Page 53 of Blood of the Fairest

But instead of clearing out, the four drunk men toss coins onto the table and follow the women outside.

If anyone else in here noticed what just happened, they go on chattering, eating their food, and minding their business.

"Verena?" Eris asks.

This time, I realize he's talking to me from the reflection of a mug facing me on a nearby table. I'm sure it gives him a great view as I give up looking for Merrick and race out the side door after the drunk assholes instead.

I find myself in a narrow, dead-end alleyway. The four men have already cornered the two maids out of sight from anyone in the streets of Isenmere.

The supermodel is glowering at the men, tensed with one hand inside her dress pocket.

The blond maid's gaze sweeps to me. I don't get why she looks more anxious than before until I remember what I look like. For all she knows, I'm another drunk sleazebag.

"Look how quick they lose their bravery once we're alone!" the handsy man laughs, soaking wet from his drink. He has one of the worst haircuts I've ever seen. "Now, now, ladies, no need to get your hackles up. I just want a thorough apology for your rudeness. My tunic is ruined, after all."

Some people are born with all the fucking nerve.

The idea of this jackass demanding an apology for the consequences of treating someone like an object scrapes against my old trauma until anger starts to pump through my veins, hot and thick.

A smoky voice I've heard before echoes very faintly inside my head.

Such righteous rage against such deplorable vermin. You've experienced but a fraction of my reckoning, so you know I can punish them far better than you can. Merely let the true name of Wrath fall from your lips.

I'm not sure the telepathy goes both ways, or else I would send a string of creative cussing back at the asshole faerie. I don't remember his name, nor would I want to—and I definitely don't want him talking in my head just because of how pissed off I am.

Ignoring the goosebumps on my arms from hearing the Faerie of Wrath, I stride toward the four men.

Time to find out if this plain shoemaker knew how to throw a punch.

The tense maid is glaring at Haircut. "Ingrid is the one who deserves your apology. Take one step closer, and I'll ruin a lot more than just your tunic."

Ingrid, the blond, swallows hard. "It's really okay, Anika. Sir, I'm sorry about your⁠—"

"Not you," he slurs drunkenly, gesturing at the supermodel. "You. Come on now, get on your knees and apologize for being so cruel to a paying custom⁠—"

Haircut doesn't get to finish that word before my fist connects with the back of his head, sending him toppling to the ground.

My brief stint as a knight in shining armor ends when the impact registers through my knuckles. It's the first time I've really punched someone before, and I curse like a sailor, shaking out my hand.

"Ow! What the hell is your skull made out of, cement?" I demand.

Another one of the men shouts, barreling toward me. I try to pivot out of the way like I once learned to in one of the many self-defense classes I've taken over the last decade, but he tackles me.

We both crash hard to the cobblestones. Soon, I'm wrestling with this booze-scented motherfucker, trying to avoid his fists.

Vaguely, I'm aware that the other men in this alley are shouting, crying out as if in pain—but I'm too distracted to see why until I knee this guy hard in the balls and shove him off of me.

As I sit up, it hits me.

A smell like peach juice mixed with strawberries. There's some lime somewhere in there, too. It's so strong and sudden that my mouth waters, my gaze honing in on where Haircut is now gripping a laceration on his shoulder.

"You bitch!" he shouts.

Two of his friends, one clutching his crotch from my efforts and the other sporting cuts on his arms and shoulders, race out of the alley. The fourth man is unconscious on the ground, a lump forming on his head as blood trickles from a slash on his side.

That sight makes my throat constrict sharply.

Anika holds a dripping dagger, standing defensively in front of a wide-eyed Ingrid.