“Those who seek to unmake me may rise with blade, but I shall not be stricken.” I finish the quote, growing suspicious that he mentioned the book again.
He’s the last person I’d like to discuss this with. This part of me has been under lock and key for so long that I’m not ready to face it. My abuse is sealed away in a place so far away that I’m not sure I can even reach it anymore. I can’t bear the weight of his judgment for much longer.
“I want, for once in my godsdamn life, to not be treated like anobjectto be owned.” I release the last of my heaviness.
The door opens behind me, interrupting our bickering. “You called for a healer, Your Majesty?” an unfamiliar voice calls out.
Murderous intent flashes across Wrath’s features. He begrudgingly releases his hold on my wrist, and I feel the mark fade from the broken contact. Wrath tears his gaze away from me, turning his attention to the healer, but he doesn’t move away from me.
I turn and leave without another word.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Ploppingdown two empty cups on the bar top for Alastor to wash, I sigh, turning back towards the tavern. It is a slow night, with only a few tables full. The usual lively atmosphere is exchanged for dull and quiet. Perhaps everyone is hungover, recovering from the festivities.
“Slow night, huh, Alastor?” I make small talk with the grumpy bartender.
“Seems like it.” He huffs, polishing a glass with a rag.
The door opens. A few lively soldiers, chatting amongst themselves, walk inside. I recognize them from the night I first worked here at the tavern, as Sebastian went to sit with them after spotting me.
This is my chance.
Walking over to the table, I smile at the three men. “What can I get for you?”
“Three ale,” one says, sliding some coins across the table.
I pluck the coins from the surface, moving across the tavern so Alastor can fill some tankards with bubbling, dark-colored ale. Taking all three in my grip, I slide them across the worn table toward them.
“I don’t mean to be impolite, miss,” one of the men starts. “But are you a halfling?”
My gaze turns to the one speaking. He is young, perhaps in his early twenties, and has wavy, medium-length blonde hair. His armor is made of bronze, not steel, and lacks dents and scratches.
“Yes, I’m a halfling,” I reply warmly, keeping up the facade.
“Really?” His bright blue eyes hold a spark of curiosity.
“Yes.” I nod. “And you are from?”
“Ashvarin… my lady,” he stammers nervously, and I take note of his stare as it lowers.
I style my dresses the way Kaia has shown me: the corset pulled down, the apron low on my hips, and my skirt hiked up. To my surprise, I am making far more tips, but attracting the wrong type of attention. Many men stare at my breasts, while others have wandering hands that grasp at my backside as I pass. I’ve seen enough of men’s lust to know exactly how ugly it is, yet somehow it still manages to disgust me every time. Nevertheless, I didn’t know much about Ashvarin, so I used the conversation I overheard between Wrath and Gilead to learn more.
“I’ve heard the humans have been attacking in recent weeks.” I frown, appearing distressed. “Is all well over there?”
He nods. “We just returned from defending the border. It seems like they were searching for supplies before snowfall.”
“I’m glad everyone is safe,” I reply sweetly. “So you’re a part of Sebastian’s forces?”
“Yes.” His brows raise in surprise. “Do you know him?”
“I am acquainted with him, yes.”
“My name is Hans.” The young soldier offers me his name. “And you are?”
“Rae.”
“This is Gavriel,” he says, pointing to the Elvarran with short black hair, umber skin, and ice blue eyes. “And Lucio.” The second Elvarran is tan with curly, dark brown hair. A faint scar runs along his jawline, cutting through his stubble.
