Page 41 of Morfran, Dark Lord Reformed

“Benjamin.” He shook his goat friend. “Wake up.”

The animal blinked groggily, raising her eyes to meet his. It’s two in the morning, Morf, her look seemed to say. Why are you doing this to me?

“It’s time to go,” he whispered. “These people want me to kill myself. Can you believe that? Here, stand up. I’ll grab the kids.”

In response Benjamin dropped her head back onto her straw pillow and took up snoring again.

He huffed, rising. This wasn’t in his plans. He certainly didn’t want to carry her and her children out of the city in addition to his getaway bag. Right as he decided he’d have to give Beni a gentle rousing kick to wake her up, something hit the back of his knees so hard he buckled to the ground.

“Hey!” he half whispered, half shouted, out of shock and slight fear. Was it Ravana’s men? Was there a spy within the city who’d come to assault him?

Then he sensed it more than saw it. Someone swinging at his neck. He spun and tried to knock them over with a sweep of his foot. The individual—all cloaked in black—jumped just in time and was already recoiling backwards with a fluid grace as Morfran rose to his feet and bum-rushed them.

The person tripped over literally nothing. Morfran, coming at them with a speed not suitable for emergency stops, crashed, knocked over, and landed right atop them, which broke his fall and allowed him to catch a confusing whiff of something flowery.

A feminine oof rose from his assaulter’s mouth.

He blinked down at her. “Bronwen?”

She pulled off her assassin’s mask. In the silver moonlight, her eyes flashed with anger. “I didn’t want to believe it!” she growled. “But I had a feeling you’d try and ditch us. You unbelievable coward!”

Her knee came up into his tender bits, and he recoiled, groaning. She quickly scampered out from under him.

“Just when we started to believe in you, you decide to run away! Why, Bernard? Are you scared of Morfran’s wrath? Do you think we don’t have a chance to beat him?”

Morfran considered that a loaded question, and one he couldn’t answer due to his current state of testicular pain.

“Or is this just who you are? You like running from your problems, don’t you? Do you like ditching a situation when times get tough?” She propped her hands on her hips as she glowered down at him. “Well?”

Morfran groan-laughed. This woman was going to be the death of him. Whether she found out who he really was or whether she got sick of the man he pretended to be, she was quite possibly going to be the one to end his life. He eventually managed to pull himself to his feet, stooping over, holding his lower abdomen. “It isn’t that I’m frightened of Morfran, or that I got bored of you lot.” He straightened. “It’s just I really don’t want to be here.”

He launched at her with her dagger. When he’d crash-landed atop her, he’d hastily slipped it out of the pocket she loved to keep it in. He moved so swiftly she couldn’t properly defend herself, and soon had her pressed up against the barn wall, her knife resting against her throat.

She attempted to fight back, half-panicked, but her efforts were great and the hex kicked in, so she only ended up cutting her fingers on her dagger.

“Stop it,” he demanded when he saw the blood. “You’ll just hurt yourself further.”

“As if you care! You were going to leave me hexed!”

He paused, and then nodded, admitting it nonverbally before admitting it verbally. “All right, yes. You’ve got a point. Would you prefer me to kill you now, or leave the hex to do that for you?”

In response she lashed her knee up at him again, which he avoided only because he’d been expecting it. “Right, then.” He chuckled and went to yank the knife against her throat to finally put her out of her misery.

But his hand wouldn’t do it. She was the only thing in the way between him and a life of jammy bliss with his goats. A quick flick of his wrist and he could be miles away by the time Brim and his men realized he was gone. But he couldn’t jerk the knife. Something within him, not a curse, not a hex, not anything but some profoundly confusing sentiment was stopping him.

It was Beni, staring up at him, her gaze watchful of the knife in his hands. Are you really going back to this, Morf?

He huffed, irritated. Shuffled in place. Repositioned the knife. Then the question burst from him without him even thinking. “Why do you always smell like posies?”

Bronwen blinked, confused.

He put the knife back against her throat, fidgeting back and forth. He’d been the Dark Lord of Ruthven™, damn it. He’d sliced the throats of enemies on the daily. Why couldn’t he do it now? He’d been wholly prepared to do similarly to Gueldefore the other day. Had to hold himself back, actually.

“Are you going to do this?” She flitted a look over him. “Or do you have to pee first?”

With an aggravating growl he tore away from her, kicking at a sodden pile of straw and propping his hands atop his head in frustration. He turned away only to turn back to her, jabbing the knife at her. “You’re lucky the goat likes you.”

She looked just as confused as before. “What?”