Page 28 of Tortured

“Calrisin,” the front dragon rider says. “You know why we’re here.”

“Of course.” Calrisin lifts his chin toward his daughter. “Shayla, darling.”

I pinch my brows together with question.

“Help yourself to refills behind the bar,” she says softly to me. “Perhaps when I return in a few hours, you can tell me more about your homeland. I would love to hear more.” She grabs my mug, tips it back, and drains it. After slamming it down, she stands, with her hand lingering on the table to steady herself.

I press my hand over hers. “You don’t mean . . .” I whisper.

She squeezes her eyes shut and takes a deep breath.

No other words are needed.

I straighten in my seat and raise my voice. “Gentlemen”—Shayla turns toward me with shock—“I think there must be a misunderstanding. Shayla has agreed to be my guide in the city this evening.” I pick up the forgotten coin on the table and press it into her palm. “I’m new in town and hired her to show me around.”

Shayla clenches the coin. “You don’t understand,” she hisses.

I rise. “I understand enough.”

Calrisin stiffens when the front dragon rider steps toward us. Shayla whirls on me and whispers to me quickly as he approaches. “This is what we give by way of payment. This tavern is all we have, and we keep it without coin.”

I deflate inside. This is not some random occurrence. They expect this. Welcome it even.

The rider grabs Shayla’s wrist and wrenches her palm open. “I’m afraid coin is not what we prefer.” He chucks the coin at my chest.

I let it fall to the floor.

The coin bounces and rolls to a stop near the bar.

No one else makes a move.

I narrow my eyes on the man.

The bell above the door rings as another man—a warrior—strides in.

The dragon riders at the bar instantly straighten.

The one holding Shayla nods at the newcomer.

He is darkness, practically everything about him. From his brown leather armor to his olive-toned skin. His brows are two menacing lines above piercing blue eyes—the only things ethereal about him. That and his midnight blue dragon stone.

I do not miss the hulking sword strapped to his back.

“What do we have here?” the newcomer asks.

“My lord,” the man holding Shayla says, “we were collecting payment. But this seafarer thought to stick his nose where it doesn’t belong.”

“My lord” scrutinizes me. From my face down to my feet and back up. He lands on the twin blades peaking over my shoulders.

“How good are you with those blades?” he asks.

What? He has to be kidding. I could have breezed over and sliced his head off before he could blink.

“Good enough that I haven’t lost a fight yet,” I say.

He snorts, and then he turns to one of the men unstrapping his twin swords at the bar. “My lord” lays his sheathed blade calmly on a table. “Dagbond, lend me your blades.”

Dagbond unsheathes his twin blades and passes them to “my lord,” who gestures with a chin lift to me. “Outside. Leave your gear. Bring your blades. Let’s see if you’re as good as you say.”

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