Page 8 of Sweetling
There.
He spotted her easily amongst the crowd.
Molly.
A peculiar name.
Everything about her was so totally anathema to a fae, from her brown curls cut short to her shoulders, her warm tanned skin and brown freckles patterning her nose and cheeks, and most especially her buxom figure testing the integrity of her embroidered bodice. Her smiles were often, her colors were warm and intoxicating, and her scent…
Allarion first spied her drawing water from a well in one of the city squares. Inexplicably drawn to the way her plush mouth moved as she spoke with other women, he’d discreetly followed her back to a tavern. Nothing distinguished it from other establishments like it throughout the city—but the others didn’t haveher.
Allarion didn’t imbibe—he’d no need to. Still, he’d taken to coming at least once a fortnight to sit near the back, an untouched tankard before him, just to seeher.
He wasn’t the only one who came to see her. The tavern crowded full most nights, and Molly kept them laughing and drinking with her wit and liveliness. There was a particular way she tossed her hair…and how she twisted her body around chairs and tables so gracefully…and how she bent over when delivering the drinks…
It stirred something in Allarion he hadn’t felt in…centuries, probably. He’d partaken in his share of pleasures—one partner, multiple, orgies, as well as years of celibacy. A fae lived so long, they had ample time to explore what pleased them most. Yet, as the magic soured with the lengthening of Amaranthe’s reign, desire for anything shriveled inside him.
Molly reignited what had once been dead with a lopsided smile and jaunty sway of her ample backside.
Fae could be known for their avariciousness; he’d never desired wealth nor acclaim, but since seeing her, what he desired above all was Molly.
It was the perfect solution. A humanazaiwho awoke his instincts and interest would surely hasten a bond to the land and therefore his ultimate goal. That she incited his black blood to burning only made it sweeter.
The couple didn’t seem overly pleased to see that his plan now had a purpose.
Watching them carefully, Allarion said, “Your promise shall be to smooth my way if an opportunity arises—and if not, then to at least not interfere.”
A tendon kicked in the half-orc’s neck.
“Very well,” said Hakon. “I wish you luck in your courting.”
That was all he needed.
“Thank you, my friend.” Allarion clapped Hakon’s shoulder before taking Lady Aislinn’s hand and kissing the back. “I look forward to seeing you at the next council meeting, heiress. Hopefully as a mated man.”
Lady Aislinn blinked in bemusement but finally nodded.
With a final farewell, Allarion left the couple, satisfied that he had gotten all he wanted.
As he made for the stables to introduce the precocious princess to Bellarand, he couldn’t help chuckling to himself, though. For as strange as he found humans and orcs and the others, they seemed to find him infinitely stranger.
How fascinating.
2
The wedding of the Darrowlands heiress was like something out of a fairy tale, the ones they told little children before bedtime. Even a green, half-orc groom didn’t ruin the vision—if anything, it only enhanced Molly’s wonder at the whole day. He certainly cut a handsome figure up there, beneath the trellis festooned with wisteria blooms, looking down at their heiress like she was everything good and sweet in this world.
Molly and the other barmaids of the city, drafted to help serve the hundreds who’d come to see Lady Aislinn marry her blacksmith betrothed, had sighed with the romance of it all. Lady Aislinn’s gown, the crystals dripping from her hair, the way she smiled without reservation up at her groom, all of it made even Molly’s heart melt a little.
Now, though, it was time to work.
Opportunities like today didn’t come around often. The Darrows were compensating all staff handsomely, even the temporary help like her, and Molly looked forward to adding the handful of coins she was set to make to her secret store of funds.
She’d been growing the little trove since arriving at her uncle Brom’s tavern, knowing that someday, she wanted to start out on her own. No one was going to come and sweep Molly off her feet—fairy tales didn’t happen for barmaids. So she saved the coins patrons slipped and flipped her before her uncle could make them disappear, preparing for the day when…
Well, when something happened.
As she often had to remind Uncle Brom, she was very grateful for him taking her in. She loved her little cousins—Brom had managed to father five of them between two wives and a mistress—and even loved the tavern itself. Were the patrons loud and handsy? Sure, but they were also lively and often generous. It didn’t take more than a wink sometimes to earn a little tip.
