Jon cursed under his breath as he stormed toward the tavern, the heat of Jàden’s kiss like fire against his mouth.

  All he wanted was a night alone with her and was determined to give her every reason to stay with him instead of leaving. To stop hunting a dead man she’d never be able to reclaim.

  But first he had to take care of the old man. Jon hurried down a series of wooden steps buried in the hillside.

  He tugged his collar open, sensing the missing weight of the bloodflower. Maybe giving it to her tonight had been a bad idea, but he’d been trying to work up the nerve to tell her she was an Ayers.

  At least she didn’t rip the bond out of him again.

  The steps ended at a gravel lane winding along the river. At the far end of the rolling lawns, a small tavern nestled beneath a large willow. Amber light glowed from the windows, but no laughter reached his ears. If anything, he should have heard Theryn spouting poetry or some horse shit to the crowd.

  Jon threw open the door. Half a dozen patrons were pinned against the wall, Malcolm’s daggers sticking through a sleeve or a pant leg. Malcolm leaned back in a chair, a pint in his hands. By the glassy gaze in his eyes, he’d been drinking long before he ever set foot in the building.

  The Felaren citizens glared at Malcolm.

  “Here to talk, old man.” Jon stepped inside the tavern and kicked the door shut. He raised his hands to the side but didn’t dare light a cigarette. Not yet, and especially not with Jàden’s intoxicating scent still clinging to him.

  Every time Malcolm got drunk, his mind blacked out while his body kept on fighting the enemies that killed his wife, children and grandchildren, wiping out his entire bloodline. Any minute he’d start talking about the past. About why he had no one left. Jon had heard the same story for the last twenty years.

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  “He’s my grandson. Did you know that?” Malcolm finished off his pint of réva and slammed it on the table. He stood and kicked the table across the room. “Did you know that?!”

  Jon’s other men circled the tavern’s central area, standing protectively in front of the other patrons and staff. Their expressions were hard. They’d all seen Malcolm crack before, and it was why the old man rarely drank. Something in the last few days must have pulled his past tragedy to the surface—likely the gutting fight between him and Jàden.

  “Family’s dead, Malcolm.” Jon shuffled closer. He had to pick tonight. “They died more than twenty years ago. You have no enemies here.”

  Malcolm threw an ax at him.

  Jon shifted aside and caught the handle before easing it down on the table, never taking his eyes off the old man.

  “It wasn’t right what they did to your family.” His chest tightened at the thought of anyone harming Jàden or any of his men.

  “Him.” Malcolm slammed his other ax into the chair, the wood splitting apart. “What he did to my wife. My children. My grandchildren. I only have one left.” There were tears in his stormy gray eyes. “One grandson, and if I don’t protect him…”

  Jon furrowed his brow, edging around the table until they were no more than a dozen spans apart. This was new information to him. “Who’s still alive? You never told me.”

  There was shuffling behind him, the others getting the patrons outside until Jon could get the old man under control.

  “One grandson. He doesn’t know. Thinks he’s alone.” Malcolm gripped the ax handle and shook his head. “That boy is never alone.”

  “Why didn’t you tell us?” An uneasy feeling settled into Jon’s chest as he inched closer.

  “Wherever he is—” Malcolm started.

  But Jon clocked him across the jaw, knocking him out cold.

  As the old man collapsed, he turned and glared at his men. “What the fuck happened? I told you to find him a companion, not a barrel of réva to drown in.” He cursed under his breath and yanked the ax out of the chair. They’d be lucky if the tavern owners didn’t have them all arrested. “Get him back to the inn.”

  As he searched the remaining faces for who might be the angriest—no doubt the owners—his vision blurred. He shook his head, a strange sensation needling his senses.

  The room tilted sideways, and he grabbed the chair, crashing to the ground.

  “What the fuck is wrong with me?” The ax slipped out of his hand as black oil slid along his veins, covering up Jàden’s light.

  It doused her breath until all he could feel was anger. Betrayal. Hatred.

  “Jàden,” he whispered as his head hit the ground. “Someone find Jàden.”