“Come on, Noël,” he murmurs. “You know you’ve always wanted a man like me on your side. We could make a great team. You and me”—he traces a finger over the counter—“in one bed...”
“I don’t need a man like you.” I narrow my gaze, and my voice is hard as steel. “I’ve done just fine without.” I brush his finger off, and he stumbles. His elbow slips from the wooden surface, and I fight to keep my smirk from stretching too wide as I say, “I think it’s time for you to close your legs, isn’t it?”
His grin disappears, and I savor that tiny victory. But I know better than to think he’ll back off. Men like Arnold never do. He clamps down on my arm with a grip like iron, yanking me from the stool before I have a chance to react.
I grit my teeth and plant my feet as the burn of rage surges through me.
“Oh, you think you’ve earned the right to talk back now?” His grip tightens, the pressure around my arm bruising.
Is that the only phrase men know?
But I’m not one of the fresh recruits he pushes around. I’m not weak.
My body reacts before I even realize it. A sharp twist of my torso, years of training taking over, and I wrench free from his hold with a snap that surprises even him. “You’re drunk,” I spit, stepping back to put space between us. “Stop this nonsense.”
But Arnold isn’t deterred. His eyes gleam with something dark, something far more dangerous than the usual drunken state. He moves forward, trying to catch my arm again. “You don’t walk away from me,” he snarls, his voice more menacing by the moment.
I move on instinct to knock his hand away. Caught off guard, he stumbles, and I see the realization in his eyes. I’m not someone he can push around.
The lanterns cast shadows on his face, deepening the ugly twist of his mouth as he lunges again. But I’m ready this time. In one motion, I sidestep and drive my elbow into his ribs. The satisfying sound of his grunt fills the room, but I don’t stop there. I follow through with a quick fist aimed at his stomach that has him doubling over.
You’re pathetic, Arnold.
The inn feels smaller, the shadows longer, as if the walls are closing in. I can feel every gaze on me, the other patrons watching but none of them moving. No one’s stepping in. Typical. If I were a man, everyone would be involved by now.
Arnold straightens, gasping for air, his face twisted in rage. “You think you’re better than me?” he spits, voice rough, as if each word scrapes his throat. He swings, his mead-soaked brain slowing his reflexes.
I duck easily, and my fist connects with his gut once more, even harder than before. The force sends him staggering back, knocking over a chair.
For a second, I think it’s over. He’s down, clutching his stomach, struggling to catch his breath. But I know he won’t stay down for long. He’s not just angry, he’s humiliated. And a humiliated man is far more dangerous.
As expected, he lunges at me again, his hand shooting out to grab a fistful of my hair.
Wrong move. I dodge him as my hand snaps to catch his wrist and twist it behind his back. He lets out a yelp, and his knees bend as I force him down.
“You are too weak, Arnold,” I whisper into his ear, tightening my grip on his arm. The room is quiet, I can nearly hear his pulse. But no one moves.
And then, as I’m about to release him, he breaks free with a burst of energy fueled by rage and humiliation. His hand comes fast—too fast for me to block—and the next thing I feel is the sting of his palm as it strikes my face. The force of it sends me reeling, my vision swimming. The sharp sting spreads across my cheek, but I push the pain aside and will myself to stay upright.
I lock eyes with him. I willnotshow weakness. But something’s different now. The room feels colder, and as my gaze moves around the inn, I realize it’s not just about Arnold anymore.
The men sitting in the far corners rise slowly from their seats, looking at one another, then back at me. They’re not here to help.
Arnold smirks as if he’s already won. “Oh, not so tough now, are you?”
The innkeeper pretends to wipe down the counter, avoiding eye contact, while the barmaid stands frozen, still clutching the tankard she was pouring. The tension in the room tightens around me. I can hear the crack of knuckles, the creak of leather as more men circle closer. Commander Barric gets up, then sits back down. Looks around the room.
What was that about?
Arnold’s grin widens. “Come on, Noël,” he taunts. “You should know better than to challenge me.”
I don’t think. I lunge. My fist slams into his face with enough power to send him flying backward into a table. The wood groans under his weight, hitting the wall as mugs and shards of glass tumble to the floor.
Before I can steady my breath, something hard slams into the back of my head. The pain is blinding, like fire spreading through my skull. The world tilts as black spots swarm at the edges of my vision. My legs give way, and I collapse toward the cold, unforgiving stone floor. Sounds become distant, andArnold’s leering face is the last thing I see before everything turns black.
3
THE EDGE OF NIGHT
