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“Sure, you’re big and tall and have muscles heaped upon muscles, but you’re an ugly brute with all those scars and that ever-present scowl. Intimidates the hardest of men, it does. Comes in handy on dangerous roads. But I can’t figure how you draw women to you like bees to honey. They practically throw themselves at you wherever we go.”
The boy was prone to exaggeration.
It was true that Wolfe didn’t lack for female companionship when he wanted it. Women liked him, despite his appearance and imposing physicality, becausehelikedthem. And he showed it. No matter their age, from the smallest to the eldest, he treated them with respect and a natural affection.
This life had little softness in it. The way Wolfe looked at it, women embodied home and haven. They responded to his strength and protectiveness the way he felt drawn to their sweetness and light.
At that rare, fanciful thought, the door to the tavern slammed open against the opposite wall, as a slim, hooded figure stepped inside, bringing in a burst of cold rain and blustery wind.
The stranger stood still for a few moments, taking in their surroundings, the cowl of their mantle obscuring their features as they turned their head.
Wolfe used this opportunity to complete his own assessment.
The stranger was the size of a young boy, and not the overgrown bull-calf that Tristan was, who boasted a large frame that would fill with bulk in a couple of years. The stranger was slight in build but not in presence.
No, they radiated an aura of power and danger so palpable, the shorthairs on the back of Wolfe’s neck stood upright with awareness.
The newcomer was dressed in a warrior’s garb—a torso-hugging tunic belted at the waist, and supple leather breeches that ended in ankle boots. The metallic hilt of a sword just over their shoulder caught the light from nearby torches.
Instinctively, Wolfe gripped his own scabbard beneath the table.
No matter the stranger’s size, he was clearly a threat and not to be underestimated.
“Well, well. What have we here? A little elfin boy? Is that a needle yer carrying behind yer back?”
Apparently, Wolfe’s was not the only attention the stranger attracted.
The table of soldiers, fresh from war, set their none-too-friendly sights on the boy.
Man.
Whoever he was.
Wolfe could hear the bloodthirstiness in the speaker’s tone; see the anticipation of a fight in his comrades’ still battle-wild eyes.
The stranger strode further into the tavern, paying no heed to the hungry jackals nipping at his heels.
“Lady,” he said in a low, husky voice to the curvaceous barmaid, “what is the cost of wine and food here? Enough to fill three empty stomachs?”
The hostess approached him balancing a tray of libation for another table in the corner.
They were of similar height, and the woman likely outweighed the boy-man by a stone. But he seemed taller, with his ramrod straight posture. His presence took up its own space.
The maid stopped abruptly within two feet of him, as if she encountered an invisible forcefield around his person.
“Show me your coin, and I’ll tell you the menu,” the hostess returned, taking in the stranger’s clothing with a calculating eye.
“I have no coin,” the boy-man said. “But I—”
“I’ll give ye ten gold pennies fer the needle,” the soldier at the table of rabid jackals spoke up again, his tone more aggressive than before, showing his ire at being ignored.
“That bought a feast fer me whole troop, ain’t that right, Red?”
The red-headed barmaid shrugged and moved away from the boy-man.
Her answer was clear: no coin, no food. Not even a discussion about other ways to pay for food, as the stranger was clearly leaning towards a trade.
Wolfe scanned his person again.
