Chapter 22 #2
Standing opposite Samson is a man with shoulders made loomingly more formidable by solid armor. Until this moment, I did not know other people were made in Samson’s size. But, clearly, they are.
Gleaming yellow eyes track me as I inch my way up to my Samson’s side.
A blond brow rises on the stranger’s face. “Who’s this cutie?”
Samson steps squarely in front of me, warning, “Mind your business, Bruce.”
Bruce chuckles, darkly. “She’s too old to be your daughter.
We were in the thick of it in those days, and you were more interested in futile hopes of being gifted than in women.
” The man’s yellow eyes narrow. “Don’t tell me you outgrew that obsession?
” Stretching his neck to the side so he can see me around Samson’s lovely shoulders, Bruce murmurs, “No proof of it on her, but most don’t frolic about in their marriage circlets. Is she your wife?”
Heat explodes in my face.
Samson grumbles, “And if she is?”
“Small for men like us, isn’t she?”
I can barely compute that horrible lie. My brain sticks on what Samson said, which…almost…sort of, kind of, sounded like a…confirmation of my wifeyness?
Swallowing harder than I’ve ever swallowed before, I set a hand against Samson’s tense back, feel his muscles ripple beneath my palm as his shoulders broaden, straightening to block me from Bruce’s view again. He grits, “No, she isn’t. She’s the perfect size.”
Bruce’s mouth opens, and the most obscene comment I have ever witnessed in my life tumbles out.
Shell-shocked, despite my city upbringing, I grip Samson’s shirt—seconds before his fist connects with Bruce’s jaw, knocking him into an armor stand, which falls on him with a screaming clatter.
Behind us, the woman yells, “Hey, take that outside!” but Samson has already grabbed my hand and marched us toward the door.
Metal clamors, swears chasing us into the street.
Samson doesn’t falter as I trip after his swift gait.
“S-Samson?” I call over the bustle as he dodges us through the crowd, carving a path with his magnificent shoulders, which I’ve decided are better than Bruce’s no matter their comparable size. “Are we in trouble?”
His strides slow, abruptly, and I collide with his back. Turning, he winces, releasing my hand to fix my glasses on my nose. “Sorry. What did you say?”
“Are we in trouble?”
His brow arches. “No?”
“But…” I look back. People and cobblestone and store fronts. “You hit that guy?”
He grumbles, “So?”
“Isn’t that against the law?”
Samson rolls his eyes. “I didn’t murder him.”
Right. I guess the laws here are different than the ones I know.
Maybe a scuffle isn’t worth the authorities’ time.
But. Still. “Will Bruce be coming after us? Are we running from him?” Also, what you said in there.
About me being your…wife. Or, well, about you implying that I’m your wife.
Can we unpack that, please, for a moment? Why did you do that? I need to know.
Samson’s blue eyes hit me, and he frees a long breath, cooling down.
Offering me my backpack, he murmurs, “I’m sorry.
That must have been scary, and repulsive.
Bruce and I grew up in the same guild. We were stuck together for a lot of things since we were a similar age and excelled at a similar pace.
I never much liked him. He never much liked me.
” Samson cups my face. “But, don’t worry, he won’t hurt you. ”
“But…what about you?”
Eyes blackening, Samson mutters, “Yeah, he’s not gonna hurt me either. If he tries, I’ll just remember the—” He cusses. “—nonsense he just spouted, and kill him.”
I shiver. “What about that stuff you said about murder being discouraged? Highly discouraged, even.”
“Lemonade.” His fingers slip through my hair, pushing it back behind my ear.
“I’m positive he just encouraged it.” Reaching for the bag I’m holding lamely in front of me, Samson helps the straps onto my shoulders and kisses my forehead.
“I’m sorry for making you uncomfortable by suggesting what I did.
Bruce has been a notorious womanizer from the moment he learned what to do.
You…” His head dips, grazing our noses. “…you are very beautiful. Exceptionally so. You’ve heard his language in casual conversation.
I don’t want you subjected to how he behaves when he’s propositioning. ”
My heart flutters, and I nestle myself closer to Samson’s chest, as close as I dare. “I… It’s okay. I don’t mind being considered…your wife.”
“Beats daughter,” he grumps, kissing my cheek before pulling back to take my hand again. “You look nothing like me. That woman is insane.”
I firmly agree. With everything that this man has ever said.
Well, except that time he told me not to go after a queen slime.
Everything else this man has ever said.
“Come on. Let’s get a room reservation for tonight just in case there’s an influx later, then I’ll take you around town. Assuming it’s still there, there’s a breakfast cafe a few streets down from the central inn.” Resuming a more manageable stride, Samson guides me forward.
I mull his words over as more NPCs than would ever make it into any cozy farm sim I know mill about. “Didn’t you tell me once that the inns deeper in the city were more expensive?”
“Yeah.”
“Yet we’re going to the central one?”
“It’s the nicest one.”
“And…we need the nicest one?”
Sighing, Samson meets my eye as he presses my knuckles to his lips. “Just let me spoil you, Lemonade. I’m not great with people, so I don’t know when I’ll work up the stamina to take you out here again.”
Working up the stamina to people is such a mood.
Working up the courage to say, “If I were really your wife, what do you think I’d say to this scheme of yours?” is less of a mood, but I manage it with flying colors.
Pensive, Samson hums, turning down a new road, toward a more ornate part of town. Finally, he replies, “Yes, dear.”
I blush. “That’s somewhat a demure taste in women, isn’t it?”
“A man can dream, can’t he?”
It takes every last one of my vertebrae, but I squeeze his hand and say, “Yes, dear.”