The sheets are tangled. Smell of sweat and pine tar and Ogden's skin clings to everything.
I'm sprawled across the bed like a satisfied cat, half on top of him, cheek on his chest. His fingers are in my hair, slow, absentminded. He's not great with afterglow but this one's not bad. No awkward throat-clearing yet. No armor clanking.
Just his heartbeat under my ear.
And then—
From the taproom below:
"Oh flame that walks the bitter road, whose soul was sold but never owed—"
My eye twitches.
Ogden's hand stills. "Gods."
I groan. "Not this one."
He snorts. "They're playing it again?"
I sit up. Blanket slips off one boob. I don't fix it. "It's popular."
"It's insipid," he mutters.
"It has metaphor."
"It has rhymes like a drunk scribe's laundry list."
I narrow my eyes. "Are you critiquing poetry now?"
"I'm critiquing lies."
That gets my attention.
I push off him, sit up fully. "Lies?"
He sits up too, leaning on one elbow. Voice low, even. "He calls you pure-hearted. Touched by fire but unsullied. That's not how you talk about someone you actually know."
I blink. "Oh, I see."
I stand, start pacing. Floor's cold under my feet.
"So when I spread for you behind a barn or let you do that thing with the oil and your gauntlet, that's fine. That's real. But the moment someone says something sweet about me—"
"Sweet?" he cuts in. "He sings like you're some tragic virgin martyr cursed to wander the land, when you were moaning my name not ten minutes ago."
I whirl around. "So what?!"
His jaw tightens.
"He doesn't know you," he says. "Not really."
"And you do?"
"I know you'd stab a man for the right kind of boots and steal his dog for company on the road."
"I gave the dog back!"
"After it bit you!"
"Still counts!"
The song downstairs hits the chorus. I scream into the ceiling.
"She kissed like sin but wept like dawn—"
I shout, "I did not weep, I was sweaty!"
Ogden gets up too, fully naked, still trying to sound rational, which makes it worse. "It's not him, Saya. It's what you let him think."
"Oh fuck you!"
I shove him. He doesn't move, but his eyes spark. "You like it. You like that he paints you as something innocent. That he needs you to be good so he can worship it."
I jab a finger into his chest. "And you need me rotten so you don't feel guilty about fucking me!"
He flinches. Barely. But I see it. And now we're both breathing too hard, too close, too naked and too furious.
Downstairs, the bard hits that soft final line, the one that always gets the drunkest men misty-eyed.
"...and though the night may take her low, the dawn will find her burning."
Silence.
Then Ogden says, "He doesn't see you."
And I hiss, low and sharp, "And you never wanted to."
I grab my clothes and storm out, barefoot, half-dressed, still burning from sex and fury and the goddamn song that won't leave me alone.
***
I slam the door open so hard the hinges squeal like a brothel girl pretending to be surprised.
The place smells like burnt onions and horse piss. Good. I deserve nothing better.
I stumble to the bar, half-laced into my bodice, hair wild, still barefoot, thighs sticky in a way I do not want to think about. I flop onto the nearest stool like a sack of laundry and slap a coin down.
"Ale," I growl.
The barkeep stares at me. I bare my teeth. He pours.
And from the corner—
Of course. Of course.
That damned lute.
Soft chords. Melancholy tone. Another godsdamned Oleander song.
"Her gaze a flame, her touch a brand, her sorrow carved by heaven's hand—"
I slam my mug on the counter. "Shut up!"
The music stumbles. A nervous twang. I don't look to see who's playing it. Probably some wide-eyed wannabe with a flower tucked behind their ear and delusions of tragic romance.
I take a long pull of ale and mutter into the rim, "Stupid knights. Stupid dragons. Stupid bards."
"Sweet problem to have."
I nearly fall off the stool.
I turn.
There he is.
Same Dwarf as always. Grinning. Beard braided. Mug already in hand. Like he was waiting for the punchline.
"You," I say flatly.
"Me," he says cheerfully.
"You again."
"You always end up near the taproom."
I groan and drop my forehead to the bar.
He sips. "Trouble in paradise?"
"Which one? Knight paradise, dragon paradise, or bard-boner paradise?"
He chuckles. "Sounds like a festival."
I peek up at him. He raises an eyebrow.
I sigh. "Fought with Ogden."
He nods.
"Because of Oleander."
He nods again.
"Because Ogden's a self-righteous ass and Oleander's a poetic idiot and the Dragon's probably laughing at me from across three provinces."
He clinks his mug against mine. "Sounds like they're all madly in love with you."
I snort. "Only one that ever paid me proper was you."
He grins wider. "And I tipped."
"You did."
"And I never wrote a song."
I raise my mug. "To silence."
He toasts. "To complications."
We drink. The bard in the corner tries again. I throw a pretzel at his head.
Miss. Damn it.
The Dwarf orders us both another round.