Chapter 2

Chapter Two

Heath

“ E vening Heath!” Tim booms. The human-orc hybrid is used to shouting over noisy patrons. His hearty hail never fails to put a smile on my face.

“Evening, Tim!” I call back.

“It’s heaving tonight,” Callum says. “I’ll go to the bar and order. It’ll be quicker.”

“Thanks, son.” I pat him on the shoulder. After hanging my cloak on the hook inside the door, I go and find a table beside the fire.

I enjoy Friday night at The Green Man. After working hard at the forge all day, nothing is better than walking the short distance down the street and stepping inside the tavern. The fire is always well stoked against the bitter weather, and the greeting is always warm.

It wasn’t always like this, coming to the local tavern of an evening. When I was younger, I had a woman putting food on the table and warming my bed of a night—or of a day if I could get the chance. Callum was a young lad then. Now he’s a man, and even though it has been seven years since I lost his mother, memories of her still linger in our home.

“Callum sent this over for you, Heath.”

The husky voice stirs me from my memories—another one that greets me often when I drop by The Green Man for supper and ale.

“Aye, thank you, Betsy,” I say, glancing toward the bar where my son is chatting with the local wheelwright, doubtless also hoping to catch a moment with his lass, Ada.

Betsy smiles. The dimples on her cheeks are like sunshine warming this bleak night. For a moment, the rowdy tavern fades away, and there are only the tavern lass and me.

She sends me a coy look under her lashes. “I get a break in a bit if you wanted to?—”

“Just the ale, Betsy,” I cut her off gruffly, but not quick enough to stop the sudden rush of blood heading south. She has been playfully propositioning me for a few years now. I don’t mind it. She is the same with all the patrons. I feared her time in Blighten hands might have taken her natural mischief away—I’m glad that it didn’t even though her ways leave me hot and bothered.

The wench is sweet and pretty, with golden hair, freckles across her nose, and blue eyes that are clear and bright and sparkle in the cheery glow of the fire and lamps. They remind me of the spring flowers that grew in the forests of Hydornia whence I hail.

Fuck, listen to me comparing her eyes to spring blooms?! She is also too young—I’m too old for her. She flirts outrageously with me—she flirts with half the patrons and doesn’t mean anything by it.

Her eyes dance with mischief. Not at all bothered by my rebuff. Leaning over the table to put her ample cleavage on display, she collects a couple of empty tankards from the table before she sashays off.

Fuck!

I adjust my collar, annoyed by how my body responds to her teasing. Maybe she sees my resistance as a challenge and is determined to make me sweat. At least, that is the only conclusion I can reach that makes some sense as to why she continues to proposition me.

“Heath!” Pete, the local carpenter, single like me, slips into the seat beside me. “You hear about that trouble down at the docks?”

“Trouble?” I fake innocence.

“Aye, I heard members of the rebellion liberated some prisoners.”

“No, I didn’t know about that.” I don’t tell him that I was involved in it. Although I reckon that Pete has some inkling as to the other side of me—the secret side that supports the rebellion against the orcs.

Out of the corner of my eye, I spot Betsy heading out the back door… followed by three sailors.

What the fuck is that about?

Pete is still talking, and I’m mostly listening, but I’m also staring at the door that leads out the back and where Betsy has gone.

I sip my beer.

Pete continues his monologue.

I nod and grunt at appropriate points, but my pint is near empty and Betsy has not returned.

They have been gone a long fucking time.

My gut tightens and churns. I’m not stupid. She asked me first. I declined. It is my own fault if she takes the sailors out the back where they are doubtless busy pleasuring her.

All three of them.

“Finished that new cabinet for that fancy lord,” Pete says, dragging me from my rumination. “Gave me a nice tip.”

I was so distracted that I didn’t even notice he had moved on from the prisoner's liberation to his latest commission.

“Aye, that was a boon,” I offer. “He might want more work if you’re lucky.”

The door to the back finally opens, and Betsy slips into the tavern, a pretty blush on her cheeks.

A tic thumps in my jaw.

She disappears into the crowded room, collecting empties and taking orders. Meanwhile, the door opens again, and the three sailors enter with a swagger and a grin.

Bastards. I don’t even know why this annoys me. Over the last few years, she has offered me all manner of saucy favor with increasing boldness.

What am I expecting? Her to wait around for that elusive day when I pull my head out of my ass. I’m still not wholly convinced she is serious when she says it to me.

Idiot, Health. What would a pretty lass even want with you? I’m nothing but an old bastard with issues and who is likely to get myself killed if my ties to the rebellion are found out.

It’s not like I have anything to offer the lass. It would be delusional on my part to presume she wants more than a quick tumble. Given it’s been seven years since my cock felt anything but my hand, I’d likely just embarrass myself with even that.

“Can I get you another round?”

I am so busy thinking about the lass, staring into the bottom of my empty tankard while Pete talks, that I don’t notice her approach.

“Another pint of Pilkington, please, Betsy,” Pete says, smiling.

I don’t give my order. I’m frowning at her lips, puffy and swollen, and her hair all mussed up. “Are you alright, lass?” I demand—she blushes—my eyes narrow. “They didn’t do aught you didn’t want, did they?” I don’t care if there are three of them. I will fuck them up if they have hurt the lass.

She shakes her head swiftly, a small smile she is fighting on her lips. “No, Heath, they did not.” She winks at me. “Three men, but happen they deliver half of what you would with naught but your hands on me.”

Pete chuckles.

I remember to shut my mouth.

Gods, the woman is a test. My eyes narrow. “Just a pint of Pilkington, please, lass.”

I tell myself it’s a trick of the light that I see her face soften as I again reject her playfulness.

She sashays off. I watch, drooling as I take in the sway of her ample hips.

The things I would do to that woman if not for my fool mouth getting in the way. They’d probably kill me, but I’d give it a go.

I’d be good to her, treat her like a queen, spoil her pussy so well she’d never think about a sailor again.

When I turn back to the table, I find Pete watching me with a grin.

He sups his beer before shaking his head. “The lass is sweet on you.”

“She’s too young,” I mutter. “She talks like that to all the patrons.”

Pete raises both brows, and a smirk blooms on his face. “Trust me, the lass does not proposition me like that.”

Damn right, she doesn’t. I would kill him if she did.

Pete chuckles like he can read my thoughts.

Damn, I have got it bad.

Betsy

“He’s a thick-headed male,” I mutter as I join Ada, my new best friend and fellow tavern lass, at the bar, where she is busy loading drinks onto a tray. Many weeks have passed since we met in desperate circumstances, and she has lived and worked in my pa’s tavern ever since. “I would warm his bed for him—I swear I’d make him forget his own name if only he’d let me.”

I would take any scrap he offers.

He offers none.

“Who?” Ada asks, then glances over her shoulder. Her eyes land on Heath before they slide back to me. “You just went out the back with three sailors.”

I wave a dismissive hand and huff out a little breath. “They are practice. Heath is the end game.”

“Has he ever kissed you?” she asks, all innocent. Given that she slips out the back with Heath’s son, Callum, every chance she gets, I’m confident she knows about more than just kissing. Also, a shifter here named Gray cannot take his eyes off the lass. There is a bit of a love triangle simmering in this tavern, although Gray is about as thick-headed as Heath, so Callum likely has no need to worry about the competition.

“Kiss me? He’s not as much as patted my ass. I think I might spontaneously climax if he put his hands on me anywhere.”

She giggles at my nonsense. Her life was once dark and unhappy, so I love coaxing a smile from her.

“Maybe he thinks you’re joking.” She shrugs. “You know, flirting like you do with other patrons?”

“Huff! I never say the things I say to Heath to anyone else.”

Our conversation is cut off as Callum squeezes through the throngs and snags Ada’s hand. “Mind if I borrow the lass for a bit,” he says gruffly.

“Callum—” she starts, blushing furiously. “We are very busy.”

Callum, cursed or blessed to be a redhead, depending on your view, likewise blushes.

“Go on out the back for a bit,” I say, grinning. Who am I to get in the way of true love? “I will cover for you.” I wink. “And keep an eye on your pa, Callum, just in case any shameless hussies come around.”

Callum chuckles.

Ada bites her lips to keep from grinning and tugs on Callum’s hand.

I collect the tray of drinks she was stacking and begin weaving through the crowd.

By shameless hussies, I mean me. I am shameless. Not that it does me any good where Heath is concerned. My words and fool dreams are sheer folly on my part.

Only my heart tells me Heath is worth fighting for. Heath, our local blacksmith, with his big, capable hands, broad shoulders, and acres of muscles that I dream of petting and peppering with kisses.

It is not boastful on my part to say I have skills when it comes to a tryst. If only I could get him alone.

No mind. I’m cursed to be stubborn about getting what I want, even though he has rebuffed my every advance.

At least those words leave his lips, using a stern voice ripe with censure. His eyes tell me another story, for they brim with lust. Oh, he tries to hide it, but I see through it. I’m a tavern wench, after all, and we are used to the perusal of men. I see beyond his words to the man underneath.

He likes to think he’s different, but he is not. He is a man with needs that I could gladly, joyfully, and with love meet.

Only, I am nothing but a tavern wench in his eyes, too young, too bold, and too forward for his tastes. A free spirit, I have enjoyed the pleasures of many men and see no harm in it. They come and go, and we share fleeting moments where we can forget about the dour life living in Bleakness.

It reminds me that my life and pleasure are my own. I won’t let this desperate place nor events past take that away from me.

Heath is the only man who makes me wish for more than a moment and crave a deeper connection. He has lived a few doors down for as long as I can remember. When he first arrived, he had a wife, but she died many years ago. He has been alone ever since—seven long years.

But I am on to him. The way his eyes have lingered on my cleavage in recent weeks. I have even caught him checking out my ass. He is not immune to me, although he pretends to be.

Is he weakening?

I like to think he might be.

Either way, I am not giving up.