Page 14 of The Wolf in My Tavern

“No,” John replies. “They will find some other worthless twat to replace him, and look no further.”

“Let’s get this done,” my father says.

We’ve gone over the plan. It is simple. We will go in, subdue him, bind him, if necessary, and punish him.

My heart rate kicks up as we walk across the street, enter the weather-worn wooden door, and follow John up the rickety stairs. They creek under our heavy footfall. An old man opens a door and peers out as he hears our footsteps approaching, only to slam it shut when he sees us passing. John is right. This is a rough part of the city. The people who live here are either down on their luck or deadbeats and criminals. Criminals know when to keep their noses out of other people’s business, as do those other unfortunate souls who call this district home.

It is a marked difference from the attitude in the streets near our workshop, where we look out for one another. Nobody gives a fuck here. I daresay someone in this building might be acquainted with Cecil. Perhaps there are even some who are his friends. Or maybe they despise him and will be glad when he is gone.

I don’t know, and I don’t care, so long as they don’t interfere.

We arrive at a landing on the top floor with only two doors—John thumbs toward the one facing the back of the building.

Anders lifts his boot and kicks in the door.

The noise is loud and jarring, and we surge into the room.

He sits at a table with a lit candle on the mantle over a cold fire. As he registers our entry, he stumbles up and comes out swinging.

My father told me to let him handle this part.

I don’t.

I charge forward, knock one swinging fist out of the way, and take him by the throat. His other fist lands against my ribs, but weakly, and I barely notice it. I toss him, sending him bowling into the wall just as the door slams shut on the ruckus we create. My blood is pounding through my veins.

There is only one thought in my mind.

Punish him.

Punish him for the marks I saw on Ada’s face.

Punish him for all the things my father told me he was responsible for, the cruelty toward that sweet lass when, as her father, he should have fucking cherished and cared for her as my pa cares for me.

Instead, he betrayed her in the deepest, most vile of ways, turning abuser and then selling her to pay his debts.

I fist his shirt, drag him to his feet, and punch him in the jaw.

“Who the fuck are you?” He spits out a gob of blood as I stand before him, chest heaving and my hand still fisted. The others have spread out in the room but don’t interfere as I take the measure of the man with his lank, greasy hair and scruffy beard. I see nothing of his daughter in him except he is small.

I tower over him. I’ve always been big for a beta. Maybe the size difference means I should feel some guilt for the beating I’m about to put on him.

I don’t. He is filth, just like this hovel where Ada grew up. I take my eyes off him to glance around the single room Ada called home. There are two bedding areas, one with a full wooden-framed bed and another with a rough curtain, currently tied back to reveal a straw bed on the floor.

My nostrils flare. That is where she slept, I know it—fucking bastard.

“A friend of Ada’s,” I say, turning back to the worthless thug who wavers on his feet after a single punch.

He holds up his fists as if that might offer a credible threat to me.

“I was going to bind him,” Anders says casually. “But happen you’ve got it covered, lad.”

“The fuck do you all want?” Cecil demands, spittle flying from his mouth as his eyes dart between us.

“Absolutely nothing,” I say. Stepping forward, I go for an uppercut. My fist connects with his chin, and his head smacks against the wall. The training my father put me through, the boxing practice of an evening, pays off. My fist swings fast again, and he doesn’t even get a chance to counter it as I follow up with a jab. He staggers a bit. His swinging arms lose coordination. I go for his gut, and he folds, gasping for breath.

His feebleness lights a fire inside of me. He is a bully who has preyed upon his own child. My next punch sends him reeling. He hasn’t even hit me back. I wish he would. I’d welcome some kind of resistance. He is weak, feeble, and pitiful. He is the lowest form of scum. My fists move fast and furious. Landing blow after blow. My knuckles go from pain into numbness. He’s on the floor, I am over him, and my fists still fly. I hear a crunch as his nose breaks. I want to tear him apart. It’s not until a hand rests on my shoulder, stilling me, that I realize how much I have done.

“Enough, lad,” my father says.

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