"You cannot mend what's broken with false promises and pretty words," I retort, my grip tightening on the dagger that rests at my hip. "You claim to be a man now; then prove it to me."
************
Stjarna is a passionate Dane woman born during a ra...
Okay I know this chapter is long, but trust me you'll want to read it! 😏 It's worth it in the end.
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Fuck this. I'm getting drunk.
My chest tightens unbearably when I notice Sihtric's absence in the tavern. Surely he's not with her. I need something strong. Anything to get rid of this pain between my ribs, the roaring in my head. I will give anything to lose it all, even just for a few hours.
I stalk my way back to the table where Æthelflæd, Aldhelm and the other Mercians have resumed their card game. "Drink?" I ask no one in particular over the clamour of the tavern.
"You don't have to ask me twice!" One of the men—whose name I have already forgotten—exclaims.
"Agreed" says another.
Æthelflæd's brows bunch together slightly in question, and I give her a reassuring nod in return. If Sihtric can go and enjoy his night without a second thought, then why shouldn't I?
I saw you for who you truly are. A conniving, deceitful, pathetic excuse for a man—
Get out. I command my thoughts. Piss off and let me be.
Two of the men and a woman from our table follow me over to the booth while Æthelflæd and Aldhelm opt to stay behind and continue losing money to one another. I can't help but notice the way Aldhelm's eyes linger on his Lady, even when he should be adding the value of his cards in order to win—so he explained—those blue orbs still remain fixated on Æthelflæd's stunning face. She has mentioned nothing of her husband Æthelred the last few hours, or at all really. The man who calls himself 'The King of Mercia' as Sihtric once said. The one who could use my 'sharp-tongue.' I wonder how sharp Æthelflæd could contort her tongue to be, behind her kind and gentleness.
"Four ales!" The tallest man in our group shouts to an overworked barmaid. "Unless you'd prefer something stronger?" He winks at me, hazel eyes gleaming and glassy from the daze of alcohol.
"I'm drinking whatever you're buying," I tease. He flashes me a handsome smile while the barmaid pours the ale into four pints messily, the contents sloshing over the side of each cup adding to the sticky residue on the bar top. She slides them across the wood after he tosses her a few silver coins, then distributes them to our group.
"Thank you..." my words trail off. Shit, what was his name? La—Lo—I know it started with an L.
"Leowald," he stifles a laugh as I take the pint from him.
"Yes, of course. I know." I can only pray that my smile hides my guilt. Leowald is a handsome man, for a Mercian. He has a youthful countenance, framed by tousled chestnut hair that falls in soft waves around his face. The unique shade of browny-green in his round eyes radiates an alluring charisma, the hint of arrogance emanating from within them. He has broad shoulders that narrow into a slim waist, with large forearms uncovered by the tunic that is bunched up around them. A full beard frames his sharp jawline, and as I study his features he scratches at it casually, waiting for me to spark up conversation. But instead, I take a large sip from my ale, the savoury flavour burning as it slips down my throat.
