Page 25 of The Wolf in My Tavern

“Nay, lass,” Drake says. “This beer is perfect, thanks.” He slides a coin across the table, which she tucks into a pocket of her apron before she sashays off, collecting empties as she goes.

He turns back to me. “Everyone knows Bleakness is a shit hole, but the pretty wenches here are a small redeeming point.”

Drake speaks true. I’m confident that if Ada and Betsy were working elsewhere, at least some of the business would follow. This city has lived long under the banner of the Blighten. Anyone who escapes never looks back. Circumstances trap people. Yet within all that desolation are ordinary citizens and hidden gems among the rough.

I hate it here. The city makes my skin crawl for reasons more than the Blighten. Give me the mountains and the forests to the east of Hydornia any day.

But I have a purpose, and I won’t leave until it’s done.

“How the mighty fall,” Drake quips.

I chuckle. It turns into a snort before I laugh some more. Also, I am not falling for a wench. I need to focus on my mission.

“I think that’s the first time I’ve heard you laugh in months,” he says with a note of fake wonder. “Maybe a whole fucking year.”

“I’m a bitter bastard,” I say, realizing this quintessential truth. As a pack leader’s son, my life was perfect until one event sent everything tumbling down the hill.

“We’ll get them back,” he says, and his face, more often graced by a smile, takes on a determined air.

“Aye,” I agree, unwilling to entertain any other option, nor to linger on the worry that consumes me when I consider they have been gone a whole year.

“The lass needed a firm hand,” he says, his gaze turning distant. “A sound spanking would have sorted her right out.”

The lass in question is my destined mate. At least, that was what my father wanted. I was an easygoing male back then; she was pretty and spirited, and I had no firm objection to letting things run their course.

We had yet to consummate the bond, with our pack following the old ways where public claiming is the accepted norm.

Then she was taken.

A year is a long time to search for someone. Not only her but my younger brother, who was with her at the time, and fuck, how I love that runt.

Guilt assuages me that I am eyeing a tavern wench when the shifter lass who should be mine is the prisoner of orcs. I drink deeply of my ale. When those you care for are snatched from you, it’s hard to find happiness anywhere or in anything. I feel fucking guilty even as my eyes cannot help but stray.

My gut churns with never-ending worry. They won’t be the same when we find them… if we find them—no, I cannot consider that.

And so returns the guilt all over again, near choking me.

The opening of the Tavern door brings in a waft of icy air. I lift my head from my bowl to see that little beta prick saunter in.

Callum.

Young.

Starry-eyed.

And fucking hot for Ada.

The truth is that he is not so little and is possibly the largest beta I have ever seen, but my bitter heart seeks any form of imaginary defect.

“Gods save me from hapless bastards,” I say, dunking the bread deep into my stew like that might make it more palatable.

I miss venison.

Drake swings his head to look over his shoulder before turning back to me with a grin. “Ah, the competition is in.”

I glare at him. “That whelp is no competition.”

“You’re right,” Drake says, leaning across the table to pat me on the shoulder. He is a heavy-handed bastard, and my bread drops in my stew. “He’s balls deep in her every chance he gets and has got you beaten by a mile.”

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