Chapter 3

3

Some Months Later

Summer came and went, the early autumn harvesttime bringing Molly plenty of busywork. Apple harvests were quickly pouring into Dundúran, and it was the pivotal time of year that all the taverns and alehouses secured the next year’s contracts with the cider breweries.

Between that, helping run and serve the tavern, and sewing new clothes for nine-year-old Rory, the penultimate of Uncle Brom’s brood, who was in the midst of her third growth spurt of the year, Molly’s hand and mind always seemed busy. She enjoyed this time of year, enjoyed haggling with the brewers and conferring with her fellow pub-folk. The air cooled, making the tavern itself less stifling, and she herself preferred the winter selection of brews they carried over summer’s.

Lady Aislinn and Lord Hakon had just returned home from visiting his people to the south, in some far-off orc city Molly could hardly imagine it was so distant, and the mood of the city was nearly as jovial as the time around the wedding.

With their heiress returned and the coming harvest festivals, Dundúran was poised to celebrate. She’d already put her name in at the castle and with Mayor Doherty to work as additional help in several coming events.

The thrill she’d gotten adding her handful of coins from the heiress’s wedding had sustained Molly for months. She eagerly awaited more opportunities. A few more days like that and she’d have enough to…

Well, she didn’t know what yet. But something. By next year.

Just the thought of something happening, something that was hers, had Molly practically bouncing between tables as she served today’s patrons. Not even the boring midday lull could dampen her spirits. That little stash meant a new life, one that was hers.

She would finally be mistress of her own destiny.

Molly’s life had been one chaotic spiral after another. She’d lost both parents at the age of ten to the awful wave of plague that hit the surrounding villages of Dundúran hard. Molly too had taken ill, and there were days she wished she’d gone with her parents into the afterworld, for what life was there worth living, left scarred as she was and all alone.

Her Uncle Brom, her mother’s younger brother, had taken her in, but it was hardly a kindness. It took a long time for her to adjust to the loudness of the city but especially the tavern. She’d never seen a noisy, drunk man before but witnessed at least six her first night in the city. There were so many people, smells, and noises, she’d hardly slept the first fortnight.

Uncle Brom expected her to work, too. When she’d learned the tavern well enough, he had her fetching things from the back, cleaning up tables, and washing dishes. She hadn’t even realized she was supposed to be attending lessons until someone reported Brom to the city council and he was obliged to send her with the other children to school.

She went, hoping to meet friends her own age like she’d had in the village, but she was already far behind. They saw her as a bumpkin and teased her accent. They gawked at the plague scars on her arms and legs and shrieked that she’d spread it to them. Molly quickly came to hate school, but she went, because it got her out of the tavern.

Molly’s figure came along earlier than a lot of the other girls. Her breasts grew round and her hips wide and suddenly all the boys wanted to talk to her. At first, she’d liked their attention, and toying with them had taught her how to coax a coin out of the older patrons at the tavern. Watching how she could make the other girls jealous was its own kind of ugly pleasure, and Molly wasn’t shy.

What she learned from that time was to find the line she had to toe. It was different for every boy and man, that when crossed, they thought they had invitation to touch. For some it was as simple as a wink or a kind word. She also learned she hated being grabbed and touched. When they tried it, most weren’t shy, either. They went for it all, taking as much as they could get until rebuffed. So Molly learned and honed her instinct.

It was that instinct that had her keeping herself awake one night, her suspicions roused. When her door had creaked open during the darkest hours of night, and she recognized the heavy tread of her uncle entering her room, Molly acted. She threw a dagger through the dark, slicing his shirt sleeve.

“Get out and never come again,” she’d growled into the shadows.

And he hadn’t. Thank the fates, he hadn’t.

Her uncle was a coward, down to his very core. It was what she hated most about him. He was a bully, as some cowards were, and enjoyed picking on those littler and lesser than him. Unfortunately, he was blessed with a modicum of charm and, at least when younger, good looks, and those got him far enough.

And five children.

His children were the only thing Molly liked about him. Did she resent that she became another parent to them whenever Brom’s wife or lover up and left in disgust with him? Sure. But Bryan, Nora, Merry, Rory, and Oona hadn’t chosen their father. And they offered Molly some semblance of a family. They were why, three years ago, she hadn’t left Dundúran with the man who’d claimed to love her.

When school ended and she faced the prospect of being in that tavern all day with Uncle Brom, she’d found an older group of youths to join. They welcomed her, and she thought for a while that she had finally found people to accept her. They showed her all the best hidey-holes in the city, even breaking into Castle Dundúran to watch a banquet and sneer at all the rich folk in their finery. They stole, and they had her steal, too, convinced that it was their due—the forgotten youth of the city. She could pick a lock, a pocket, and the winning horse thanks to her years running with them.

That Molly would’ve done anything for her friends—lied, stolen, harmed. And she had. She’d been one strike away from spending time in gaol, but it hadn’t mattered. They were her friends. She thought she was in love with their leader, Finn. He promised her a better life, that they deserved more.

But the cracks had begun to show when she grew a little older. Their wildness began to taste like sour beer. Finn came apologizing after another night with another woman one too many times. Eventually, the law caught up to Finn, and he was exiled from Dundúran. He declared they’d go to the capital of Gleanná, really make it, but Molly couldn’t bring herself to go.

Her little cousins, the tavern, they needed her.

The decision felt right, and she hadn’t missed Finn and the others as much as she’d once thought she would. Still, three years on, there were times she regretted being left behind.

What would her life look like in Gleanná? Bigger than the tavern walls, that was for sure.

Without her friends, Molly’s world had contracted to just the tavern. She loved the place, in its own way, and enjoyed seeing many of the regulars. But the children were growing up. The tavern was becoming rundown, despite her best efforts. Uncle Brom was getting surly in his middle age, not resigned yet to having lost his looks and most of his charm.

A restlessness was growing inside her, a knowing that soon, it was time. For what, she didn’t know. When, she didn’t know either. Just that it was coming and when it did—she’d know.

Grit and big tits could get her places, she well knew, and now she had a tidy little sack of coins to help her with whatever came next.

She practically twirled through the tavern that day, earning her a bemused grunt from Brom. It seemed like the happier she was, the grumpier he became—all the more reason to make herself happy.

When she next turned around to greet a new patron, Molly’s heart kicked in her chest.

The fae stood there, looming in the doorway. Late afternoon sunlight filtered in behind him, framing his tall form in an amber-lined silhouette. His dark cloak, draped over impossibly wide shoulders, cascaded behind him as he strode slowly inside.

Molly’s breath caught in her throat.

Allarion. That was his name. And his unicorn was Bellarand. He’d told her these things, of course, but only after many visits to the tavern. She’d found out long before, though, asking around at the other alehouses and wells and washing fountains.

Fates, she was stupid to feel this kind of thrill at the sight of him, come like a wraith in the night. Those black eyes and sharp teeth should’ve terrified her.

She hadn’t felt desire for a man since Finn, having decided they weren’t worth it. She’d had enough male attention to last a lifetime.

Still, when those inhuman eyes fell on her, Molly felt it.

Smiling, she greeted him and waved him on to his usual table in the back.

He was quickly becoming one of the regulars at the tavern, appearing every few days through summer. Each time, Molly tried to coax a little more out of him, even if he seemed perfectly content to lurk in the back and watch.

She didn’t know how he didn’t get bored, just sitting there with a beverage he never intended to drink, but was grateful for his presence, nevertheless. Other patrons were on their best behavior when he was there, which meant no chair-breaking brawls or shouting matches, and everyone left promptly after last call. Perfection.

“And who’d you like to sit with today?” she asked, smiling at her own joke. “We have a new cider in, and just got a crate of red wine straight from Endelín.”

“A mead, please. I enjoy the scent.”

Molly bit her cheek to keep from smiling too wide. He almost always got a mead.

“I’ll bring that right out,” she said with a wink. She’d yet to find a line to toe with the mysterious fae.

I almost wouldn’t mind being grabbed by him, she thought as she turned away.

“A moment, please, miss.”

Unfailingly polite as always. She made her eyes big as she blinked at him. Fates, she went all breathless, excited to hear what he’d ask.

“I would like to speak with your uncle, when it is convenient for him.”

Molly’s brows nearly rose to her hairline with surprise. Why should he want to talk with Brom? They’d spoken perhaps once, when Brom was curious about what brought a fae to his establishment, but after gleaning little besides that business didn’t slow but actually picked up with Allarion there, he’d retreated back behind the bar, content as always to let Molly do most of the work.

Clearing her throat to hide her shock, Molly said, “Of course. I’ll go tell him now.”

“Thank you.”

She didn’t think she imagined the warmth in those dark eyes, and another little thrill zipped down her spine as she headed back for the bar.

What could he want from Brom?

The older male kept Allarion waiting for several hours. From what he’d learned of the man’s rather odious character, this made sense—an attempt to prove dominance and gain the upper hand.

Not that Allarion minded or cared. He had time, he had patience. And, most importantly, he had a plan.

Allarion was content to wait as he watched Molly work the tavern and its customers.

He might have been jealous of all the other males there leering at her, yet she was adept at encouraging their attentions only enough to secure more orders and therefore coin. It was subtle, but Allarion had learned her tricks, admiring her strategy. She kept moving; it was a dance she did through the tavern, as graceful as any trained dancer, never bestowing too much attention on any one patron. Still, as Allarion well knew, when her beatific smile fell upon you, it made you feel like the center of the world, the sun in the sky.

His body nearly vibrated with the force of his yearning. As the days and fortnights drew longer, his desire only grew stronger. He had time, yes, and patience, too, but as Allarion continued to dwell with the humans, he felt the dwindling of both acutely.

He wanted her. And finally, after months of imbuing his new land with his magic, he had a home to bring her to.

There was still much to be done at the manor, to be sure. But enough rooms were prepared, enough magic infused into the house and land, that he felt secure in bringing an azai to it. She would be key to finishing his bonding with the estate, and with every visit to the tavern, Allarion grew ever more impatient to see her on his land, within his home, in his bed.

Watching her that evening only solidified his desire into a heavy knot in his chest.

Her liveliness, her effervescence filled the tavern, making it glow brighter than the sconces and central fire. Imagining her filling his own empty home with such energy made Allarion’s fangs ache curiously. His gaze fell to her neck, where he could watch the thick vein there pumping as she danced through the night, balancing heavy trays and carrying multiple tankards in each hand.

He apparently wasn’t too old to be taken in by an immaculate set of breasts, and as he did whenever he came to visit her, he was easily enchanted by their gratuitous curves and enticing bounciness. Still, his eyes trailed up to her neck and his fangs ached again and…and it was strange. Perhaps even unsettling.

Allarion wanted Molly in all ways—even to bite, it seemed. And while that may have troubled him in the past, he was a fae with few options and too much desire. His course had been decided the day he saw her drawing water from the well.

A tankard landed on his table, amber liquid sloshing over the rim. Allarion looked at it before watching the uncle lever himself into a seat across the table.

He was a large man, who’d once been quite muscular and strong. His shoulders were still broad with strength, but his middle had gone soft and overhung his belt. A thick beard and mop of hair had once been a golden reddish color but now had streaks of white, and the redness of his cheeks nearly obscured the freckles dotting his face. His beard smelled of the ale he’d been indulging in all night as he poured drinks for others, but despite this, his eyes were as blue and clear as a summer sky.

Allarion inclined his head the requisite amount. “Master Dunne.”

The man grunted in greeting. “You going to complain about a cup you never drink?”

He didn’t bother looking at his untouched tankard of mead. He’d no need or desire to tell the man across from him that the fae didn’t need nor want to drink, nor that he only ordered it because it was the closest he could find to Molly’s scent. A cup of it near him was almost like scenting her honey-sweet smell.

“No, I have no complaints at all. I wished to speak with you. To make a proposition.”

The interest in Dunne’s eyes was immediate, though he tried to hide it. “And what is that? Want to be a partner in a tavern, do you?”

“I wish to wed your niece.”

Allarion had expected a shocked silence, but Dunne merely chuckled and took a long sip of his ale.

“You and everyone in here,” he muttered into his cup.

“Perhaps. But I mean to succeed where they failed.”

Dunne’s shrewd gaze assessed him over the rim of his cup.

Allarion expected a back-and-forth. From what he understood of humans, it was customary to talk with the head of the family, a person’s elder, when a suitor wished to secure a bride. He would have preferred to talk to Molly herself, but Allarion could respect he was in a human land desiring a human, and so would do it their way.

Dunne replaced his cup on the table, catching the nail of his thumb on the handle.

“What makes you so keen?” he asked. “The heiress is taken, to be sure, but there’s lots of women between her and my Molly.”

“That is for me to tell Molly, but be assured, I have great admiration for her. She is the one I wish for.”

“Admiration. Uh-huh.” Dunne patted his chest and chuckled to himself, making Allarion seethe at his crude insinuation. Blithely unaware of Allarion’s dangerously souring mood, the bartender sat back in his seat, a grin suddenly contorting his beard. “You aren’t the first one to come askin’ for her.”

“I offer her a home, land, comfort. She will be taken care of. I will pledge myself to her and be true.”

His words seemed to amuse the man. “An offer from a fae. No one will believe it. But—” here he held up his hands, as if in defeat “—I have to tell you what I told the others. She’s indentured to this place. Paying off a debt, you see. Enough for another, oh…five years at least, I’d say.”

Allarion’s nostrils flared. He couldn’t smell a lie—at least not over the myriad of other scents in the tavern. Dunne said it with all sincerity and confidence, and…it didn’t sound so outlandish. An indenture, working to pay off debt, would explain why someone like Molly, vivacious and alive, would tie herself to a rundown tavern like this.

She certainly breathed life into the place, filled it with warmth and cheer, but even her bright smiles couldn’t hide the worn legs of the chairs and chipped rims of the cups. There were far better taverns and alehouses in the city, ones where Molly could earn far more coin.

“You would indenture your own kin?”

Dunne shrugged his meaty shoulders. “Had to make her learn. She was a wild girl, you see. Had to teach her to pay her debts.”

“How much?”

Dunne’s lips twitched. “Now, see, that’s difficult. It’s not just the indenture. She helps me run the place and looks after the little ones. I’ve got five, you see, and I’m too old to be running after them. And I’m not blind, I know she’s what fills this place up. It’d be too much to find a new girl who filled out a bodice the same and—”

“How much?”

Dunne couldn’t hide the small grin this time, no doubt having been waiting for Allarion to interrupt him with that very question.

Allarion let the man think he was winning their…negotiation. The truth was Allarion, like all fae, had time—but five years was now a long time to wait. Neither Ravenna nor he himself could delay that long.

He wasn’t desperate—not yet. He didn’t want to let himself get to that point.

So he was willing to expedite this. Indenture or no, familial bonds or no, one thing mattered to Dunne, and Allarion was willing to offer it.

He’d pay any price for Molly.

Dunne named something expectedly lavish.

“Very well,” Allarion agreed. “I will double it, too. To compensate you and your children for her loss.”

The uncle sat back in his seat, blinking with disbelief. Allarion had truly shocked him finally.

“You want her that bad? Her? ” he asked.

Allarion bit back his annoyance. “Yes.” From his cloak pocket he pulled a velvet sack of coins. “Half now, half tomorrow, when we are married.”

It was fast, but he needed to return to Scarborough—and he didn’t intend to leave Dundúran without his bride.

Dunne’s eyes went large with the sight of the sack and the clinking sounds it made. He didn’t grab for it, which mildly surprised Allarion, but his throat bobbed on a swallow and his pupils dilated.

“Are we agreed?”

The man startled from his stupor. “It’ll take time to arrange a marriage. Tomorrow’s not—”

“Tomorrow,” said Allarion, laying his hand beside the coin purse. “That is my price.”

Dunne nodded. “All right. We can at least manage a handfasting. I’ll tell her tonight, after we close. Come back tomorrow afternoon.”

“Very good.”

Allarion stood, and quick as a viper, Dunne snatched up the coins. A sound of disbelief, close to a laugh, escaped his lips.

“I will return anon.”

Dunne’s graying head bobbed in an absent nod, his attention fully on the sack he weighed in his hands.

Hiding his disgust, Allarion swept from the table. It was time he left, before his triumph got the better of him.

She’s mine.

His woman. His azai.

Watching a room full of other males leering at her now would be his undoing.

Before he made the door, his gaze tangled with hers. She stood beside the bar, her curious eyes bouncing between him and where he’d left her uncle. A small line of worry drew between her brows, and it took a millennium of training and control not to cross the room and soothe it away with his thumb.

Soon, she would have no need for worry or want. He would give her everything she could ever desire.

Allarion bowed his head, a farewell and show of respect to his future azai, as was her due.

Finding her gaze again, his magic reached out despite himself, stretching across the tavern to gently caress her soft cheek. Her lips parted in surprise, and her pulse kicked at her throat.

His fangs ached nearly as badly as his cock.

You’re mine.