The Twice-Scorned Lady of Shadow (The Guild Codex: Unveiled #3)(6)

Of course not, Ríkr replied. Why would you?

“She’s pretty hot,” a male voice remarked from among the assorted mythics. “Cameron, you should ask her out.”

“You think?”

“She’s got legs for miles, man. You’ve gotta—”

I turned around again. I couldn’t tell which cluster of men had been discussing my assets, so I slashed my glower across all of them. Fewer people looked away this time. The air of challenge was stronger.

As terse readiness gripped my chest, I realized why I couldn’t make myself play nice. By embracing my druid power, I’d given up “nice Saber.” She’d been born of insecurity, of the belief that no one would accept who I really was. I’d been afraid to be at odds with the entire world. To be an outcast. To be completely, utterly alone.

But now?

I looked down at Ríkr, and my lips lifted in a faint smile. Before he could react, I patted his furry head affectionately.

His whiskers twitched in confusion. Dove?

Thank you, I told him. Before, I’d always been cautious about saying those words to him, but I was his consort now. The ties between us ran far deeper than debts.

I pushed off my stool and swung around. Every pair of eyes snapped to me as I faced the pub.

“If you all keep staring at me, I’ll start carving eyeballs out.”

Silence weighed down on the room in the wake of my flat, icy declaration.

Then another voice rang out, loud with derision. “You and what knife?”

I didn’t see who had spoken, but it didn’t matter. My hand drifted toward the pocket where my switchblade was nestled. But the switchblade was a weapon for taking on humans, not mythics.

So I lifted my other hand. The rune on my wrist flared cold, and with a flash of blue light, a four-foot-long ice spear formed in my hand, the crystalline point aimed at the mythics.

“With this.”

This time, their silence was from surprise, all eyes locked on the gleaming spear. I stared them down for a moment more, then swung the spear. Everyone flinched as it struck my stool and exploded into a starburst of ice.

Ríkr sprang onto my shoulder. As his weight settled next to my jacket collar, I strode past the jagged ice formation, heading for the door. I was done with this. With them. With all this bullshit. I’d show up for my rehab meetings. I’d attend the monthly guild meeting. But that was it.

Morris had said this place could be a home for me, but I didn’t want a home. I had one already.

As I swept toward the door, my skin prickled in warning. My gaze snapped to my left. There, standing almost out of sight on the staircase, one shoulder propped against the wall and arms crossed, was my mentor, Aaron Sinclair.

Had he been waiting there this whole time? Had he left me alone at the bar on purpose, testing my reaction the same way I’d tested Darius in our meeting?

My upper lip curled, and I shoved through the door into the cool night air.

I didn’t need a home here. The rescue was my home, and these people and their judgments could burn in hell for all I cared.





CHAPTER THREE





The musty odor of manure permeated the morning air as I stood at the rust-spotted metal fence. A nonstop chorus of whinnies, grunts, and stamping hooves was occasionally pierced by high-pitched neighs. Distress and despair hung over the endless maze of pens like a miasma. I was choking on it, sick with it, my human and druid senses overwhelmed.

Three horses milled anxiously at the back of the small pen in front of me, and with a quick glance to ensure no one was paying attention, I climbed over the barrier.

The horses pricked their ears toward me, white showing around their eyes. Cooing softly, I approached to within a few feet, then offered a welcoming hand and waited. The nearest, a bay mare, stretched her neck out. I leaned in and blew softly toward her face. Her nostrils worked, and she huffed back at me, stepping closer for a better greeting. I blew on her nose again, a horsey hello, then stroked her bony neck.

A brief examination showed she was malnourished and in desperate need of a hoof trim, but otherwise in decent shape—terrible shape compared to a healthy horse, but decent when measured against many of the horses up for auction.

Rub marks on her belly from a cinch strap revealed she’d been ridden—but how recently? I laid one arm over her back, then the other, watching her head and ears for signs of trouble. She slanted an ear toward me, far calmer than when I’d entered the pen. I shoved up, putting weight on her. She didn’t react. I jumped up again, laying across her back for a moment before sliding to the ground.

The second horse, a piebald, was in similar condition but more nervous. When I put weight on his back, he shuffled away but didn’t lash out. Good enough.

When I approached the third horse, however, he pinned his ears warningly. I hummed, exuding calmness. Two minutes wasn’t much, but it was all I could give him before attempting to approach. He showed me his teeth, ready to bite, and I backed away with my heart sinking.

I was just climbing back over the fence when Dominique reached the pen, a clipboard in hand and a deep furrow between her brows.

“How are they?” she asked, flipping a page.

“The bay and the piebald are good-natured and should be ridable. I don’t see any major health concerns.” The sinking feeling in my chest deepened. “Not the buckskin.”