Page 61 of A Dagger in the Ivy

A barmaid places new tankards on the table, and Dante looks up at her. She gives him a coy smile and bends slightly so that her breasts are closer to his head as she talks. I can’t hear what they’re saying, but something lights a fire inside of me.

Wait.

Why does it bother me that he’s talking to her?

My body feels hot, and I find it difficult to inhale any cool air. It must be the ale. And the mugginess in the pub.

“I’m going to step outside for a minute.” I stand, my legs pushing my chair back.

My squadmates look up at me with concern.

“Everything okay?” Aila asks.

“I just need some air.” I force a small laugh. “Guess I’ve been away too long; my resistance to the ale has grown a bit weak.”

“Only one way to fix that,” Isaac states as he lifts his tankard to drink.

“I’ll be right back.” I pull at the hem of my jacket.

“Want me to come with you, Commander?” Mylo asks, his brows pulled down.

“No. I’m fine, really. Just need to cool off. Enjoy the ale. You deserve it.”

They nod and return to their banter, and I turn to slip outside.

The air outside the crowded pub feels like a welcome reprieve from the stifling heat and raucous noise within. I step out onto thecobblestone street, my lungs eagerly drinking in the cool, night breeze as I try to shake off the strange feeling of tension that crept into my bones at the sight of Dante.

I lean against the rough-hewn wall of the pub’s exterior, seeking solace in the quiet of the night. My respite is shattered by the sound of angry voices.

In the dimness of the streets, a group approaches, their faces contorted with righteous indignation, advancing toward me with purposeful strides.

I tense instinctively, my hand drifting to the hilt of the dagger, which I moved from my baldric to my thigh strap after the battle. These five—or remaining five, I should say—are the same townspeople who were willing to condemn an innocent woman merely because the carnoraxis targeted her unborn child.

I’m too exhausted to put up with their scorn, but the fury I keep buried inside of me starts bubbling to the surface.

“You have some nerve sticking around these parts,” one of them calls out. “After what you did.”

“WhatIdid?” I push off the wall. “I saved your town.”

“Two of ours got killed right in front of you.”

“That’s not on me.” My jaw clenches with frustration, my voice cutting through the night air like a blade. “You are the ones who were willing to sacrifice one of your own.”

Their retorts come fast and fierce, a barrage of accusations and insults hurled in my direction. Anger surges within me, a searing tide that threatens to consume reason and restraint alike. But beneath the simmering rage, there lies a steely resolve—a soldier’s resolve—to stand firm in the face of adversity, to fight for what is right, no matter the cost.

The tension mounts, and they draw closer. When one of the women pulls out a knife, I am left with no choice but to defend myself. With a swift motion, I unsheathe my dagger, its familiar weight a comforting presence. One of the men widens his eyes at the sight of my weapon and lunges for it, trying to knock it out of my hand.

The ensuing scuffle is a blur of motion and sound—a symphony ofgrunts and curses, the clash of steel against steel. I fight with a ferocity born of desperation, each strike fueled by the knowledge that failure is not an option, not when so much hangs in the balance.

Their numbers shouldn’t be intimidating, but I’ve had no recovery time, and my weakened state makes me slower than usual.

As I fight them off, a figure emerges from the doorway of the pub. I almost can’t make out who it is, until he leans against the wall, watching as if this altercation is a show on a stage.

Dante.

What the hell is he doing?

I manage to slice the woman’s hand. She drops her blade and backs away. One of the men grab my arm while the other picks up the woman’s blade and thrusts it in my direction, lunging for me. He misses, and I use the opportunity to slam my head into the man grasping my arm.

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