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The crowd booed, the bar keep laughed as she flapped her bee wings, lifted herself off the floor and claimed a seat right on top of the wide mushroom bar.

Crossing her legs, she pulled the skirt of her dress up over her knees.

She leaned back onto the bar onto her elbows, the action pushing her corset tight against her ample cleavage, her breasts nearly escaping its hold.

Heather’s eyes almost fell from her head.

At home, this female would be cast from polite society.

Pious holy men would be scandalized and claim she was a witch.

It rang true to Heather that she was no longer in the human lands.

“Come on now, ye know this one.” The bar maid teased the crowd.

“Is it Hazelwood?” The wenches howled out a laugh.

“Is it Roanwood?” More shouts sounded from the crude assembly.

“Mayhap the noble Ashwoode?” She winked at a patron seated at the counter. “Or is it all three?” She laughed uproariously.

Heather gasped in understanding, those were the names of the great houses of faerie, the Lords’ houses. She glanced at Crimson, who sat lithe as a cat, unaffected in any way by the congregation’s rabble rousing.

“It seems as though we have a guest of the Ashwoodes here, the Luna Moth's human whore.” She waved a hand over to their table. Heather physically jerked back as if she’d been slapped, feeling the heat rise in her cheeks.

Was this any better than the abuse she encountered at the human court?

Every face in the establishment snapped her way.

Crimson was no longer lax. He sprung from his seat, taunt as a bowstring, his chair clattering to the floor.

He simultaneously pulled his dagger free from his red sashed belt, and with a flick of his wrist the knife planted itself into the wood of the bar top.

Pinning the maid’s dress in place. The female turned pale.

With wide eyes, she gaped at him with apparent shock.

No doubt, if Crimson desired it to be a killing blow, it would have been.

The rowdy gathering went quiet as a grave.

The male venomously sneered, “She’s, my guest. And ye will do well to treat her as such.

” His sharp eye teeth gleamed in the lantern light.

Heather gulped at the mead. She never wanted to be on the receiving end of that knife.

The dagger was wedged within inches of the bar keep’s leg.

While Crimson’s skill was impressive, the large room for error was shuddering.

She appreciated the defense of her character, but she wished she could resend her acceptance of the mushroom tour.

Wanting nothing more than to return to the square.

The faces in the crowd turned away, their eyes anywhere but Heather.

She noisily cleared her throat that burned, the drink having scorched a pathway down.

Crimson’s steel gaze clashed with the barmaids.

“Bring me my knife, Esmere,” he commanded before returning to his mushroom throne.

Heather’s secondhand embarrassment was so incredibly palpable, she couldn’t force herself to make eye contact with the female as she relinquished Crimson’s blade at their table.

“Give my new friend something to eat, sweetheart.” His cold demand rendered the affectionate name into a curse. Esmere nodded and curtsied to Crimson. Her walk back into the kitchens possessing less swagger.

Crimson claimed his dagger from the tabletop and used the sharp blade to push the brim of his hat further up on his head.

Heather’s eyes focused on the glinting knife as he proceeded to use it to leisurely clean the underside of his nails.

Swallowing roughly, she decided she didn’t want this male as an enemy.

What damage could Skye and Crimson render each other? She hoped to never find out.

“I hope you’re not finicky,” he drawled.

“As long as it’s not mushrooms.” Heather looked about, laughing at the fact that everything was a shroom, even the mead.

Esmere approached their table, setting a plate down before her.

“My thanks," fell from Heather's lips without her bidding. The obstinate maid refused to respond.

Crimson clicked his tongue as his large hand halted the Esmere from leaving.

“Not so fast.” He smirked. He waved over to Heather’s plate. “Do us the honors. Taste it.” He commanded with a cutting raised brow.

Esmere flushed red, she huffed, swiped the dish from the mushroom top before storming to the kitchen. Crimson slouched in his chair, laughing low in his throat. Then took another deep draw from his goblet.

“What… what just happened?” Heather sputtered.

“That witch tampered with your meal,” he huffed.

“I should have made her eat it.” He muttered darkly to himself, before taking another swig of his swill.

Heather could not believe this was happening to her again.

She had enough of people meddling with her food.

Her stomach roiled, churning like a tempest.

Esmere returned with a fresh plate. Crimson held up a hand, signaling her to wait.

He reached over and cut into the mysterious slab of what appeared to be protein.

Loading the fork, he set it back down, “I wanna see you take that bite.” Esmere devoured the forkful without protest. Apparently, Heather’s meal remained unsullied this time.

“You know me too well, to make an enemy of me Esmere.” Crimson threatened as he dismissed her.

“What is this ?” Heather cut into the unfamiliar orangey yellow thick meat, endeavoring to ignore her protesting stomach.

“A local delicacy, chicken of the wood. You’ll be sorely disappointed that it is, in fact, mushroom.” He said dryly. Heather dropped the fork, her appetite lost. She had forgiven the shroom from shrinking her, but that didn’t mean she was ready to ingest it anytime soon.

“I’m afraid I have a complicated relationship with fungi.” Heather admitted. Crimson laughed with a dark gleam in his eye and said, “Me as well.”

A tall male approached Crimson, “The first brawl will open up with Howey and Hillway, all the bets have been collected in the back.”

“Carry on,” was Crimson’s terse reply as he continued to remove the dirt from under his nails.

The stranger nodded and flew over to the center of the ribboned off square. He brought both of his pointer fingers to his lips, whistling loudly, silencing the room. All heads turned his way.

“Wagers are closed.” His deep voice echoed throughout the pub house. Two tall, thickly muscled males joined him in the ring, both bare chested. Each had a sash tied about their wide waists, one crimson- matching the host- and the other royal blue.

“Remember, no biting, no magick and other than that, there are no rules!” the male at the center shouted before fluttering up out of the ring.

Patrons crowded the ring. Crimson’s table had an excellent view of the match.

The fighters braced their fists in front of their faces, circling one another.

Moving lightning quick, the crimson sashed male closed the distance and jabbed his right fist in the other males’ gut.

Heather clamped her eyes shut to the sudden violence.

The crowd reveled in the blow uproariously.

She could hear skin hit skin repeatedly.

She peeked at the brutality taking place.

Crimson watched Heather with silent amusement, dark eyes shining with laughter in the firefly light.

The fighters grunted as they fought off deadly blows.

The blue sashed male was not faring well, absorbing most of the other males’ strikes.

The bare fist of the crimson sashed male crashed into the other’s brow, breaking his skin.

Blood splattered over to where Heather and Crimson sat, peppering across her face.

Heather's stomach roiled, the scent of rust overcoming her senses. She’d shifted to avoid the spray too late.

Hands trembling, she searched the tabletop for anything to wipe it clean.

Nearing a state of panic, with her eyes closed, she felt Crimson drop a cloth into her hand.

The air left her lungs in a whoosh. Relief flooded her gut as she wiped the warm gore away.

The heat and walls pressed in, suffocatingly.

With a strangled breath, she surged from the table, aching to leave the tavern and all the horrible sights and sounds behind.