Page 48 of White Raven

He blinked at me. “Did you just call him Fluffy?”

“Or Fluffal. Still deciding.”

“It is a draugrhest!” he exclaimed, motioning back to the frightening beast. Pools of black ink reflected back at me with abhorrence.

“So, Mr. Fluffal?”

The Northerner ran a hand down his face, exhaling. A few drunken men strolled out of the inn, peering over at me, quickly shifting his demeanor.

Grabbing my cloak, he tugged it higher over my face, his cruel disposition back in place. “I hope I don’t have to remind you to keep your hood up, and don’t draw attention.”

I was in a provoking mood tonight.

“Why should I?” I challenged. “Why should I listen to the man who has abducted me? Who would love for me to silently and obediently follow him back to his king?”

“Like I could be so lucky. Silent and obedient are the two things you are not.”

“Why start now?” I stepped up to him, taunting him. “Drawing attention might be the very thing to save me from you.”

He tilted his head, countering my step, his body flush against mine.

“There is no saving yourself from me, kanin.” He kept his voice low and calm, his statement heating my skin. “I don’t know how many ways I need to say this. This is not your kingdom. No one here will help you.” He reached up, tucking a loose strand into my hood. His touch felt like a jolt, both threatening and intimate at the same time. “All you will do is become one of those girls on their knees, being sold for auction.” His thumb ran over my bottom lip, his gaze on my mouth, rushing heat into my bones. “The only job you will have cleaning . . . is their knob.” He curved around and headed inside.

The king didn’t raise me to be foolish; that was a freedom Sarina could partake in. She was good at dragging me to the cusp, but I could never fully let go. That was not my duty. My role in life. I had to be sensible.

Which angered me to no end right now.

I understood the Northerner was right; this place had shown nothing but cruelty and heartlessness. Yet everything in me still wanted to defy him like no one I had ever met before, my stubbornness tipping the scales, wanting to outweigh common sense.

Tell him to fuck off. To turn to the nearest person and scream for help.

Another group of men brushed by me, their gazes leering, their dark features latching onto the silver strand tumbling back out of my hood.

“Look at the pretty thing we have here . . .” The man’s drunken breath blew into my face, his gaze hungrily moving down my figure. Once again, I noticed the tint of indigo in his irises, the color sharpening under the torchlight from the building. He leaned in. “You looking to make a few extra coin?”

Stick with the devil you know.

Pushing past them, I ran after the Northerner, stepping into the public house. Instantly, my senses were assaulted by crushing abuse. The pungent odors, the sheer volume of boisterous voices—yelling, laughing, and talking—punched down my throat and buzzed in my head. The surprise of seeing not just Shadow Rifters and Night Ravens, but Day Ravens in the pub as well. Their white hair sprinkled like snowflakes among the darkness, lifting drinks and sharing tables with the enemy. It was instinct to want to run to them, to tell them who I was. They were duty-bound to help me, right?

My intuition told me the Northerner was right. They did not live here because they liked King Stallard.

No one would help me here.

The stuffy room was packed with people who didn’t seem to have any understanding of personal space, crowding together, bumping, and knocking into me. The smell of body odor, ale, and burnt barley had my mouth gaping like a fish, trying to keep the sharp aromas from coating my tongue.

Lanterns dimly glowed in the room, defining the long community tables, low arched ceilings, and large fireplace cooking with pots. A meat I couldn’t distinguish rolled on the spit.

My father loved to throw festivities, the gala room teeming with lords and ladies, but when my handmaidens and I moved through a room, everyone parted ways, clearing space for me. My guards always made sure they were a boundary between me and them.

Here, I was drowning in a sea of people, sinking to the depths.

Like a fishing line, an arm cut through the figures and hooked around my wrist, yanking me from the abyss. The Night Raven hauled me to him, his gaze rolling over me, noting the way my chest huffed in and out, perspiration lining my forehead.

“Calm down.” His jaw strained, a frown forming on his lips. “And stay close to me.” His only words of comfort before moving us deeper into the room. The man was so large and intimidating, people scrambled out of his way, crafting a bubble of safety in his wake.

The panic attack lingered, but oddly, his huge figure and the firmness of his fingers around my arm made me feel protected, like I was a parasite fish, benefiting from hanging out with a predator.

“Sit,” he ordered, pushing me to the only vacant stool at the end of a long table. I dropped down, my bones aching from riding all day. Everything hurt. The wound in my arm throbbed, my stomach howled, and every muscle in my body cried in pain.