Page 5 of A Kiss From a Wolfman
Timson nods, taking a large gulp of his ale.
“You could say that,” he says, pining me with a look as he licks the foam from his unkempt beard. “Killing is when a man is most in control—the state in which we were meant to show our unparalleled prowess. That is why you should accompany me as requested—it is a privilege to bear witness to one as exceptional as myself in that state, I’m told.”
I smile politely and avert my gaze to the mug in my hand. It’s a wonder I haven’t rubbed off its silver coating.
“I’m afraid I don’t have the stomach for such things, sir. I barely eat meat as it is. Therefore, I don’t think?—”
“I am well aware of your peculiar tastes, Stella.”
My name upon his lips causes my stomach to churn. I don’t have to look up to know his eyes have narrowed. Clearly, he is recalling the times he’s left boar meat at my door, and I let it go rotten before some other predator drug it away. You would think after the tenth time, a man would get the hint that hisgiftswere not wanted.
“Well,” I say, hoping to end this interaction for the evening. “I am pleased you all returned safely from your excursion.”
The lie tastes like bile, but I swallow it down.
“He’s being modest,” one of Timson’s lackeys—Jaq—says and claps him on the back.
I somehow manage not to roll my eyes—modest is one of the last words I’d use to describe Timson. This tavern and the one time I had the unfortunate pleasure of glimpsing his home are littered with his hunting trophies. How can one live surrounded by so much death?
“We captured a demon,” Jaq continues.
“A beast—you wouldn’t believe the size of,” another voice chimes in—Henri.
“Men,” Timson says, “I’m sure the lady isn’t interested in the extraordinary details of our hunt. We nearly lost our lives out there when I stared down the muzzle of that creature.”
My brows lower, but Timson clasps his mug in his hand and turns to his hunting party.
“To the devils that walk upright like men. May their heads always find themselves mounted on my walls.”
The group of men bang their mugs together in a hearty cheer. Frothy ale slips over the sides and splatters onto the top of the bar. Setting down my clean mug, I push up on my toes to wipe up the mess they’ve made on the wooden top. Timson stares at me over the lip of his mug—I can feel his eyes like a caress.
Before I register his movements, his hand comes down atop mine, trapping me. My head snaps up as the ale-soaked rag wets my palm. His dark eyes rove over me, openly appraising the curve of my waist and the neckline of my gown. It is modest, and yet his stare makes me feel naked—I itch to find another layer to cover myself so there is no skin for his eyes to behold.
“You know,” he purrs, loud enough for his hunting party to hear, “I’ve been thinking about how unsafe your cottage is. All alone inThe Woods—it’s not a place for a lone woman.”
I give him my most gracious smile—an expression I’ve mastered during interactions such as these. Gently, I pull my hand back, wanting to scrub the skin raw and remove the feel of his calloused fingers atop mine.
“Thank you for your concern, sir, but I like my cottage.”
Timson’s lips tighten.
“Something awful could happen to you, and no one is there to help.” He takes a sip from his mug, setting it with a thud atop the bar. “You should come live with me.”
His offer rips breath from his lungs. He has been forward before, but this is something new. The room feels too small as if the walls are pressing in on me.
Timson seems not to notice my rigid posture as he continues.
“After my wife’s death, I need someone tending to my children. Childbirth fever took her before she could give me the ten that I wanted.” He grins, showing me his yellowed teeth. Clearly, the memory of his deceased wife is not a sad one. “Besides, a woman as pretty as you shouldn’t work. I can provide for you.”
My mouth goes dry. It feels as if I’ve swallowed poison. Beyond my churning stomach, my hands tremble as they ring in front of my white apron. Children with Timson? I couldn’t think of a worse fate. No, I won’t even consider such a thing.
I have not come this far only to end up in a loveless pairing with a man I despise. My lips part as if to tell him as much—summoning all the courage I have to do so—when, as if by magic, Old Bill appears next to me behind the bar. Dropping off a fresh set of mugs, his wrinkled fingers gently push them toward me. His brown eyes sparkle behind the thick rims of his round glasses.
“What is this I hear about devils?” he asks, the wrinkles on his face pulling tight as he raises a gray brow.
I sigh and try not to sag with relief as Old Bill stands before me, partially blocking me from the other man.
Timson’s eyes narrow, but he steps back from the bar. This unfortunate conversation has been put to rest, at least for tonight. However, I know it won’t be long before he broaches the topic again, and I’ll have to give my answer.
