Page 6 of Taken By Shadows

But looking at the sort of people who sat around us, Jon’s warning rang through me, and I suddenly felt very naked without any sort of weapon. I had used swords before, when Leesha’s father made them. I’d snuck into the small forge when he’d finish his work to pick up some of the blades. I had some basic knowledge of holding a weapon, but no one ever trained me. Hunting and foraging had made me better with a blade than I had any right to be.

The people of Shadowfall didn’t deny Leesha or Jon trade, but they were loath to interact with me. So I hunted my own game, my skills honed by need and prejudice.

Seeing some of the people around us now, I’d have liked something to defend myself with.

A woman with a smeared apron found us and, without asking, placed two frothing mugs of musty ale down on our rickety table.

“Food?” She asked with a tired look on her face.

Bray looked at me for a beat, then back at her. “Two.” He held up his fingers so there was no mistaking his request in the clamorous room.

She left as if we had just been the worst part of her day.

“Two what?” I leaned in once she was out of earshot.

“No idea!” His laugh was a little loud for this cramped space, and more than one set of eyes found us after his outburst.

Pies. Two pies arrived, dripping some sort of delicious syrup and steaming through two slits in the pastry top.

A distant and dusty part of my mind reminded me I was in company and should eat with a little more dignity. It’s just Bray, the hungrier part of my mind shot back.

His chestnut eyes fell on me in amusement, and I gulped down my half-chewed bite. Without thinking, I brushed the crumbs off his cheek.

“Bray Whitlock, you can’t be brought anywhere in civil society. Can you?”

But as soon as I’d touched his face, I groaned internally. Too familiar. Too much.

I wrapped my hands around the mug of ale to do something else with them.

My blonde hair spilled from the sides of the cloak and glowed in the flickering lights as I sipped the warm ale. I pulled my face back with a grimace at the sour taste.

“How do you drink that?” I asked, eyeing him as he upended his mug.

But he ignored my question and instead took my hand across the table.

The contact was my own fault, I supposed. But I couldn’t stifle the stiffness that solidified in my bones.

“How many have you had?” I asked, despite knowing he’d only had the one, and I pulled my hand back, but he held it tight.

Tension curled in the air between us.

My hand felt warm in his work-hardened hand; the calluses and grooves of his skin were rough from his labour on his family’s farm.

The hearth crackled, and the din around us rumbled.

Bray’s eyes lifted, the deep brown of them searched mine. For what, I wasn’t sure. But I saw something different in them.

“I’m grown now. I’m a man.”

He said it out of nowhere, and I actually laughed.

“Of course you are. What are you talking about, Bray?”

“I’m saying. If you—if you need anything. I can provide it.”

Unease curdled in my stomach.

I didn’t want to have this conversation. Not now. Not having difficult conversations had been part of why I hadn’t explained that I was leaving.