Page 51 of The Heir's Bargain

"And showing up to a dingy tavern is taking things more seriously?" I asked, giving Fynn a skeptical look.

"First of all, Sylvia sent me a note and said this was your favorite tavern in the entire kingdom." He scratched the back of his head, tussling his hair. Then he added, "They also might have added a sentence or two that was borderline a threat that I simply could not ignore."

"I'm going to kill Sylv," I groaned, staring at the beams running across the ceiling.

"Lance threatened the same thing when he first read the note. I told him it was unnecessary." Fynn shrugged. "Anyway, if you want the leaders to know we're serious, your comrades should see us together. It's only natural, and clearly, they care about you."

"Whatever. Just"—I took a swig of ale—"remember the rules."

"I always remember the rules, Ferrios," Fynn said and winked, sending a spiral of anxiety running to meet the ale. He leaned closer. "Doesn't mean I always listen to them though."

"Fynn, I'm serious, you can't?—"

But then his hand squeezed mine beneath the table, causing the words to disintegrate on my tongue.

I blinked.

After a second that lasted too long for a pretend courtship, he tipped his head.

My gaze flicked to the crowd.

Sylvia and Moris were heading back. Sylvia was grinning and wiggling their brows like a child who couldn't keep a secret even if their life depended on it.

"Fine," I sputtered to Fynn.

The right corner of his lip twitched up, and he leaned back in his chair, stretching an arm across my shoulders. He cocked his head toward me expectantly. "Trust me, Ferrios."

I took a deep breath.

I could do this, I told myself before sinking against the cushion.

This was almost normal. There was no kissing, no weird touches. It was simply a casual outing with Fynn. Years ago, I had frequented plenty of taverns with him—before he favored the gambling hall or lavish nights spent with various women.

Then, Fynn scooted closer. His thigh pressing up against mine, his heat wrapping around me.

This was definitely not normal.

I swallowed as Sylvia and Moris sat down.

Fynn flicked his free hand in the air. Roth tossed a rag over his shoulder. The old barkeeper was among the few people I had ever seen meander over to a prince. But after knowing Roth for years, I knew he was the type of man who held his head high no matter who entered his tavern. Because at the end of the day, this was Roth's tavern, his place of business. He wore the crown here—at least, that's what he said whenever someone tried to argue with him about prices.

"What can I get ya?" Roth asked.

Fynn tilted his head to the side, assessing the bar behind Roth. An assortment of bottles in various shades of liquids and stained glasses lined the shelves. "Have any house cocktails?"

"Cocktails?" Roth snorted and scratched the side of his beard. A devious glint sparkled in his eyes, the crow's feet deepening at the corners. He spread out his arms. "If a cocktail is what ya want, I have?—"

"An ale, Roth," I blurted out, interrupting.

Fynn turned to me, eyes wide. "But I?—"

I stomped on his foot, cutting him off. I saw right through those wide, doe eyes.

Fynn cleared his throat. "An ale sounds great," he said with a grimace.

Laughter threatened to burst from Sylvia and Moris' lips, but somehow, they managed to restrain themselves. Ale had never been Fynn's preferred choice, but none of us needed to hear about Roth's creative alternatives.

"Are you sure?" Roth asked, disappointment shading his face now that he wouldn't get to tell his piss-poor joke.

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