Page 42 of The Wolf in My Tavern

Chapter Sixteen

Ada

Iam still glowing, and it has been three days since Callum and I declared our love. Not so long ago, I was dressed in tatters, working at the fish market and dodging my wicked father’s fists. Now, I have a job, a safe place to stay, and food in my belly.

More than that, I now have Callum.

The very next day, he told me, a glint in his eyes, how he was getting a new bed commissioned from his neighboring woodworker, one as was befitting of our marital status and all we might want to do.

He slipped by earlier today with the news: it will be ready by the end of the week… which is the day we shall wed.

I cannot wait.

My impatience is made worse that he will not do more than kiss me until then, saying how the next time he takes me, we shall be in our bed and when we have all night.

The waiting will kill me.

There is the small matter, or not so small—depending on how one views it—of him being an alpha. At least, I have come to believe that that is what he is. If only I could get another look at his… cock, I might be able to verify what I thought I saw, what I thought I felt. In the days since we were last intimate, I have gone over things many times, convincing myself that what I saw was a mistake and then reminding myself that one does not make mistakes about things like that. I wonder how it might play out if he really is an alpha when so few live in Bleakness.

Maybe he already knows and is keeping it a secret?

No matter. I love him either way, and whatever he is. If he seeks to keep this a secret, I am sure he has good reasons to do so.

I thought nothing could wipe my smile off my face, but then a scowling Master Gray and his companion, Drake, enter the tavern late on Thursday night. His scent seems particularly potent, and it slams into me, bringing a strange lethargy to my limbs and slick arousal pooling between my thighs.

His nostrils flare, and his eyes bore into me.

Gods, he is so handsome and intense as he holds me captive with nothing but a look.

He has just asked me something, but my befuddled mind cannot recall what.

“There is only the potted pork pie left,” I finally stammer when I remember he just asked for a bowl of stew.

Drake chuckles like this is a big joke. “I’ll take a pint of Pilkington, lass, and a cheese and ham sandwich if your fine cook can still rustle one up.”

“Just the ale,” Gray all but growls.

I hasten off, feeling out of sorts and confused as to why my body responds and, further, why I care about his mood. It is not like he smiles often—now that I think about it, I don’t believe I have seen him smile even once.

The tavern is packed, due to several ships coming into port, swelling it with rowdy seamen. They are generally a good bunch with easygoing dispositions, yet there is something off about some among those here tonight. They carry an edge of danger and a roughness I can’t quite put my finger on, but which builds the same churning unease within me that my father’s presence used to.

I do my best to ignore it. Callum is working late tonight, seeking to finish an urgent order with his pa so we might have a little time after the wedding.

A wedding—my wedding that is in only a few days.

My dreamy state is disrupted when a fight breaks out. I stand behind the bar as Tim and Gareth wade in and toss the perpetrators out. It happens occasionally, usually later in the evening when men are deep into the cups. It is not the locals who kick off this kind of trouble, for Tim won’t let a man back in again if he has caused trouble once. These are not local men. They are new to Bleakness. They have no allegiance to the tavern or anybody else.

Even Betsy looks a little harried as she joins me. “Goddess, I will be glad when the ship leaves the port,” she says. “I swear every man among them is looking for mischief.”

The night continues to go downhill from there. Another fight and another three customers are tossed out on their asses.

Gray and Drake stay in their corner, supping ale and deep in discussion. I am taking over fresh pints to them when a ruckus kicks off at the table beside them.

“Cheating bastard,” a sailor cries. Standing, he upends the table with a roar.

I try to dart out of the way, but I’m not fast enough. The sailor’s fist swings, and the man accused of cheating is sent bowling into me. My feet are knocked from under me, and I am sent flying backward. Only it is not the nearby table or the floor I crash into, but the hard wall of a body. A strong arm clamps around my waist, holding me protectively close as his other arm swings up and around.

I gasp, seeing the glint of huge claws… and then a spray of blood as they slice through two men.

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