He leans through the open doorframe and places the pouch in my lap. He holds both my hands, pressing them down over the leather. Rain pours off his jaw and lands on my wrists in warm drops.
"Contract failed. Operative compromised his professional neutrality. Honor code violated. Payment cannot be retained."
"Dash."
"The mission parameters were clear." His grip tightens over my fingers. Then releases. "I broke them."
He steps back. Straightens to his full height. Water streams off him. His amber eyes hold mine for three seconds. Four. Five.
He turns.
He walks into The Broken Antler without looking back.
The door swings shut behind him.
I sit in the van with the engine running and the rain pouring through two missing sides of the vehicle and gold in my lap that I don't want. That I never wanted.
The leather is still warm from his hands.
CHAPTER 16
DASH
The tavern stinks of stale mead and goblin sweat.
I walk straight through without stopping. Past the bar where Magnolia first slammed that ivory invitation onto my table. Past the booth with the blood stain on the bench from last Tuesday's knife fight. Past Grix, who opens his mouth to say something and then shuts it when he sees my face.
Smart goblin.
The back stairs are narrow. Built for humans. My shoulders scrape both walls as I climb, leaving wet streaks on the plaster. Three flights. The wood groans under my boots. The door to my apartment is at the end of a hallway that smells like pipe smoke and rat droppings, and I have to duck to clear the frame the same way I duck to clear every frame in this city that was not built for Orcs.
Inside.
The lock clicks behind me. I drop the rucksack. The broadsword hits the floor with a clang that rattles the thin window glass. Water runs off me in sheets, forming a spreading dark pool on the warped floorboards.
The apartment is twelve feet by fourteen. A cot against one wall. A weapons rack against the other. A sink. A hotplate. Asingle chair that I built myself because furniture stores don't stock for my weight class. The ceiling is low enough that I can press my palm flat against it without straightening my arm.
I've lived here for six years. Taken four hundred and twelve contracts. Completed every single one.
Four hundred and twelve.
Not four hundred and thirteen.
The napkin is still in my vest pocket. I pull it out. Soaked through, the ink bleeding, but I can still read her handwriting. Small and precise, with the loops on her g's curving back too far, like they're reaching for something.
Contract parameters: Attend wedding. Act as boyfriend. Look scary. Three days. No real feelings.
No real feelings.
I stare at the words until the ink blurs. Until the paper goes soft between my fingers and starts to tear. My hand closes into a fist. The napkin compresses into a wet ball smaller than my thumbnail.
No real feelings.
My right arm moves before my brain authorizes it. Pure muscle memory. The same swing I've used to crack ogre skulls and split ironwood shields. Shoulder rotation, hip pivot, full extension.
My fist goes through the wall like it's wet paper.
Plaster explodes. Lath splinters. A cloud of white dust billows out and coats the rain still dripping off my face. My knuckles punch clean through into the next room, which is mercifully empty because Torvin the dwarf drinks until noon on Sundays.
