Page 4 of The Blacksmith in My Tavern: Tales of Bleakness

Pete continues his monologue.

I nod and grunt at appropriate points, but my pint is near empty and Betsy has not returned.

They have been gone a long fucking time.

My gut tightens and churns. I’m not stupid. She asked me first. I declined. It is my own fault if she takes the sailors out the back where they are doubtless busy pleasuring her.

All three of them.

“Finished that new cabinet for that fancy lord,” Pete says, dragging me from my rumination. “Gave me a nice tip.”

I was so distracted that I didn’t even notice he had moved on from the prisoner's liberation to his latest commission.

“Aye, that was a boon,” I offer. “He might want more work if you’re lucky.”

The door to the back finally opens, and Betsy slips into the tavern, a pretty blush on her cheeks.

A tic thumps in my jaw.

She disappears into the crowded room, collecting empties and taking orders. Meanwhile, the door opens again, and the three sailors enter with a swagger and a grin.

Bastards. I don’t even know why this annoys me. Over the last few years, she has offered me all manner of saucy favor with increasing boldness.

What am I expecting? Her to wait around for that elusive day when I pull my head out of my ass. I’m still not wholly convinced she is serious when she says it to me.

Idiot, Health. What would a pretty lass even want with you?I’m nothing but an old bastard with issues and who is likely to get myself killed if my ties to the rebellion are found out.

It’s not like I have anything to offer the lass. It would be delusional on my part to presume she wants more than a quick tumble. Given it’s been seven years since my cock felt anything but my hand, I’d likely just embarrass myself with even that.

“Can I get you another round?”

I am so busy thinking about the lass, staring into the bottom of my empty tankard while Pete talks, that I don’t notice her approach.

“Another pint of Pilkington, please, Betsy,” Pete says, smiling.

I don’t give my order. I’m frowning at her lips, puffy and swollen, and her hair all mussed up. “Are you alright, lass?” Idemand—she blushes—my eyes narrow. “They didn’t do aught you didn’t want, did they?” I don’t care if there are three of them. I will fuck them up if they have hurt the lass.

She shakes her head swiftly, a small smile she is fighting on her lips. “No, Heath, they did not.” She winks at me. “Three men, but happen they deliver half of what you would with naught but your hands on me.”

Pete chuckles.

I remember to shut my mouth.

Gods, the woman is a test. My eyes narrow. “Just a pint of Pilkington, please, lass.”

I tell myself it’s a trick of the light that I see her face soften as I again reject her playfulness.

She sashays off. I watch, drooling as I take in the sway of her ample hips.

The things I would do to that woman if not for my fool mouth getting in the way. They’d probably kill me, but I’d give it a go.

I’d be good to her, treat her like a queen, spoil her pussy so well she’d never think about a sailor again.

When I turn back to the table, I find Pete watching me with a grin.

He sups his beer before shaking his head. “The lass is sweet on you.”

“She’s too young,” I mutter. “She talks like that to all the patrons.”

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