Chapter 8
CHAPTER
8
We traveled deeper into the forest until I’d lost track of how far we’d come or how long we’d been gone. The daylight shifted across the sky, indicating many hours had passed. I satiated the growling in my stomach by stopping occasionally to snack on the items I’d brought with me, feeding what remained of an apple to Rain.
Finally, we found a clearing, and in it I could see a tavern inn marked by small stone walls surrounding it. As we made our way closer, I noticed they had a stable where Rain could rest safely. I didn’t remember the last time I had ridden him this hard and for this long of a distance, but I think he was grateful for the freedom and adventure.
After getting him settled, I made my way to the threshold of the door noting the sign labeled Doorlae Tavern I could only imagine how terrible the cheaper ale must be if this was the expensive stuff.
For the first hour or so, I made my way through two mugs while I people-watched and assessed my surroundings. The sun was slowly setting outside and the place grew dimmer, orange hues from the sunset peeking in from the various windows. I knew that with darkness the tavern would only get rowdier, but with each sip of ale, the numbing warmth I had been seeking replaced the swirl of emotions I’d battled for days. Guilt, longing, sadness, confusion, and anger. With every swig, I felt those tiny agonies lessen.
When the bar was at its busiest, I finally got brave enough to ask some fellow to join me in a game of cards, to which he snarkily replied that he only played for stakes. And since, along with getting drunk, gambling till I won was also on my to-do list, I welcomed it, even though I knew I was terrible at cards, and that being intoxicated certainly wasn’t going to help my cause.
But I had Lorcs burning through my pocket and nothing to lose; I gestured for him to join me in the booth.
Because I was feeling loose and gutsy, I yelled to the barkeeper like I owned the place, “Bring my friend a drink! The good kind.” My words slurred a little, but the rosy-cheeked male sat down across from me, looking more than eager to take all of my money.
For what seemed like hours, we played hand after hand. Every time I lost, I’d fish out another Lorc from my pocket and giggle while sipping at my ale. I’d lost count of the drinks and the rounds of cards, but I was having the best time and I was too stubborn to quit. I was going to beat him eventually, I had to. It was only a matter of odds.
Occasionally, other people would stop by to watch us or join in on a hand. I wasn’t quite sure if people actually enjoyed my company or enjoyed the fact that I kept paying for the beverages and made for a lousy gambler. From a more sober point of view, I’m sure it looked like I was being taken advantage of, but I knew what I was getting into and I enjoyed every minute of being a sloppy mess with my new “friends.”
Despite my appearance, I was trying to focus. With each hand that he played, I learned more about his strategy, and this time I felt like I had him in my trap. I was confident I finally had a strong hand to play, so I decided to up the ante and go all in with a large handful of coins. He eyed me suspiciously, but had also underestimated me since hours of losing had his confidence sky-high.
He matched my bet and we proceeded. When he laid out his hand fully prepared to mark another victory, I slurred, “Not so fast!”
I laid out my own, trying to hide just how proud I felt.
“Victory is mine…for once!”
I looked up at him, smiling, expecting to meet composed disappointment; instead, all I saw was rage and disbelief pooling in every angle of his face.
Before I could react, he yelled, “Cheat! You lousy cheater!”
I leaned back to put space between us and replied brashly, “Me? A cheat? Are you kidding me? I’ve lost every round. You lost fair and square.”
I cupped my hand on the heaping pile of coins between us, preparing to slide them to my side of the table when, all of the sudden, the enraged player across from me reached out abruptly and grabbed my wrist, holding me firmly in a painful grip.
“You’re a cheat and a filthy little wh…”
Before he could finish his verbal attack on me, there was a shiny silver blade held firmly against his throat.
My eyes scanned up the gloved hand holding the dagger, which was attached to the arm of a very tall, hooded male in all black—who had made this act of aggression so discreetly that no one else around us noticed anything was awry.
The stranger in black bent down to the card player’s ear and quietly said, “Tsk, tsk, very poor form. The lady beat you fair and square. You’d dare deprive her of the spoils of her victory? And that tongue of yours…well, had I let you call her what I think you were going to, you might just find yourself without one.”
I was equal parts terrified and exhilarated. But I couldn’t decide if I was more frightened of the guy still clutching my wrist or the one with the blade to his neck.
He sloppily writhed against the weapon. “She cheated, I know it.”
“Release her. Right. Now.” Each word was like a sharp staccato from his lips.
He pulled the knife even tighter against his skin, and below it I could see a tiny dribble of blood appear. He did not back down or loosen his grip. With one swipe of his hand, he could easily take this male’s life. The drunk finally released his grip on me and I pulled my sore hand to my chest, rubbing it for relief.
“When I remove this blade and let you keep your tongue, you’re going to get up, quietly leave this establishment, and never return.” He paused, as if expecting him to fight the instructions.
From the look in the male’s eyes, it felt like he hoped he did fight him just so he could enjoy the feeling of pressing the sharp edge even deeper into the offender’s throat. And just like that, I witnessed the anger slowly fade from the gambler’s face, his shoulders relax, and the dagger lift away from his neck, allowing him to stand.
He did exactly as he was told. Not a single word or gesture to draw any attention to us or what had just happened. I watched nervously until he exited the tavern. The next thing I knew, I was sitting face to face with the rogue who just forcibly removed the drunken gambler.
I fumbled over my words trying to make sense of what just happened and shake a modicum of sobriety into myself.
“How did you know I didn’t cheat?” As if that mattered—I had been attacked!
“I’ve been watching you lose hand after hand to him all night. You didn’t suddenly get good at cards. You got lucky,” he replied, unimpressed.
He was absolutely right, of course. I didn’t cheat, I had just bided my time and waited for my strategy to kick in— Wait, did he just say he had been watching me all night? How did I not notice someone spying on me this whole time? Especially him?
I say this because the male now sitting across from me in this booth was hardly someone you could ignore. He was scary and sexy all wrapped in one, and I had to check myself to make sure I wasn’t drooling. I took another sip of my drink while further assessing him, just to give my hands something to do. Was he really this attractive, or was the alcohol clouding my judgment?
He slid his hood back revealing his inky black hair, messy and tousled. It contrasted greatly with his pale skin and hazel eyes. The look he was giving me bordered between disapproval and disgust. It’s not like I had asked for his help, though I was grateful.
That look made me feel years younger than I was, like I was some sort of child to be scolded. While I was seemingly a complete and utter annoyance to him, I, on the other hand, found him stunning me into silence with his brutally attractive masculinity. An alluring viciousness radiated from him.
I set my drink down and offered him my thanks. “I…uh, appreciate what you did. Can I buy a round of drinks in gratitude?”
He stared out the window, not meeting my gaze, then turned back to me, answering irritably, “I think you’ve had enough to drink.”
His posture was tense and guarded. I finally relaxed a little, but he remained alert and kept scanning the rest of the room with his eyes. It’s like he was trying to look everywhere possible except directly at me.
While I did appreciate him intervening, I wasn’t about to let him continue to talk to me like a child.
“I think I can make my own decisions, so do you want a damn drink or not?” I asked through gritted teeth, trying to match his intensity.
He immediately stood up and turned his back to me, and I almost instinctively reached out to grab him, but he had already walked away. Disappointment began to sink in as I was now left alone in the booth with nothing but empty mugs, a mess of cards, and a pile of Lorcs.
Within a minute he returned, two beverages in hand. He placed a glass of water in front of me and an ale in front of him. “Drink,” was all he said.
His voice was demanding, and a part of me wanted to obey him, even if another wanted to push back against his commands. We both sat sipping in silence for what seemed like an awkward amount of time. If he didn’t want to interact with me, why was he still sitting here?
With the liquid courage still coursing through my system, I figured why not boldly ask, “Why were you watching me this entire time?”
He rolled his eyes in aggravation, taking another sip of his drink before responding.
“A young, pretty girl in a tavern gambling away a small fortune while drunk out of her wits…you had the attention of every male in here, whether you noticed it or not.”
I tried to conceal just how pleased I felt that he had referred to me as pretty.
He continued, “And when you decided to leave here in the sloppy state that you are in now, how did you think that was going to fare?”
I hadn’t thought that far ahead. I was having too much fun not caring and overthinking. He was probably right. I was being more than reckless, and I knew my safety was questionable given the situation and environment.
Instead of addressing the point that mattered, I ignored him and spat back, “I’m not young, I’m twenty-five.”
I watched as he clenched his teeth, holding back what might have been a laugh at my expense. While shaking his head he retorted, “My mistake, you’re clearly very mature.”
I ignored his icy words because this was the first time he actually looked at me directly. I adjusted my posture a little, trying not to appear like a slob.
“You know, my previous guest didn’t sit here and insult me the entire time. You haven’t even bothered to tell me your name.”
He took another giant swig of ale and I stared as his tongue grazed his lips, licking away the foam.
“Trace. My name is Trace.”
He leaned in closer across the table and I did the same to hear whatever quip came next, “And your previous guest insulted you the entire evening by robbing you of all your money without so much as a second thought. Let’s not pretend you are a good judge of character.”
Our faces were much closer to one another now and my eyes tightened as I glared back at him. The audacity. I might have punched him if I wasn’t so tempted to kiss him, unable to avert my gaze from that beautiful mouth of his. It was infuriating.
I had never been spoken to like this. My whole life, everyone had calculated their words to ensure they never offended or misspoke to a member of the High Court. But Trace didn’t have a clue who I was, and I liked it that way. Maybe too much. It was in that singular moment where we just stared at one another, sparring with our gazes, that I decided this was the stranger I was going to seduce.
I softened my features and gently pulled my braid over my shoulder. I dipped my chin and looked up at him through my thick lashes. “I’m Cress.” I held my hand out palm up, licked my lips for good measure, and waited for him to meet my introduction.
He looked back and forth between me and my hand and let out a wicked smile. The first and only one I’d seen during our entire interaction. He slowly pulled the black leather glove from one hand and set it on top of mine.
He held his hand there for an uncomfortable amount of time. Long enough for me to notice the black ink vining across the top of his hand and leading up his sleeve. A tattoo. My mouth began to water a little with the intrigue of wanting to see all of it.
Our hands still touching, we were interrupted from our awkward haze by the mustached barkeep towering over our booth.
“Folks, it’s near closing time.”
We abruptly pulled our hands back from one another and Trace replaced his glove. I frantically looked out the window and saw nothing but pitch black and moonslight. A sobering thought washed over me as I realized I had no idea how I was going to get home in the darkness. It was at least a few hours’ ride. I had gotten caught up in my antics and hadn’t even made a plan for the return.
In unison, we both turned to the barkeep and said, “I’ll take a room.”
The barkeep laughed back at us and said amusingly, “Lucky for you two lovebirds, we only have one room left.”
I couldn’t believe he had called us lovebirds, and the same thought was written across Trace’s face as he looked up, clenching his jaw.
Before I could interject, Trace responded, “Fine. We’ll take it.”
He handed him a few coins and the barkeep smiled at us both, unable to hide the pleasure of having unintentionally orchestrated this conundrum. He laid down the key in front of Trace as if it were already his room, and I reached across the table, snatching it so fast it probably gave them both whiplash.
I stood up from the booth, thanked the bartender, and made my way to the staircase leading to the inn portion of the tavern. With each step, I swayed my hips and walked as gracefully as possible in front of Trace.
He followed behind from a farther distance than I’d like. It was probably a good thing, since my conscience was fighting with what was left of the alcohol still in my system about sharing a room with a stranger. One that I desired, badly. I was playing a very dangerous game and the excitement made me tingle.
The key slipped into the lock snugly, but wouldn’t budge. Hearing Trace’s measured strides reach the top of the stairs behind me, I began to turn the key back and forth frantically, desperate to have this situation under control. I gave it one last emphatic turn and tried the handle. Nothing.
“I think the barkeep gave us the wrong key.”
“Hmm. Possible, but unlikely, since it is the last room and all the other patrons are clearly in theirs—not locked out,” Trace said, with what I determined to be way too much sarcasm.
“Excuse me…” I started, indignant but then relieved when he clutched my shoulder and moved me aside and, with one swift motion, unlocked and opened the stubborn door.
The room was pitch black, and for a moment we both stood there in the dark, close enough to be touching. Close enough that I could feel the heat between us, despite the chill of the room.
Before I could break the awkward silence, he turned his back on me and bent down in front of the fireplace, working quickly to establish some light and heat other than our own.
“I admire that you took the time to make a kindling rather than just relying on simple magic.”
He glanced back, eyeing me sharply, the flickering light of the fire creating shadows across his handsome angled features.
“Everyone should know how to make a fire. People should be prepared to help themselves.”
I could hear my father’s voice echoing in his sentiment, and something about that made me feel more at ease.
Once lit, the fireplace allowed me to assess the tiny room. The space was tight and, by all accounts, plain. There was a medium-sized bed against the back wall that could fit two people if they managed to lay very close. By the fire, there was a tattered-looking armchair, still plush, nonetheless. And lastly, a small writing desk to the right.
“Well, it’s not the royal palace by any means, but it will do for the night,” I proclaimed, setting myself down on the edge of the bed, trying to sound friendly and amusing.
Trace had such a hard exterior shell about him, I had to find a way to soften it. I wanted to show him that I wasn’t a threat and that he could relax a little. All he offered me was a small grunt in agreement.
He continued to stand uncomfortably in the center of the room, as if remaining there was going to make the reality of only one bed disappear.
I began to unlace my boots and placed them by the bottom of the bed, leaving my stockings on. He started to carefully disrobe, removing his cloak, gloves and weapons. A sword, two daggers, and another small blade. He had been concealing all of that under his cloak. I quickly recognized the small blade as being the one he had held against the gambler’s neck earlier.
My throat bobbed with a small tinge of fear that this beautiful stranger was indeed very dangerous. This combination of fear and lust was a new sensation for me. His long sleeves hid that tattoo I was still curious about. I hung my cloak on the wall next to his, made my way back to the bed and laid down in the middle, propping myself up on my elbows.
I eyed him up and down. Trying to make it obvious just how much I wanted him; how much I liked what I saw. He had chosen his words carefully thus far; but I wasn’t here for his words, just that mouth of his.
“Which side do you prefer, the left or the right?” I asked playfully.
Without hesitation, he retorted, “I’m not sleeping in that bed with you.”
There was no way to hide the rejection from my expression.
I snapped back harshly, “What, you’re afraid I bite? You don’t give an inch, do you?”
He looked down at me and surveyed the length of my body sprawled out across the bed. Once again, I got to witness that wicked smile of his when he responded in a deep, eerily calm manner, “Oh trust me, I give...”
He stared at me intensely, and I could feel the space between my legs begin to pulsate with heat from that look. Against my better judgment, I mustered every ounce of courage I had and gave him an equally wicked reply, “Prove it.” I slowly began to spread my legs apart in a seductive welcome.
In a split second, I felt him grab my ankle and abruptly pull my whole body down, sliding me across the top of the bed closer to him; now I was lying flat beneath him. He hovered above me, still holding my ankle firmly, not in a painful way but possessively.
He lifted my leg, cupping the heel of my foot and began slowly, painstakingly removing my stocking. Oh my Gods, it was happening. It was working. He was mine. All the while, his eyes were fixated on the curve of my foot, admiring it like it was something delectable.
He gently set down my bare leg and proceeded to lift the other one, performing the same act of undressing me one piece at a time. I practically shivered at the feel of his fingertips along my skin. The silence between us, punctuated by nothing but the crackling fire, was palpable.
Once he had my second leg bare, he continued to hold it up tenderly and said, “If…” he paused. “ If I were to fuck you, you’re going to be sober when I do. There will be nothing to dull your senses and no chance of you forgetting a single minute of you begging me not to stop. You will call out my name till you no longer can.”
He paused and placed my foot back on the bed. My eyes were wide with shock. No one—and I mean, absolutely no one—had spoken that way to me in my entire existence. His words were filthy and unrefined, yet I craved him desperately.
“Go to bed and sober up, sweetheart.”
With that final remark, he stalked back over to the armchair and made himself comfortable. He had no intention of taking the bed—or me. But by Gods, I clung to his words like a promise of what was to come.
Every ounce of me regretted every single drink I’d had earlier that evening, unaware it was destroying my chances of having Trace’s wicked mouth crushed against my lips and every inch of my body. I crawled beneath the covers as if they would conceal the aching want unfulfilled deep within me.
I replayed his words over and over in my head, trying to sleep. Lying on my side facing away from Trace, I wanted to glance back and see if he was struggling to get any rest like I was. Was he as tempted and as tortured as I was? Of course not. He was the one doing the torturing. Refusing to give in. Holding out on me with demands of my sober attention. Well, he had my attention, alright.
I felt the burning sensation in my eyes as I fought to stay awake, hoping that the vision of me laying there for the taking would change his mind; but alas, I could fight sleep no longer. I drifted off, afraid I had lost my shot and that tomorrow this growing tension between us that he wished to ignore would have faded like stars into the light of dawn.
When I awoke in the morning, I rolled over, half forgetting where I was, with a small dull headache reminding me that I wasn’t a drinker. At least, not of ale. But then the echo of his voice and the memory of Trace came rushing to the forefront of my mind.
I sat up abruptly, glancing toward the armchair to find it empty, along with his belongings nowhere in sight. I was alone. Alone and unfulfilled, disappointed that I’d never see that mysterious stranger again. I began to collect myself and my things when I noticed a small piece of parchment on the writing desk in the corner of the room.
Meet here this afternoon. Stay out of trouble.
– Trace
My breath hitched as I reread the words, trying to determine if I was still dreaming. I finally came to terms with the fact that he wanted to see me again. I was treading in dangerous waters. I tried to simplify the situation to the meaningless task of seducing a stranger. After all, that was the item on my list. Yet, for some reason I couldn’t identify, a deeper emotion bubbled to the surface. The thought of his hands, strong and purposeful, tearing at my blouse. I flushed at the idea. A successful seduction surely did not include such a lack of control. I felt infatuated with him. His cryptic words were an intoxicating rope pulling me closer. The promise of his words from the night before carried me every mile of the ride home.