Page 12 of The Gambler's Prize
“I don’t care. I just thought you might have some, considering how… fancy your tastes run.” He picks up a feather boa with thumb and forefinger, grimacing as though the feathery fluff is contagious. I snatch it from him angrily.
“If you must know, I’ve lost all my jewelry,” I say.
“Gambling?”
“I’m an addict. In case that wasn’t clear already.”
I say it with no shame. After all, who’s worse, the desperate man or the one who takes advantage of his desperation? Grimes looks at me levelly, his eyes dark and difficult to read.
“Well, are you ready to go?” he grunts.
“Yep. Let’s go start my new life.”
I sound good about it. Strong, optimistic. I won’t let him get me down. Iwillget through this. Lord Florian Southland always lands on his feet.
Chapter 6
Florian
Iassumed we’d go straight home to dig these foundations or whatever we’re going to be doing. But Grimes says we’re staying in town for lunch. He takes me to a rough tavern. I have a sneaking suspicion that he doesn’t want to be caught enjoying my cooking again. After our meal of oversalted meat and undercooked flying rice, he leaves me alone at the table to go to the restroom... which is outside, as usual for Galbrava.Does he trust me not to run from him already? Unlikely. The barman’s eyes are lingering on me. Looks like I’ve been assigned a temporary jailer. Trying to look like I don’t care, I sit back and drink some more water. Might as well pre-hydrate for the long walk back “home”. No more alcohol for me for the foreseeable future, not after what happened last night. Then a shadow falls over me and I look up. A very large and very drunk man looms over me.
“May I?” he says.
Without waiting for an answer, he pulls out Grimes’ chair and sits down opposite me. My chest tightens. His beery breath reaches me right across the table. It makes me want to gag, but that would be a bad idea. Instinct forces my expression into a placating smile. Where the fuck is Grimes? This man is as big as him, and less controlled in his aggression. It oozes out of him even as he attempts an alluring smile. The scars on his face show he’s no stranger to forcing his will with his fists or worse. He has a curved dagger on his belt, while I have no weapons at all.
“You’re a pretty one,” he says. “Where do you come from?”
“Rhennes.”
“You’re pale for a Rhennian.”
“Oh, my mother was Vennan.”
The lie slips smoothly from my tongue. It should: I’ve told it a thousand times. It’s easier than admitting my mother comes from an enemy empire. My mind slides back to memories of her. It’s always sunny in these memories, the two of us in the garden, sitting in the long grass surrounded by flowers, laughing together and singing. She was always singing. A familiar ache fills my chest. Then the big man leans forward, and the smell of his beery breath and unwashed skin chases the imaginary sweet scent of flowers. His gaze is hungry enough to make me wince.
“Hey, I’m not complaining,” he says. “It makes for very pretty skin.”
He traces a calloused fingertip over my cheek. My nerves crawl. It’s agony not to move back, out of the way. Not to anger him by showing my disgust. Then I spot Grimes coming back across the tavern. A surprising feeling overtakes me. Relief, gratitude. Grimes’ expression darkens as he looks at me, at the drunk man.
“Hands off,” he says. “He’s mine.”
The man stands, his fists going up fast. Grimes shifts his weight. There’s a flash of movement. A crack audible over the buzz of conversation. The man reels back, hands over his nose. He lands on his ass on the hard floor as I stare, aghast. Grimes motions to the bartender, who comes calmly out from behind the bar and drags the unconscious man by his feet toward the door. Blood trickles from his nose, down over his open mouth. No one stands up or protests. All eyes are on us, but everyone is frozen to their seats, too wary to intervene.
“You all right?” Grimes says to me.
I try to answer, but my voice catches in my throat. It’s how casual he was. He took the man out like he was a rabid animal, no second thoughts, no doubts. No guilt. All the man did was touch my cheek. And yeah, I hated it, but what Grimes just did scares me too. He’s looking at his knuckles, a little grumpy but no worse than usual. I know from experience that his knuckles must be ringing with pain. You couldn’t tell to look at him.
“Are you hurt?” Grimes says, misinterpreting my silence.
I swallow, find my voice. “No, Boss. He barely touched me.”
“So what’s wrong? Usually I can’t get you to shut you.”
Honestly? I have no idea what’s wrong with me. I knew he’s an expert boxer, and strong as an ox, and ruthless. I’m not learning anything new here. Except for the fact that he seems weirdly protective of me. That he seems to care if I’m hurt. Maybe he’s just protecting his new servant. He needs me for cooking and digging, after all.
“I’m just not used to bar fights,” I say.
Which is true. I had a bad experience in a bar back home in Rhennes a few years ago. I got into an argument and the other guys caught up with me later, outside. They beat me up so badly I ended up in hospital. I’m more wary now, less inclined to answer back to drunk fools, which explains why I was so passive with the lecherous guy just now. Though if Grimes is going to go full watchdog like he just did, it looks like I won’t have to worry about defending myself for the foreseeable future. He’s glaring at me with a beady look in his eyes now, as though wondering if I’m telling the truth.
