Page 67 of Defended By Love

“Are you sure?” the Dungeon Master (I forgot his name, so I’ve just been calling him DM all night) asks. “If you choose to run away, you have a five in six chance at surviving.”

“I throw my dagger at the greedy troll’s eye,” I repeat slowly, punctuating each word.

“But—” the DM starts again.

Chanterelle, the girl beside him, a petite mousy girl with oversized bangs and glasses, rests a light hand on his arm as he goes to interject, yet again.

“Let her throw her dagger.” She smiles at me. “I have a good feeling about this.”

I smile back. She’s sweet. Weird, but sweet. Not that this whole group isn’t a little weird. There’s six of us in total and everyone seems to bring a particular flavour to the group. One dude is wearing a real, metal shield strapped across his back, and no one has mentioned it.

Although, the weirdest part has to be the snacks that the DM and his girlfriend brought. I don’t mean to bash him because he clearly put a lot of time into the snacks. It’s just… there’s six different types of eggs. That feels excessive.

Except, apparently, I’m the weirdo. Grant announced that he made me watch those scifi movies for the first time and everyone gaped at me as if he had announced that I enjoyed ventriloquism in a sexy way.

“Okay…” the DM sighs. “So, this newbie, the cook’s assistant with zero armour and zero battle training, throws her paring knife at the eleven-foot troll.” He rolls the die.

Everyone around me is on the edge of their seat. If I understand correctly, if I miss, I’m out of the game. They keep saying it to me like it’s some sort of huge threat and not at all like it’s the desired outcome I believe it to be.

Especially not compared to the guy who has now pulled his shield off his back and is holding it in front of him. No, push comes to shove, I’m more than happy to sit in the corner with a frittata and watch them duke it out.

Everyone holds their breath as the die arcs in the air. Slowly, dramatically, it falls onto the table with a crisp bounce. Chanterelle, the girl with a good feeling about my roll, reaches over to clasp the hand of her boyfriend, the DM, who looks like he’s on the brink of a heart attack.

For my part, I put a deviled egg in my mouth. If I’m not mistaken, it’s black licorice flavoured. So weird.

A hush falls over the room. There’s nothing but the sound of beating hearts, bated breath, and my mushy chewing.

The die teeters on an edge for a gravity-defying amount of time. It wobbles, threatening to fall one way and then the other. Finally, with a flourish, it lands on twenty.

Which I think is the number that we were hoping to come up? That means my throw killed the troll—or something. I just know it’s good. Despite myself, I yelp in excitement.

No one returns the enthusiasm. Instead, they’re all glaring in my direction like I’m serving them papers at a family barbeque.

“Isn’t that good?” I ask.

“Yes,” the DM replies dryly. “Too good.”

Beside me, Grant starts whistling in what has to be the worst whistle of nonchalance I’ve ever bore witness to.

“My girlfriend is very lucky?” Grant offers. It sounds more like a question than an answer.

I join the rest of the room in glaring at him. Suddenly, Grant becomes very absorbed in a figurine on the table.

“I’m not your girlfriend,” I repeat, seriously considering if I should record myself saying that. “And I’m definitely not lucky.”

Definitely not. As someone who has been publicly fired, crushed to death, shamed by a doorman, and surprised into having breakfast with a hookup’s mom all technically today, I would say I’m firmly in the unlucky category.

“My kindred spirit?” Grant offers.

I shake my head. Although, we are both in this time loop together, so maybe? Can people be platonically kindred? Not that Grant and I are platonic. No, I’d rip his clothes off in a heartbeat if I could convince him that it was in a feelingless way. Casually kindred, then?

The DM picks up an egg bite and throws it at him. At the last second, the egg veers away to land in the garbage can at the far end of the room.

“We said none of that Crimson Streak shit here. It’s no fun if you just control the die to be whatever you want.”

“And I said not to call me that! You think I don’t know it’s you guys who spread that name around?” Grant counters.

The DM exchanges a look with a handsome guy, Darwin (not really a name you can forget), who smirks a little half-quirk smile at him. “We can’t help it if a guest called into our show and referred to you as that and it just so happened to catch on.”

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