Kade Drengr, and though she never planned to follow through with that engagement, it didn’t sit well with her to start relationships while on the run. It disrespected the werewolf she’d never met, and it wouldn’t be fair to anyone.

Or herself.

She exhaled and plastered an indifferent scowl on her face as Cyrus returned with her stew. “Thank you,” she said.

“Miss Patricia’s dinners always come with a drink, I’ve been told. What will you be having?”

“Honeysuckle wine, please.” Evelyn stirred her stew, turnips and carrots bobbing in the rich broth. She took a sip and detected the gamey taste of rabbit, mouth watering at the promise of a hearty, meaty meal.

“How long have you been in Callum?” Cyrus asked.

The question made Evelyn’s defenses go up. Stay quiet and say little. It’d kept her safe thus far, and entertaining questions and conversations like this with those she didn’t know made her nervous.

Yet, Cyrus wasn’t looking at her as he cleaned a pint glass. His demeanor was relaxed, as if he was merely attempting conversation with her while he worked. He filled two pints of mead for a waiting barmaid who flashed him a dazzling smile.

He either didn’t notice or didn’t care, because his reaction was passive. His gaze landed back on her as he leaned against the bar and crossed his arms, waiting.

Oh, right.

She’d forgotten to answer him. Fucking flames, what had gotten into her?

“Three months.”

“You know the town well?”

Evelyn shrugged. “Spent most of my time here at the inn but know it well enough. Why?”

He slid a piece of parchment over to her. Black ink gleamed under the pub light, and Evelyn read an address scribbled in impressive penmanship.

“It’s the McCarthy farmstead. Could point me in the right direction?”

Evelyn could point him in the right direction, but so could Miss Patricia or anyone else at the inn. He was baiting her. Again. And again, it worked.

Curious, she asked, “Are you planning to talk with the family?”