Page 30 of The Wolf in My Tavern

Which makes me blush now when I recall how I begged him to relent, how I was willing to take his cock inside me anywhere, and how I might die if I didn’t.

I nibble on my lower lip. Betsy is waiting expectantly, and I have a strange feeling she wants to say something more. “What is it?”

She shrugs. “Well, just so you know, there are always hussies hanging around trying to get their hands on the competitors, offering all manner of saucy favors. You don’t want anyone poaching your claim.”

My mind races from outrage to devastation at the thought of another lass setting her sights on Callum. “Yes,” I blurt out. “I want to go.”

“Good,” she says. “I have a mind to keep an eye on his pa, too. Those lasses are shameless. Also, I have it on good authority that a certain Master Gray will be in attendance.”

And just like that, I face a dilemma for, while I already know Callum holds a place in my heart, the mysterious wolf shifter with bright blue eyes has also been on my mind.

Chapter Twelve

Ada

When Betsy first told me that Callum was taking part in an underground fight, I didn’t expect it to be literally underground.

Yet here we are on the rougher side of town, and I’m on the cusp of a panic attack when I see the stone steps leading down, reminding me of recent experiences I would sooner forget.

Tim stands attentively close, worry lines creasing his brow.

Betsy takes my hand. “Do you wish to go home?”

Do I?

This is not the slave market. We are not even close to them. A few deep breaths later, I am clear-headed again.

Callum is here, I remind myself.

“I am fine,” I say, though not wholly so. As the panic recedes, I note the atmosphere, the many people bustling past, the tone of conversations, and the anticipation in the air.

An orc approaches, calling out Tim’s name, and the interruption further pushes the dark cloud away.

“I am fine.” I squeeze Betsy’s hand back, meaning my words this time. “I need to move on and not live in fear.”

Her smile is encouraging.

“Betsy!” a young lass calls. A strapping man follows where she leads, for she is holding his hand.

“Nora!” Betsy calls back.

They embrace, and introductions are made. I find out Nora’s mother was a friend of Betsy’s. Their boisterous enthusiasm further pushes my worries aside. Her husband’s brother is fighting in one of the earlier bouts, and he can get us good seats.

We head down.

At the bottom of the steps, an entrance opens into a giant underground amphitheater with layered stone seating that looks down upon a square pit in the center. The room is spacious, with a high wooden ceiling, and can hold several hundred people.

Sellers weave through the crowded tiers carrying their wares, offering food, drink, and souvenirs.

We move further down, arriving at a tier only a few rows back from the pit. Nerves flutter in my belly as we take a seat. A chalkboard with writing hangs on one wall, underneath which stand men on low podiums; other men approach, and money is exchanged—they are taking bets, I presume.

“What does it say?” I ask Betsy. I am surprised by the number of women of varying ages present and that there are as many orcs as men.

“It is the order of competition,” she explains. “Callum will fight second to last. The first rounds are for the up-and-coming, newer fighters. They save the best for last.”

I take this in, feeling safe sitting between Betsy and Tim. Betsy’s friend, Nora, and her husband sit on Betsy’s other side.

Some of those present are locals, while others wear the billowing pants of sailors and yet more are in the brightly colored silks of foreign traders. The many voices create a din I’m sure can be heard many blocks away.

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