Chapter 7
7
RUNE
I led Frida toward my workshop, trying not to let my expression betray my mess of a brain. All morning, I’d been laying traps. So far, she’d dodged every damn one. I’d expected her to turn down the job of building the fence for the dwarves. It locked her in for two weeks. Wouldn’t she want to finish her guild assignment before then? And when I’d asked her about home, I thought she’d make up some story, like she’d grown up in the orc city of Fafnir or something. And since her accent was so strongly elvish, it’d be clear she was lying.
She’d been truthful about her home city, though.
A seed of doubt had taken root inside my mind. I wanted to rip it up and throw it to the birds, but I also didn’t want to treat her like an assassin if she wasn’t one. I might be a gruff bastard, but I wasn’t a monster.
Because, if her story was true, she needed my help. She needed a job and a home and food.
As I shoved open my workshop door, I nodded to myself. I needed to find a way to confirm who she was. For now, I’d show her how to build a fucking fence and hope to fate that I could get her to warm to this place in case she was here for something else.
“Here we are.” I tugged open the curtains to let in the sun. The midday light washed the shop in shades of yellow, illuminating the motes of sawdust drifting through the room like woody snowflakes. I scratched my tusk, suddenly aware of the jumble of mess that cluttered the space. I wished I’d thought to tidy up in here before showing Frida.
Not that it mattered to me what she thought. I just hadn’t had any visitors inside my shop in…well, I couldn’t remember the last time someone had been in this shed except for me.
Frida deposited her sack of cheese on the floor and clasped her hands beneath her chin, gazing around the room with…adoration? That couldn’t be right.
“I thought your workspace inside the house was incredible, but this…this is something else!” Her eyes sparkled as she took it all in.
“It is?” I asked, suspicious. It was just an old workshop, one cluttered with too many hammers, nails, and scraps of wood.
She gingerly stepped through the mess, making her way to the far wall, where I’d tacked up an assortment of sketches and designs for the townsfolk cottages. She motioned at one I’d added a bit of color to, the home I’d built for a group of travelling minstrels who’d arrived here three years ago. It was a large, sprawling estate with at least a dozen rooms. It had taken me thirteen months from start to finish, but the looks on their faces when they’d first walked inside had been well worth the effort.
“May I?” She looked over her shoulder at me, and as much as I tried to find some insincerity in her expression, I couldn’t. I nodded my acquiescence.
She reached out as if to pluck the parchment from the wall, but then she paused before letting her hand drop back to her side. “This is beautiful. Is it just something you drew on a whim? Or did you see it somewhere?”
“That’s one of my builds,” I said gruffly.
She twisted back toward me. “You built this house? By yourself?”
“I had some help carrying some supplies to the site, but…for the most part, yes.”
For a moment, she just stared at me. So I stared right back, trying to get the measure of her. Trying to read the thoughts hovering just behind her eyes. And as we stood there, on opposite sides of my shop, I had the sudden urge to just ask. Maybe it would be best to get it all out in the open. Of course, if she was an assassin, it wasn’t like she’d admit it. And then I’d lose any cards I held.
Before I could make up my mind, she broke the heavy silence. “I’m afraid my pitiful fence won’t measure up to what I’m sure the dwarves expect from you.”
I held out a hand. “Let’s see what you’ve got.”
She flicked her eyes down to the parchment, nibbling on her bottom lip. “Honestly, I’m not very good at sketching.”
“Just let me see it,” I said.
Cringing, she passed the parchment over my worktable. She’d taken a fine set of notes, but she wasn’t wrong about her sketch. All wonky lines and crooked angles, it looked like a child had drawn it, though I didn’t have the heart to tell her that. Still, I couldn’t help a little ribbing.
“I think you handed me the wrong parchment,” I said dryly.
“What?” Frowning, she looked at her empty hands, like another sheet might suddenly materialize there. “But that’s the only one I have.”
“Well, you see…” I held up her drawing. “This is a sketch of a horse, not a fence.”
A furious blush filled her cheeks. “That does not look like a horse.”
“Doesn’t much look like a fence, either.” I grinned.
She propped her fisted hands on her hips, wrinkling her nose. For a brief—very brief, in fact—moment, my breath caught. Fate, she looked nothing like an assassin half the time. All the ones I’d met over the years, including her father, had hardened edges sharpened by every kill they notched into their belt. My eyes were drawn to her waist and the leather belt that encircled it. No notches there. Nice hips, though, I couldn’t help but notice. As long and lean as she was, the lass had curves.
She sighed, drawing my attention back to her face. “It’s really terrible, isn’t it? I mean, look at your sketch here, then look at mine.”
“Really, it’s not so bad,” I found myself saying. “It’s like any other talent. You just need some practice, that’s all. For example, what would you say you’re good at?”
“Archery and horse-riding,” she said without a hint of hesitation.
I nodded. “And could you hit a bullseye the first time you nocked an arrow?”
“Honestly, I don’t remember a time I’ve ever missed,” she said. In another situation, those words would come across as the epitome of bragging, but there was something so matter-of-fact in the way she said it, like she was commenting on the color of the sky and nothing more. Confidence. I liked that in a woman.
“Well, if that’s the case, it’s a shame we can’t build a home by shooting arrows at a bullseye,” I said, laughing.
Frida stood up a little straighter, and the hint of a smile twitched on her lips.
“What?” I asked.
“Nothing.” But she looked genuinely delighted, though I couldn’t fathom by what.
I shook my head. “Shall we get started?”
“Sure. How do we begin?” She hopped on the table, her legs dangling over the edge. Peering up at me with big brown eyes, she struck me once again as the antithesis of the guild members I’d once known. There was something bright in her expression—a kind of eagerness and exuberance that betrayed the guild’s rules. Outward displays of happiness were highly frowned upon, as were all manner of enjoyable things: drinking mead, laughing uproariously with friends, engaging in intimacy…
If she was a member of the guild, she’d have taken a vow of celibacy. And sobriety.
An idea sparked to mind. There might be a quicker way to confirm who and what she was. And as tempting as it was to lean in and try to kiss her now—just to go ahead and get it done—I wouldn’t take things that far. I was an orc with monstrous tusks. She wouldn’t want to kiss me, even if she wasn’t part of the guild.
“I’ll help you out with the sketch, then we’ll take the afternoon off,” I said, carefully watching her face. “I don’t usually work Freyasday anyway. The local minstrels play an entire set at the tavern, and the whole village usually turns out for it.”
Something flashed in her eyes, but it was gone just as quickly as it had appeared. “Oh. Right. And you normally go to this minstrel evening, do you?”
I arched a brow. “Why wouldn’t I?”
“You said yourself you don’t have a lot of friends.”
“Don’t see what that has to do with sitting in a tavern, enjoying some songs and some ale,” I muttered, though I knew she had me there. I had told her I didn’t have friends. Should have kept that fucking morsel of information to myself.
“So you just sit in the tavern alone,” she said skeptically.
“What does it matter if I do?” My frown deepened. “We’re going to the tavern later, and you’re going to like it.”
She blinked and sat up a little straighter, where she still perched on my worktable. “Já já, Captain.”
I squinted at her. “You’re not going to argue with me?”
She shrugged. “Didn’t want to give you an excuse to toss me over your shoulder and carry me there, kicking and screaming.”
The mental image flashed in my mind, and a strange tug went through me as I pictured her long brown hair tumbling over her shoulders while she gripped me, squealing. I blinked, shaking away those thoughts. Frida was a gorgeous lass, but I couldn’t let myself forget—even for a moment—who she might be.
Tonight, I would find out the truth about her. If she was a member of the Assassin’s Guild, she’d beg off the ale. She’d refuse to dance. She’d never allow me to flirt with her. And then I could relax—or find a way to trap her here.