Page 15 of The Wolf in My Tavern

My chest heaves like a bellows. The man before me is barely recognizable. His face is swollen, and the floor is splattered with his blood.

“Death is too good for him, Callum.”

I stagger away and glance around to find Anders and John wearing tight, approving looks.

My gut clenches—I have done this. My father keeps his hand on my shoulder, though, which calms the raging beast inside me.

Anders steps forward with the rope, and John assists as they swiftly bind Cecil.

“Bastards!” The ruined man struggles weakly. “My fucking nose. My friends will come for you. Mark my words.”

“What friends?” John scoffs. “You don’t have a single one. Unless you’re talking about the scum you work with. Do you think they give a shit about you? They don’t.”

They finish binding his hands and drag him to his feet, where he sways, blood dripping from his nose and over his chin.

My father drops his hand from my shoulder and approaches the pitiful man. “Have you heard of the orc mines?”

Cecil gives him a wary look.

“Aye, I see that you have. You might last a year. Maybe less, maybe a bit more. When you wake up every morning, and you realize your miserable fate, when you feel the sting of a whip or a boot to your pathetic ass or a cuff from the mean orc bastards as run the mines, I want you to remember your daughter, Ada. Remember how you sold her out.”

“That’s what this is about? My fucking whelp. That ungrateful little snot.”

My father drives a fist into his belly, knocking the wind out of him even as he reaches back with his other hand to halt me in my tracks.

“Aye,” my father says. “That’s what this is about… Get him out of here. He’s never going to repent. May he suffer for what he did.”

Anders takes one arm and John the other to haul the broken man toward the door.

John pauses when they reach me. “You handled yourself well, Callum.” He sends a meaningful glance at my hands. “Best take care of those knuckles when you get home.”

I flex my fingers, only now looking down. I practice daily, and my hands have toughened over the years, but the skin is still an angry red, swollen, and split.

They move on, taking Cecil down the stairs.

“I’ve never had cause to use my training like this before,” I say quietly.

“That filth wasn’t a person,” my father says, glancing around the room. “You might want to check that pitiful nook, which likely belonged to your lass. See if there is anything personal we should take.”

I swallow at the mention of my lass. I’ve kissed her once, and I’m fucking besotted with her, yet I have no claim.

Not yet.

I want one, and that sounds ridiculous and primitive; not that I can deny all I feel.

“I’ll take a look,” I say gruffly, striding to the bedding nook that makes my heart ache to see. The blankets are threadbare—I wouldn’t keep a dog in this filth.

As I feel under the edges against the straw, I catch something firm and draw out a small leather-bound book. The pages are words on one side and beautifully drawn pictures on the other—a storybook. A couple of pages are torn, but the rest are whole.

I slip it into my jacket pocket and quickly check the rest of the area. “A book. Nothing more. I’m done.”

Turning our backs on the filthy room, we head down to the street where John awaits us.

“Guards took him. Tomorrow he will be in a caravan bound for the mines.”

“Good,” my father says.

“See you tomorrow in The Green Man,” John says. “I’ll give you an update, then.”

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