Page 6 of Blood & Claw

The back of her neck prickled, and she straightened up.

Turning, her gaze met Lewis’s across the crowd.

Shit.

She’d never run into him at market. Indeed, he looked out of place here. Wearing his leather smith’s apron, his brawny arms streaked with soot, he held a dead fowl by the feet in one hand. It looked like someone had sent him out on an errand.

And as they stared at each other, tension rippled across his features. He looked almost … guilty.

Heat quickened in her belly. Gods damn him, he was still handsome, and admitting such infuriated her.

Handsome and an arse.

The last two turns of the moon rolled away, and suddenly, she was back standing in this same spot before the roaring bonfire, mocking laughter ringing in her ears. The Warrior’s Cods. She didn’t need reminding of that night—indeed, she’d done her best to forget it.

She’d also tried to forget her loss of control.

The rage that had exploded inside her had been as terrifying as it had been exhilarating. She’d pushed it down, had tried to pretend it hadn’t happened, but seeing him brought it all back.

Turning away, she started to push through the crowd, toward one of the wynds that would take her home.

She was done shopping.

However, she’d barely gone a few yards when Lewis’s voice reached her. “Ailsa! Stop!”

Coming to an abrupt halt, she spun around to face him. “What do you want?”

Breathing hard, he stopped before her. The fowl he still gripped dripped blood onto the dirt. “About Harvest Fire … I—”

“I don’t want to hear it,” she cut him off. And she really didn’t.

“I shouldn’t have let them speak to you like that,” he said then, a muscle feathering in his jaw.

Ailsa fought a lip curl. No, he shouldn’t have, but it was too late for apologies.

She no longer craved his attention or his approval. As the days following Harvest Fire had grown shorter and colder, something had hardened inside her.

She’d shown those people her soft underbelly, and they’d kicked her.

Never again.

“Leave me alone, Lewis.”

He flushed red, drawing back under her coldness.

And this time, he didn’t speak.

Good. They understood each other.

Clutching her basket tightly against her, Ailsa gave him her back and strode away.

A blast of sharp, smoky evening air stung Ailsa’s cheeks as she opened the door.

Stepping back, she allowed tonight’s customer to enter.

Tall, tattooed, and rangy—he had long braided black hair, craggy features, and dark, deep-set eyes.

Closing the door after him, she moved back from the workshop entrance and picked up a cloth. She then resumed wiping down the table a few feet away, all while keeping a wary eye on the newcomer.