Page 19

“If you value that worthless hand,” he said in the corner by the window, pulling a dagger from his belt and twisting the sharpened tip between two fingers, “remove it from her. Now,” and leaned forward, resting elbows on bent knees.

The room … it darkened. Every candle flickered down to glowing wicks.

Primal male arrogance surged through Brassard. “Who the hell do you think you?—”

The cloaked stranger appeared at Brassard’s side with seemingly impossible speed. By his perch across the room, no one had seen him maneuver around the tables, not even her. The shadows in the tavern danced around him like ink in water.

With lethal power, his fist slammed into Brassard’s chin, sending him flying back on top of the table with a crack of splintering wood.

He tried to recover, pulling himself up with the desperate clawing of his hands to an upright table. But ringed fingers slammed the dagger deep into the palm of Brassard’s hand, splattering blood across the wood. The stranger’s grip remained on the handle as his body towered over him, leaning close to his half-conscious face that was dripping with blood from his nose.

“I do not”—the stranger’s jaw flexed—“ask twice.”

Brassard screeched in pain as the stranger drove the knife deeper into the table.

His eyes met Alora’s. Wisps of short, wavy gray hair peeked out from the hood. His defined jawline tensed again as he turned to her, the muscles and veins in his arms bulging and his chest tight, nostrils flared with rage.

The males sitting around the room stood from their tables, approaching for a fight.

Gaze cold and dismissive, the stranger never removed it from hers as he growled, “Walk away. Unless you care to join him.” A broad hand drifted inside his cloak and drew a sword halfway from its sheath.

Unmistakable terror ran across their features. They did the only intelligent thing any faerie in their position could do with drunken nerves and little weaponry. The males backed away, stumbled over their own boots, and returned to the table they were previously assembled at.

Whispers filled the room as an invisible force carried heavily in the air.

Metal slid against leather. The sword slipped back into its sheath. She barely registered what had occurred when his voice, warm as honey, broke her trance. “Are you alright?”

Up close, Alora could see his eyes. They appeared darker in the absence of candlelight. Like a night sky. They reflected the flames that returned to a low flicker on the tables and wheel above them.

Alora brushed her hand delicately across her bruise, thrumming with an uncomfortable pulse.

The stranger’s stare wavered to her movement, then back to her face. His lips pulled taut. A muscle feathered in his jaw before he reached to her, opening his mouth to speak … but something inside her had begun to spark.

She surveyed the room—Kaine’s tavern. Every single thing that occurred there would be detailed to him upon his return. And she would be at the brunt of his displeasure. He wasn’t supposed to learn that she had come to work tonight. But with Brassard squirming on his knees beside the table, the blood dripping from his hand pinned by the dagger …

Some of the tables had emptied too, ultimately costing her coin as well. The mess. The tales to be told …

What was she supposed to feel?Gratitude?

“I could have handled this without your help if you would’ve given me the chance. I know how to take care of myself.” That spotted vision had surrendered to a shade of crimson as she denied his extended hand. Alora grabbed the spilled tankards and began to turn away toward the kitchen, expecting silence.

Instead, he amusingly scoffed. “Clearly.”

This time when she met him, his impressive arms crossed and eyes taunting, hers brightened with a spark of embers before she forced the billowing rage deep down inside. The last thing she needed was to burn the tavern down. But it wasn’t enough to prevent the room from growing warm with her concealed power. It also didn’t stop her from picturing him with a fire lit on his ass.

“Count yourself lucky the High King’s Ravens aren’t around, or I would call them in here to remove you. Who do you think you are?” She wanted to jam the tankards into his abdomen but refrained. “Remove the dagger from him andget out.”

His mouth twisted into a grin as his arms fell beside his body. With an air of grace, he pulled a chair to the table, merely kicking Brassard’s feet before he sat down. After a measured expression at the blood dripping to the floor, he darkly laughed.

Instead of removing the dagger, his broad hand closed around the half-spilled tankard meant for Brassard, drew it against his lips, and downed it whole. The tankard slammed on the table. In a slow, agonizing pull, the stranger eased the bladefrom Brassard’s hand, drawing strangled pleas for mercy from his pale lips.

Silver eyes brightened with the begging.

Alora’s blood boiled with fire.He’s enjoying this.

“Leave, before I decide to take your hand as a trophy,” the stranger growled.

Brassard, too wounded and weakened by blood loss, was hauled from the floor with the help of a few males and taken outside the entrance and out of sight.