Page 19 of On Broken Bonds

Nyx

I still cannot allow myself to cry.

Not here, sitting at this old, weathered bar, my palm cupped around a warm tin cup of ale. Not with the men laughing and jostling around me as I wait for my bowl of stew.

It’ll be nothing like Hilda’s cooking, I know. She warned me of how the inns and taverns would water down their offerings, until the meal would be more broth than substance, but I have no other ideas for where to eat tonight, and no interest in going out on the street again.

Even if that might be my best bet at finding a partner for the Trials.

I can’t stop thinking about Lyra. Where she is right now. If she’s safe. If those vampires took any liberties, biting or otherwise, while transporting her to the capital.

Surely, she’s safe. That’s the honor of being the Courted Prize. Lavish quarters, the best handmaidens in the land. Constant care and treats, like the pastries, the chocolates, and the exotic and expensive tarts you might try as the Courted Prize.

Still, if those accouterments don’t include medicine, my sister could be suffering greatly at the present. Besides, it’s not as though the gods are particularly known for telling the truth, especially when it comes to their treatment of mortals.

I’m so deep in my thoughts that the ruckus around me fades to the background, dimming. That is, until a body settles into the barstool beside mine, and I’m instantly aware of the man sitting there.

Swallowing, I force myself not to turn and look at him. Even without turning my head, though, I can understand the grand scope of him. He’s a big man. A strong man. He has the tough hands of a fighter, which are tapping on the bar thoughtlessly.

Even from here, I can make out the mussed brown hair on his head, falling down over his forehead. The sharp line of a Roman nose, his jaw strong, but softened with stubble matching the color of his head. He smells of a scent I can’t place, familiar yet distant.

Perhaps oakmoss, old pen ink and earth, resinous forest lichen. Bittersweet and leathery, though that could be the rich, dark brown jacket he wears, which conforms to his shoulders and broad chest like a well-worn glove.

I realize, without meaning to, I’ve let my eyes stray to him after all. I snap them back, hoping he hasn’t noticed me staring, and swallow down the breathlessness I feel. My lungs are light and airy, hard to fill, as though the linings have turned to cheesecloth.

This man is beautiful like an expanse of forest, catching a glimpse of the rolling fog at night. He’s beautiful like when I open my eyes in the water, watching the reach of lake weed at the bottom, yearning for the surface of the water.

Perhaps this man is a magic wielder, casting a glamor over himself to affect such beauty. Or perhaps he’s not a man at all. He could be a vampire. A shifter. A creature able to embody beauty beyond what humans can hold, even in their prime.

The bartender finally appears, and he orders stew and ale, like me, in a voice low enough that I feel it vibrating in my bones.

I bite my tongue hard and try to get a grip on myself. Even if he’s casting some sort of magic, I should keep control. Has it really been so long since I’ve been around an attractive man that simply the sight of him, his presence beside me, makes me this breathless and uncertain, as though my insides are leaking straight through the boundaries of myself?

“Are you new to the city?”

At first, when he speaks, I don’t register that it’s directed at me. It feels absurd, that a being like him might even talk to me. Might even realize I exist in the first place.

I’m acting ridiculously, and I don’t like it at all. Shifting slightly, I gather myself and turn to him, careful to be reserved, not to show the effect he’s having on me.

“I am,” I say carefully, wondering if he’s noticed my distinct lack of a chaperon. “Though I’ve always wanted to visit, and have done extensive research.”

“And yet, you’ve chosen this inn for your lodgings?”

I bite my tongue. Hilda and Ivor would not be happy to know a man had discovered my lodgings quite so easily. And that he already knew I was inexperienced in the city and likely alone.

“Relax, I was just joking,” he says with a laugh, his eyes darting to the barkeep. “The owners are good people. The locks on the rooms are sturdy. You should be fine.”

Despite what he says, I do not relax. “Is there another inn I should have considered, instead?”

“The Bardlebee Inn, on the end of the street, doesn’t water down the stew as much.”

“If you don’t like it,” the barmaid says, arriving quite suddenly in front of us, dropping down two bowls of stew and two chunks of bread. I blink at her, realizing I’ve been so swallowed in him the rest of the tavern disappeared around me. “Then stop ordering it.”

“Thank you, Bertha,” the man says, smiling cheekily at the older woman, and even that from him is impossibly charming. There’s a boyish cut to the hard lines of his beauty.

Bertha, to her credit, only rolls her eyes and turns, stalking away to bring food to another pair of bar residents as though this man has absolutely no effect on her. Maybe he doesn’t. Maybe I’m just particularly susceptible, having thrown myself into an unknown city like this.

“Look,” he says, turning to me suddenly, and I have to avert my eyes to keep them from wandering over the expanse of chest that’s suddenly available to me, covered as it is with a thin cotton shirt visible through his open jacket. He’s so visibly strong, it’s hard to keep my gaze from him. “I was at the palace. When you went before the gods.”