THE BBW
Reformed Predator. Certified Manager.
“You run this place?” Nash asks.
The wolf lifts his chin as he pulls a parchment and quill from his apron. “Name’s Bronn. As you know, I used to huff, puff, and commit acts of structural terrorism. Now I run a respectable establishment and attend anger management on Tuesdays.”
“That’s admirable,” I say.
He beams. “Thank you. Therapy saved my life and several grandmothers. Turns out wolves have issues with older ladies that date back to a coven that delighted in wolf stew.”
I gasp. “That’s horrific.” He nods as I brush my fingers over the soft fur on his wrist. “No one should have their ancestors boiled for sustenance. I apologize on behalf of witches and grandmothers everywhere.”
Bronn’s eyes narrow. “You’re a grandmother?”
“Well, no.”
Hart gestures at the room. “Busy place for the middle of the Forbidden Forest.”
Bronn shrugs. “Forest folk need somewhere to drink too. Also, curses lift easier after two ales and a hot meal.”
“I like his philosophy,” Malachi says.
“Everything is better on a full stomach,” I agree.
Bronn turns to me. “So, what’ll it be?”
“Sausage,” I say without hesitation.
“And two rooms,” Hart adds.
Why two? Oh, I see. Who will I get to share with this evening?
He nods in approval. “I’ll sort those for you. Good choice with the food. We make a very honest sausage here. No mystery meat. All veggies and seasoning—mostly.”
I try to keep my disappointment from my face when he describes how they’ve butchered perfectly good sausages because of a long-standing issue between wolves and the elderly female populace.
It’s still sausage. I think.
“Mostly?” Nash repeats.
Bronn’s ears twitch. “Don’t ask questions you don’t want answered, shadow boy.” One dark predator recognizing another. Nash grins, but it’s not a pleasant expression. It’s a warning to Bronn that he might have the biggest paws in the room, but he’s not the scariest creature. I shiver.
Bronn scribbles something on a scrap of paper. “Four sausages. Bread. Stew. And one extra plate because if I remember correctly, you’re the kind of group that shares poorly.”
“Accurate,” Hart says.
The wolf lumbers back to the kitchen, and the noise in the tavern slowly returns.
I lean forward. “I like him.”
“He once ate an entire wedding party,” a goat at the next table says.
I blink, torn between being shocked by a talking goat or the fated wedding party goers. “Recently?”
“No, no. It was after the big granny breakup before he started therapy. He only eats jerks now. Very selective.”
“Well, that seems fair.”
