Page 6 of The Blacksmith in My Tavern: Tales of Bleakness

Heath is the only man who makes me wish for more than a moment and crave a deeper connection. He has lived a few doors down for as long as I can remember. When he first arrived, he had a wife, but she died many years ago. He has been alone ever since—seven long years.

But I am on to him. The way his eyes have lingered on my cleavage in recent weeks. I have even caught him checking out my ass. He is not immune to me, although he pretends to be.

Is he weakening?

I like to think he might be.

Either way, I am not giving up.

Chapter Three

Heath

“I’ve finally tracked down the bastard,” Anders, a fellow member of the rebellion and city guard, tells me.

We are standing together at the back of The Green Man, to the side of the stables, where the wall to the neighboring workshop provides some relief from the biting wind.

“Good,” I say. “Happen we can make a move soon.”

Anders nods. “I’ll let the lads know. There’s a caravan that leaves every month bound for the mines. As good as a death sentence. And let’s say, nobody questions if there’s an extra body in there… Be seeing you, Heath. Best I get back.”

He slips into the shadows and out the back into the alleyway.

The barman comes out the back to get another barrel of ale. I remain in the shadows, not wanting to advertise the meeting I just had. I promised Betsy I’d deal with the father who sold Ada for coin, and I intend to keep my word. My son will probably want in. He is sweet on the lass, and it is getting serious between them. I can see them getting married.

Damn, doesn’t that make me feel old?

Gareth is quick about it, his boots crunching in the light dusting of snow as he returns to the tavern with a barrel over his right shoulder.

I stare at the fluttering of snow as it settles on the cobblestones, lost in the shadows and thoughts. It’s fucking freezing out here. The cheery glow of the tavern visible through the back windows calls to me, yet I don’t move just yet.

I’m thinking about her lips against my cheek.Soft. Her eyes, brimming with emotions, fierce yet resilient.

Fine, I’m also thinking about her tits as she leaned over to the table to put a pint of Pilkington before me with a smile.

Betsy is saucy and forward, a handful for sure… In more ways than one, pun intended.

I scrub my hands against my cheeks, reminding myself of all the reasons why I shouldn’t be thinking about a tavern wench with pretty blue eyes.

I’m about to head back in when the door opens. Betsy walks out.

Damn it.

She cuts across the courtyard, heading straight toward me.

Frowning, I step back deeper into the shadows while keeping her in my line of sight. What is she doing out here?

A sense of dread slams into me. Is a man or men about to follow her out? If it’s a fucking sailor, I will put a beating on him.

I swipe a hand down my face. It’s not my place to put a beating on anybody. She’s a grown woman. She can do whatever she wants to with whomever she chooses. It is none of my fucking business. And yet I’m seeing red. And green. And why am I so hot?

My dick is very confused between wanting to see her pretty face scrunch up as she comes and killing the person touching her.

I’m convinced they will be substandard to anything I offer. Because I would fucking worship her in ways theseboysnever could.

My dick finally goes down because she’s not coming out here for me… only she is still heading straight toward me with a determined look on her face.

I glance around. There is fucking nowhere to go.

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