Page 9 of Sweetling
But gratitude didn’t mean she wanted to stay in that tavern forever. She was six-and-twenty and had spent more than half of her life already overseeing her uncle’s tavern and motley brood.
Molly wasn’t sure what else was out there for her—nothing, Brom liked to insist—but she wanted the opportunity to find out. And that required money of her own.
Brom had of course protested her leaving the tavern to work the wedding instead.
“Who’ll look after this place?”he’d complained.
“No one’s going to loiter here when it’s the heiress getting married,”Molly reminded him as she’d left that morning.“I’m sure you can manage the one lost soul who wanders in.”
“But the little ones—”
“Already staking out good spots.”Probably to then sell on their claimed places for a hefty profit, no doubt. Cherubic as the young ones were, they had the shrewd mind of their father.
She’d left Uncle Brom blustering. That was the way to deal with him, for if he was given an inch, he took a foot, as all the women in his life had found out. It was no accident that all of them had left him and no woman in Dundúran would marry him.
Today, he didn’t matter, though.
True, she was working just like any other day, but getting out in the sun, seeing the beautiful ceremony, and taking part in the happiness of the whole city put some jaunt in Molly’s steps. She and the other servers kept the thirsty wedding guests happy as the ceremony came to a close and people began to meander through the courtyard or form a queue to congratulate Lady Aislinn and the new Lord Consort.
Molly flashed her best smile—and her fantastic set of tits—as guests walked past. More than a few extra coins landed on the table she manned, and she was sure to wink and bid them come back for more.
It was a game she and a patron played—just enough flirting and flash of skin to keep them enticed but not encourage more. She’d been working tables and serving drinks since she was a girl of thirteen. Her womanly figure had come in much sooner than most, and to survive, she’d had to learn to use it to her advantage.
She still harbored deep insecurities over her body—her tits often garnered too much attention, and her backside had gone round and her belly soft with the thick tavern foods she ate most days. Patrons,men,sometimes took her curves as invitation to grab and grope. She’d become adept at dodging or rebuffing, knew when to flirt and when to drop her smile, but that didn’t always save her from grasping hands.
It was why, despite her thick thighs, she wore trousers rather than kirtles most days. And why she’d ended up cutting her hair to her shoulders. Not as easy to grab.
Molly didn’t like being grabbed.
Still, for the special day, she’d donned her best kirtle and prettiest blouse, with sleeves she’d embroidered herself. The garb was all bright colors, meant to attract attention, and left the top swells of her breasts exposed. She felt safe serving from behind a table, thinking the worst of it would be a sunburn to her tender tits.
She wasn’t prepared for her peace of mind to come under threat.
Turning from the last patron to the next, Molly nearly jumped a foot in the air when she saw who stood at her table.
The fae.
There he stood, the ghost of her uncle’s tavern. With his impressive height, he positively loomed above her and her table, those dark eyes with their black sclera boring into her with all the intensity of an eclipse.
Fates, something had to be wrong with her, because when he looked down at her like that, something inside her quivered—and not with fear.
Molly didn’t know why, but over a month ago, just as suddenly as he appeared before her now, he’d arrived at her uncle’s tavern, looking lost.
Every patron had gone utterly silent, as if death itself had entered. The fae looked them over with those unnatural eyes, his thin mouth drawn into a perfectly straight line. Covered from shoulder to toe in a cloak blacker than night that seemed to move like shadow, he’d had mercy on them only after agonizing moments of tense silence, taking a seat at the back.
Molly had been the first to recover, forcing her feet to move and take his order.
“Whatever you recommend,”he’d said in a voice smoother than water that made Molly’s toes curl in her old boots.
Men weren’t supposed to sound like that. Like promises made over pillows, warm amber syrup over griddle cakes, and spicy bonfire smoke, all in one.
He said little else, merely sitting in the back for about an hour before leaving. His mead went untouched, and a neat stack of coins had been left on the tabletop for her.
And so it went, a visit every few days. He said very little, even if Molly wished he’d say more. One word from him could hush a room full of rowdy men, which always gave Molly a thrill.
Seeing him here now…
Of course he’d be here, he’s friends with the groom.And had fought alongside Lady Aislinn last winter.Andwas now a landholder of the Darrowlands.
