Page 18

Alora sighed and rolled her bottom lip between her teeth. “You know I don’t do that anymore.” Her eyes found a small crack in the wall to examine as Emeline grumbled. Ignoring her, Alora pushed from the wall, carrying the tankards with her. “Draw sticks to see who serves Brassard?”

Emeline’s face twisted sourly. “It’s your turn.”

Knowing Emeline was right, Alora pushed up on her toes, scanning the tavern over the swinging doors. She considered one table in the center, illuminated under the wheel chandelier, closely. Though the room was crowded, the greasy hair and plump belly were disgustingly obvious. Her empty stomach churned, imagining the stench and Brassard’s dirty hands. “Fine. But you owe me for this one. If he grabs me one more time, he’ll find my fist somewhere unpleasant.”

That granted her an amused chuckle. “Go on, get out there! And when you come back, I want to hear the tale of the lovely male who swooned at you the other night. I heard he was rather fetching!”

Alora hummed and grinned as she pushed through the doors.

Weaving between the sticky, round tables, she carried the drinks and settled one down on a table in front of a familiarface. Then her eyes shifted around the room, avoiding Brassard’s table. There would be time for him later.Much later, if she could help it.

A shadow caught her eye.

In the corner, under darkness and cloak, sat a half-covered face.

Alora’s eyes flicked down. A silver dragon clasp rested below the left shoulder.

Her body lost all function. Denying to move. To even breathe.

The cloaked stranger … the one who rode into Telldaira’s western gate a few hours before. Without a doubt, she knew it was him. Only this time, he was alone, and his illustrious armor had been replaced by a simple, black tunic tucked into black pants. The dark hood covered most of his eyes as he slouched back in his seat, chair lounging against the wall. His muscular legs were spread wide apart, one arm on the table, the other draped with his palm upon his knee. Ringed fingers tapped in a rather agitated rhythm as silver eyes, under shadow, burned into a banner of the High Queen outside the window.

Slowly, as if he could feel her stare, those eyes pivoted. To hers.

An eerie sensation rippled down her spine. It wasn’t the black cloak or colorless eyes that sent the uncomfortable chill across her skin, but the wicked smirk that crept up his face when he discovered her utterly enthralled by him.

Alora’s breath caught. If it wasn’t for an awaiting table of males calling that moment, she may have stood staring for stars-knows how long.

“Barmaid”—Alora blinked, and the cloaked male’s focus remained—“are you bringing me an ale or what?” Banging his hand on the table, he lifted his hand in the air and demanded her attention.

The stranger’s eyes tracked her every movement and uneven breath as she weaved around each filled table. Remembering that illusive grin and fluttering eyelashes, Alora fought off her unsettling curiosity and turned her attention to the table of males.

“Your drinks?—”

Hands greedily claimed her waist, forcing her to cry out. A sweat-covered body pressed to her back, and she realized that he’d stood.

The tankards in her hand spilled over the edges as a result, dumping half the ale on her tunic and corset before she slammed them on the table.

The disturbance caught the attention of the tavern. Most of the voices had grown quiet with the scraping of chairs against the wooden floorboards. Some snickered, others laughed. But she ignored them, squirming in his unrelenting hold.

His thick fingers dug into her hip bones, sending a sharp pain through her body from a hidden bruise left by Kaine.

It was enough to have her vision spotting. The all-too-familiar twinge of panic enveloped her senses. In that panic, her eyes found the flicker of a candle, focusing on a tendril of smoke drifting to the ceiling, as she did with Kaine, before her eyes closed and found the strength to calm her racing heart.

Brassard wasn’t Kaine, though.

She could fight back.

The putrid stench of his warm breath drenched her neck as he slurred, “You’re looking fine this evening. Why don’t you sing us a song from my lap?” He tightened his grasp, driving burning tears into her eyes.

She could have managed a strong blow to his face … if it wasn’t for him forcing her onto his lap when he dropped back to the chair.

“Brassard, get your dirty hands off me!” Digging her nails into his grip, Alora slammed the heel of her boot into his toes, rendering a pleasing shriek from him, allowing her to stand and move away. “Hasn’t anyone ever taught you how to treat a female?”

Brassard twisted his face in a contorted expression, and without giving her a chance to respond, he stood and forcefully seized her bruised wrist. Sending another shock of pain through her arm and causing Alora to hiss at the pain.

But a deep voice called from the shadows.

The voice, icy, like cold death itself.