Page 4 of A Kiss From a Wolfman

TEN YEARS LATER

Working nights at the Wolf’s Fang isn’t too bad.

The patrons—humble farmers looking to spend their coins on a few mugs of ale after a long day—usually behave themselves. Not to mention, a single woman has very few job prospects in a village as small as this one.

Working at the tavern suits me, and the pay is decent. I've settled into a comfortable routine since landing in this farming town over five years ago.

It took me a while to find my way here. When the ship I escaped my old life on made its final port, I journeyed from town to town, exploring what each one had to offer. It was nice being able to pick up and leave whenever I wanted. It was the freedom I desired so much as a young girl.

But then, five years ago, I craved routine—acceptance—so I decided to settle down in this small town and lead a quiet, solitary life.

During the day, I spend most of my time inside the tiny cottage I bought with the last of the gold coins gifted to me all those years ago. I have a small garden I tend to before the winter freezes all my sweet-smelling plants and herbs. A few creaturesfrom the neighboring forest will stumble onto my lawn, and I always leave out little treats for them. I’ll never forget the baby deer that ate half my herb garden and was sick for nearly a week.

The poor darling did pull through after I spent many nights hand-feeding her.

The doe’s mother had come to collect her fromThe Woods,and I watched the pair trot off happily. The vastness of that sprawling tangle of trees and overgrown grass doesn’t scare me—not as it once did. All my visitors from there are sweet animals—if they can survive there, surely nothing too evil lurks within.

After spending my day toiling away in my garden or reading one of the countless novels I’ve collected over my travels, I can be found here at the Wolf’s Fang once the sun sets. For being the only tavern in Moon’s Hollow, it is a relatively peaceful establishment. We rarely get visitors from other settlements this far north, which I am grateful for.

Old Bill, who runs this tavern, is a kind man with warm brown eyes and a graying beard. He let me rent out a room above the Wolf’s Fang before I purchased my cottage. He’s kept my pay consistent over these five years. The concept of having my own money is still new to me. As a princess, the idea of working for money was an insult. Now, it’s become my biggest blessing.

It’s given me my autonomy, and I’m grateful for it.

Yet, even as I delight in all the freedom I’ve experienced, something has shifted in me recently: a desire to belong to someone—not in the way I belonged to my parents or as a prisoner to the loveless marriage they would’ve forced me into—but to make a life with someone of my choosing.

I rarely think about the past these days. I had become so absorbed in my new, fast-paced life that I seldom had the chance to. The last time I heard anything about my former life was a few whispered rumors shortly after I arrived about some royal guards being spotted to the south. They were still looking for amissing princess, but after five years, no one had much hope she would be found.

I had nodded at the patrons who brought the gossip, refilled their cups, and spent the night wide awake, thinking it wouldn’t be long until I was found. However, they never came. No one has mentioned even a passing whisper of my parents. This far out of their kingdom, I am far beyond their reach.

Shaking myself from the dark turn of my thoughts, I pick up a discarded silver mug and polish it with a clean rag. The past will drown me if I let it. I am safe here—life is simple. Tonight is a testament to that.

A few patrons are sipping mugs of ale along the polished wooden bar. Their crumpled clothes and the dirt caked under their nails indicate they spent all day tending to the fields. An older couple plays a game of cards at one of the small tables near the roaring fireplace. The red bricks glow from the crackling hearth. Above it sits the stuffed head of a stag, its proud horns nearly brushing the low beams of the ceiling.

I wrinkle my nose at the decor before returning to the mug in my hand.

A smattering of voices can be heard just beyond the tavern door. I look up just in time to see the creaky door fly open and bang against the stone wall. My stomach sinks when I realize who’s walked in.

Timson’s dark eyes find me in an instant. Licking his lips, he gives me a saccharine grin before advancing towards the bar. Tonight, he’s flanked by six of his lackeys, each staring at him like he is a god. They worship him as one, as do most of the people in this town. Being the most proficient hunter in the county will inspire that sort of treatment.

Me, on the other hand? I can’t stand the man.

He is the one sore spot in my otherwise idyllic, if mundane, life. His wandering eyes and hands are well-known amongst thewomen here. Since working in the Wolf’s Fang, I’ve had the unfortunate pleasure of catching his eye and being extremely accessible.

A fact he’s well aware of as he stalks toward me. His dark hair is pulled back in a low bun. His temples are beginning to gray—the scar running from his left brow to his cheek glints in the low candlelight. Timson would be handsome if his eyes didn’t betray the malice simmering within his soul.

They are unkind—ruthless—just like the man himself.

His well-made clothes are wrinkled and covered in dark stains, indicating that he and the others have just returned from a hunt. One of the other men has a white bandage tied around his lower leg and walks with a distinct limp. The others seem in much better condition by comparison.

He comes to stand on the other side of the bar, and I’ve never been more grateful for the old wooden beam. Timson bangs his meaty fist on the bar before dropping a fist full of gold coins onto the polished surface. They hit with soft thuds and sparkle brilliantly. His thin lips pull into a grin that makes my skin crawl.

“A round of ale for me and my hunting party, beauty.”

I try not to recoil at the nickname as I scoop up the coins. Somehow, I keep my hands steady as I ready their drinks. The thick foam atop their mugs glistens as I set them before the group. Each one is snatched and drunk down almost instantly—except Timson, who looks at me expectantly. Suppressing my urge to groan, I know what he’s waiting for.

Looking at each man more closely, I see how disheveled they are. Sweat still clings to their brows, and a few have fresh-looking scratches along their hands and cheeks. Holes decorate a few of their trousers and coats. My eyes return to Timson, whose grin deepens. Picking up my rag and discarded mug, I go back to polishing while trying to keep my voice as casual as possible.

“Good hunting?”

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