Page 8 of The Wolf in My Tavern

It is too late now. My cock is broken for all other lasses but Ada.

As the noisy tavern breaks through the spell, I recognize that we can never be.

Ada

The pump has broken again, and I need to let Tim know. The human-orc hybrid and proprietor of this establishment runs a tight ship (pun intended—this is a seaport, after all). He looks mostly human, except that he is the size of an orc and has pink, pointed ears.

He’s a good boss, and I consider myself lucky to have a job here. My life wasn’t always so enviable, and I appreciate my turn for the better.

I come barreling out of the kitchen then come to a grinding halt. My eyes go from Tim straight to Callum, and my mind goes blank. In a glance, my gaze rakes a loving trail over his windswept ginger hair, handsome face with darker scruff on his chin, and broad, brawny shoulders.

Callum is a local blacksmith who saved me from a life of servitude and all the horrors that entails.

Not quite a blacksmith yet, I amend, but an apprentice. He is virtually a blacksmith and works for his father in their workshop at the end of the street. They come here every Friday night. It is my favorite night of the week when I can give myself new dreams for when I slip into bed at night.

I feel a blush creep over my cheeks. Betsy has been coaching me in the ways of working in a tavern, yet it is an uphill struggle when my life not so long ago consisted of treading a path between a hovel and the fish markets where I would gut fish all day until my fingers cramped and I was fit to drop. There was no time for looking at lads, especially not handsome ones with impossibly broad shoulders and large, capable hands.

Don’t think about his hands.

My blush deepens.

I tell myself to look away, but it is proving very hard. His eyes are bright and green, and his cheeks are always flushed and rosy with the weather. He has a lot of freckles on his face, and they all seem to merge, giving his complexion a golden glow. When I lie in bed of a night, I think about how he burst into the cell and told Betsy that her pa had come for her. The cell was dark, and the light from the passage illuminated him like an avenging angel, the hammer in his hand dripping with blood.

Betsy insisted that I come with her. I still thank my blessings every day that she did… that she had a pa who cared. Then Callum slipped his sturdy hammer into his belt and lifted me into his arms.

Heroes come in many guises. This one has ginger hair and a smile that could make the Goddess swoon.

I swallow. I’ve been staring for some time. There was something important I was going to say, but I can’t remember what… Oh, that’s right. The pump at the back has finally given out. Tim tried fixing it, and so did Gareth, one of the barmen here, but to no avail.

I drag my eyes away from Callum to find Tim watching me—his lips twitch. Gods, everybody knows I have a crush on Callum… which is hardly surprising when he is so handsome and, further, saved my life. “The pump has got stuck again. I’m so sorry to interrupt.”

“Aye, lass,” Tim says, turning to me and patting my shoulder. “No need to apologize. I should have had it fixed.”

Given his immense size, it still comes as a shock when he is so gentle and such a contrast to my pa… no, I won’t give that bastard any of my precious thoughts…

“Do you want me to have a look at it?” Callum offers, his eyes bouncing from Tim to me.

“Aye, would you?” Tim asks, drawing Callum’s eyes back to him. “Will promised to have a look, but he’s been under the pump.” He emits a deep guffaw at his pun.

Callum chuckles, too, and how I love that sound. “No problem,” he says. “I’ll have a look now.” He turns and raises his hand to gain his father’s attention before gesturing toward the back of the tavern. His father waves an acknowledgment and returns to talking with his friend.

“Well, supper is on me tonight then,” Tim announces with a boom—he is used to shouting over the noisy patrons and doesn’t do quiet. “Go and show him where it is, Ada.”

“This way!” I gulp as Callum slips around the back of the bar and approaches me. He is tall for a beta and broad-chested from working at the forge. The top of my head barely reaches his shoulder. Doing a quick about-face, I take him to the broken pump under the awning out the back. The lantern doesn’t cast much light, and he moves it to the nearby ledge to see better. He has been working all day, but he doesn’t seem bothered or impatient as he rolls up his sleeves… and goodness, seeing his muscular forearms emerge has me lost in a daze.

He doesn’t notice me ogling him while he inspects the mechanism.

I leave him to his business, but when I return to check on him a short time later, it is drawing water again.

“It’ll last a few days, but it needs Will to do a proper repair,” he says, washing off his hands.

“Thank you,” I say.

He rises to his full height, turning toward me with a smile. Before I can think better about it, I rise to my tiptoes and kiss his cheek.

Blushing furiously, I go to turn away; only he catches my hand, stilling my flight. His other hand lifts to cup my cheek, and his thumb brushes over the skin. I fight back the urge to flinch away, a legacy of a lifetime of abuse. For so long, the only touch I felt was delivered in anger. I remind myself that was not the norm.

“You look better now that the bruises have healed.”

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