White Horse Black Nights (The Godkissed Bride, #1)(38)

“The Manywaters Inn. You get your wish, my lady.” I give a mocking bow.

Sabine ignores my attitude as she peers intently at the widest branch of the Innis River, then at a flock of sooty brown swifts perching on a lamppost, then back at the inn.

“If there’s a bath, it will do.”

We board Myst in a stable a few blocks away, then enter the inn to inquire about a room. This isn’t my first time in the Manywaters Inn. I have memories I’d sooner forget here, but there are only a handful of inns in Blackwater, and this threadbare hovel is the finest.

Scantily clad prostitutes might be a common sight in Blackwater and even in the Manywaters Inn, but the common room still falls silent when Sabine enters, with her long hair kissing the floor and nothing underneath. My skin bristles with the protective instinct to shield her from everyone’s gazes, but realistically, the fastest way to get her to privacy is to get her into a room.

“A room. Your finest,” I bark at the innkeeper, and thunk a sack of coins on the counter.

The elderly innkeeper is thin to the point of being skeletal, her sandpaper skin sagging around her neck as she adjusts her glasses and peers shrewdly at me.

“You’ve stayed here before, haven’t you?”

I bristle again as Sabine turns a curious eye on me. “Just give me the room.”

The innkeeper’s eyes drag over Sabine’s state of undress as though trying to fit her into one of the three categories of women she could be: prostitute, wife, or sister, and coming up short on all. Her mannered bearing makes it clear she isn’t a whore. There’s no ring on her finger. And Sabine and I look nothing alike—we clearly didn’t come from the same parents.

“Two rooms?” she attempts to correct me.

“One.” My voice grinds dangerously against my teeth. It might not be proper for an unmarried man and woman to share a room, but I don’t give a fuck about propriety. There’s no way I’m leaving Sabine alone for an entire night in a town like Blackwater, even behind a locked door with me asleep at the threshold.

The innkeeper’s thin lips press together as she slides my coins into a drawer and hands me a brass key. I seize Sabine by the upper arm and drag her toward the stairs.

“Basten—”

“Call me Wolf in public.”

“Wolf, you’re hurting me.”

I stop short, dropping my gaze to my hand clenched tightly around her arm. I ease my grip, forcing myself to take a deep breath.

“I apologize, my lady. I don’t like crowds. I’m eager to get you into a room.”

She nods as we climb the creaky staircase to the third floor, a glorified attic space. The key takes us to the last room down the hall. The boards underfoot are uneven, and the mattress looks to have seen better days, but there is a copper tub and a pleasing view of the Innis River. Sabine passes right by the tub and takes a particular interest in the view, wrapping her fingers around the windowsill and gazing upstream.

I shed my rucksack, bumping my head on the sloping ceiling. These rooms weren’t made for someone as tall as me.

My gaze circles back to the bed as I unpack my bow and set it behind the door. I didn’t ask Sabine if she felt comfortable sharing a room. She doesn’t have a choice, anyway—but maybe I was a jerk for not even asking.

“I’ll sleep on the floor,” I grunt.

She turns away from the window, chewing on her lip like she’s distracted. “Hmm? Oh. Right.” She starts going through the rickety dresser drawers.

“I’ll go downstairs,” I say. “Ask for them to bring up hot water so you can bathe.”

“Could you ask for some paper, too?”

My hand pauses on the doorknob. “What do you need paper for?”

She gives an embarrassed little laugh that brings a rash of pink to her cheeks. “Oh, it’s the view—it’s so pretty. I promised Suri that I would write to her about the voyage, and so I thought I’d sketch her a picture. I’ve been trying to find some pleasantry about this damnable ride to share with her. I figure it’s better than a description of your snoring, isn’t it?”

I snort as I saunter out of the room, being sure to lock the door behind me, and head downstairs. I toss another handful of coins on the counter. “My lady would like a hot bath brought up to her. Paper and ink, too. And clothes. Something to sleep in, undergarments, and a daytime dress. Clean. The nicest you can find on short notice. I’ll pay extra.”

The innkeeper nods to a young girl sweeping the foyer, who scampers off to run my errands.

“Wolf Bowborn.”

The sudden, unexpected sound of my name has me immediately laying a hand on my knife hilt, preparing to return to those dark days of the early work I did for Rian, but as I face the common room, an astounded laugh barks out of me.

I gape. “Folke Bladeborn?”

Sitting alone at the corner table, a half-empty flagon of ale as his only companion, is perhaps the sole person on earth I would consider a friend.

Folke is a decade my senior, his tidily matted locks already graying at his temples, but the look suits him. His light, russet brown face is pockmarked from acne in his youth, but the scars don’t stop women from admiring him. His straight teeth don’t hurt, either—a rarity in a town like Blackwater.

He grins broadly. “Come here, you devil.”