Page 18 of Wrath’s Nightingale

I feel and, on my shoulder, and a warm presence behind my back.

“Is everything okay here?”

I shake my head. “I’d like to leave now. We can eat somewhere with a better atmosphere,” I say, looking directly at Scarlet.

“Whatever you want, Nightingale.”

“What’s wrong, Millicent, can’t you get your own kind to date you?”

“Please tell me you brought bail money,” I say to Wrath as I turn back to Scarlet.

“First, nitwit, my name is Millie. It has never been Millicent. You pulled that out of your ass. Second, stop insulting Wrath, you back-water, bigoted bitch.”

She gasps and steps forward.Good, let her.If she swings first, it gives me an excuse to clean her clock. Not that I need more of an excuse than I already have.

“Excuse me, is there a problem here?”

I look to see a man in slacks and a dress shirt.

“The problem is her mouth. We were on our way out. I wanted to avoid a problem, but Scarlet keeps calling my boyfriend insulting, bigoted names.”

The man turns to look at Scarlet, a frown on his face.

“I’m sorry, please let me comp your meal.”

“I shake my head. This is not on you. Baby, are you ready to leave?”

“I am.” I hear the terseness in his voice. I don’t blame him. I can’t believe he has to put up with idiots like Scarlet.

He leads us out the door. “Turn right.”

We walk for a block before I’m calm enough to talk.

“I’m sorry.”

“You didn’t do anything wrong. Unfortunately, Scarlet is not the first bigot I’ve run into.”

I shake my head. “It’s just so stupid.”

“I don’t disagree, but if we’re going to be together, you must realize it’s something we’ll always deal with. So will our kids.”

That hit me hard. Kids have enough to deal with without people having issues over their skin tone. Still, the idea of having kids with Wrath appeals to me.

Chapter 11

Wrath

I’m seething inside. Not because of the woman’s stupidity. It’s something I’ve sadly dealt with my entire life. I’m angry because the woman upset Millie. She’s shaking. We continue down the sidewalk, stopping only at intersections.

We’re maybe a block and a half away when she stops.

“I need apple butter and fried biscuits. Let’s stop at the Nashville House.”

“I’ll try it,” I say with a smile.

“You’ll love it.”

She practically drags me inside. We’re seated immediately. Our server is a friendly young man a few years younger than me. He has a smile on his face and a great attitude.

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