The tavern was warm and bright, lamps and candles casting a soft glow that caught on the glass drops of the chandelier overhead. A fire roared in the hearth, heat licking at my chilled bones the moment we stepped inside. I could see why the place was busy.
The only thing I didn’t like were the three massive stag heads mounted along the wall, glassy eyes staring down as though they’d died angry.
I’d just lifted my hot toddy when I heard them.
“Och, she’s a bonnie wee‘hing,” a man whispered—far too loudly.
“Wae a Sassunnach though.”
“Filthy scum,” another muttered.
Lord Wulverton shifted beside me, leaning away just enough to sit upright. His voice, when he spoke, was calm—but sharp as flint.
“Do you have a problem?”
“Aye,” one of them answered.
Another man elbowed him hard.“Ye want the military up here? He’s a bloody toff.”
“And you?” the first sneered, eyes cutting to me.“Wit’are ye daein’wi’the likes o’him?”
Before anyone else could speak, a sound slipped free of me.
Low. Rough. Wrong.
A soft growl threaded up from deep in my chest and escaped past my lips before I could stop it.
Oh, God.
Not again.
Chapter 17
Thaddeus
Wulfric was already on guard with so many men crowded around us. His instincts were razor-sharp—every muscle coiled, every sense stretched thin.
What neither of us expected was the sound that rumbled out of Euphemia.
It came from deep in her chest.
Low.
Raw.
Unmistakable.
The growl was beautiful—vibrant and strong, carrying a warning that had nothing to do with civility. No sooner had it left her lips than Wulfric answered.
Louder.
Longer.
Far more vicious.
The sound rolled through the tavern like a threat given shape.
The three men froze where they stood. Fear drained the colour from their faces. No one moved. No one breathed.
