She quickly reached out and took a massive swig of the glass Myrtle had poured her earlier.
It tasted delicious—floral and sharp, with a shimmering, iridescent finish.
“He never comes here,” Myrtle added. “He’s practically buried alive on that farm.”
“Such a shame,” Vera added lightly. “A man that handsome going to waste. Most women in this town would trip over their own feet just for a glimpse of his tail.”
Sylvie had the distinct impression the women weren’t exactly concerned about his wasted potential.
It felt more like they were advertising him for her benefit.
Rhavor went straight to the bar and leaned over the wooden counter.
Her gaze drifted lower, despite her best intentions.
The worn denim of his jeans hugged a truly magnificent ass.
A woman sat on the bar stool next to him, openly leaning in to get a better look.
Sylvie felt a sharp, sudden knock of jealousy in her chest.
She barely noticed when Vera slipped away from the table.
Moments later, a minotaur stepped onto a makeshift stage.
He adjusted his glasses on a snout the size of a dinner plate and blew into the microphone.
“All right, settle down!” he roared into the microphone, a sound so loud the glasses at the bar trembled. “We have a cracking night ahead.”
After a couple of items that looked suspiciously similar to Seth’s collection—and a crate of double-distilled moonshine honey that all got decent bids—the minotaur blew into the microphone again.
“And now,” his voice dropped into a register that made the floorboards hum.
He looked at the paper he was holding, then at Vera, and then back at the paper again.
He cleared his throat, a sound like grinding stones.
“Well, we have something a little different.”
The room went deathly quiet.
“The next item up for bid is… a dinner with Vera’s nephew, Rhavor.”
A chair clattered somewhere in the back.
Rhavor froze at the bar, his whiskey glass suspended midair.
He looked ready to either flee the building—or set it on fire.
“Well,” Arla said with wicked delight, “that is new.”
A beam of light found Rhavor, pinning him.
A woman at the bar raised her hand immediately.
Sylvie’s pulse roared in her ears.
Before her brain could intervene, her hand was in the air.
