The sea didn't stop being the sea just because Ronan wanted stability.
It kept throwing wind at Gullwatch, kept grinding salt into hinges, kept sending strangers up the coastroad with hungry eyes and empty purses. The inn stayed busy—busier, even, as word spread that the Winking Widow's food was finally clean and the beds didn't try to kill you in your sleep.
Rowena's laugh returned more often.
Not because the debt vanished.
Because the day-to-day stopped feeling like drowning.
And that was exactly when the next kind of predator arrived.
Not with papers.
With smiles.
It started the way most real trouble started—quiet, and timed.
Midday, when the dining room was packed. When fishermen crowded the hearth, when caravan men leaned shoulder-to-shoulder at long tables, when hunters smelled like wet leather and blood and were too tired to play polite.
Ronan was in the kitchen, calling orders through the pass window. Miri was moving like a proper runner now, cheeks flushed from speed but eyes focused. Rowena worked the room, bright and steady, taking coin and giving warmth like it was something she'd remembered she could do.
Then the front door opened.
And the room… didn't go silent.
It never did.
But a change rippled through it, subtle as a current under a dock.
Three men entered. Not drunks. Not sailors. Their boots were too clean for dock work and too scuffed for city fashion. Their coats were plain but well-cut, designed to look harmless. Their hands were empty, but their posture spoke of weapons tucked where cloth fell loose.
They walked in like they belonged.
Like they'd been here before.
Rowena's smile didn't falter, but her eyes sharpened as she stepped to the counter. "Welcome," she said, voice warm. "Table or—"
The lead man held up a hand gently, as if calming a child. He was broad in the shoulders, hair trimmed close, eyes pale and patient. The kind of man who didn't need to raise his voice because the world had already learned to listen.
"Rowena," he said, friendly. Not her name as a greeting—her name as a tag.
Rowena's horns twitched back. "Yes?"
"We're here for a quick chat," the man said. His gaze slid past her, assessing the room. "Busy day."
Rowena forced a little laugh. "It's lunch."
"Good for business," he agreed easily. "That's why we're here."
Ronan heard the tone through the kitchen doorway. Not the words—just the texture of it. Smooth. Confident. Used to being obeyed.
He wiped his hands, stepped out from the kitchen, and came to stand at Rowena's right—close enough to be seen, not close enough to look like he was pushing her aside.
The lead man's gaze landed on him immediately.
"Oh," he said, smile widening. "You must be the new help."
Ronan met his eyes. "I'm Ronan."
The man inclined his head. "Call me Darric."
Not a last name. That was deliberate. Names were power. He offered just enough to seem polite and took the rest for himself.
Darric's two companions spread slightly, not threatening—just occupying space. One leaned against a post near the door. The other drifted toward the side wall, where he could see most of the tables. Positioning, Ronan noted. Controlled angles. A practiced habit.
Not cartoon thugs.
Organized.
Darric rested his fingertips on the counter like he was about to order stew. "This village has… issues," he said conversationally. "Bandits. Reefhounds. Drunks who think they're funny with knives. A place like this needs protection."
Rowena's smile tightened. "We've been fine."
Darric's eyes flicked to her horns, then back to her face, and the friendliness held—but there was a warning in it now. "You've been lucky."
Ronan spoke calmly. "What kind of protection?"
Darric's smile brightened, as if pleased by a sensible question. "The practical kind. Someone watches the back alley. Someone discourages trouble before it knocks. Someone makes sure merchants don't get… creative with your prices."
Ronan didn't react, but his mind filed that line next to Marla's warning. Pressure. Overcharging. Blacklist. This wasn't random.
Darric leaned a fraction closer. "We keep things smooth. You keep feeding people. Everyone wins."
Rowena's fingers tightened around the edge of her apron.
"How much?" Ronan asked.
Darric lifted a brow. "Straight to business. I like that."
Ronan waited.
Darric named a number.
It wasn't impossible. That was the trap. A fee low enough to swallow without immediate death, high enough to keep you bleeding forever. High enough to make you dependent.
Rowena's breath hitched. She tried to speak, but no sound came out.
Ronan answered for her, voice level. "No."
The word didn't echo. It didn't need to. It cut clean through the air.
Darric blinked once, still smiling. "No?"
"No," Ronan repeated.
Darric's smile stayed fixed, but his eyes cooled. "You're new here, Ronan. You don't understand how Gullwatch works."
"I understand exactly how it works," Ronan said, tone mild. "You show up when the inn is full, so we feel watched and cornered. You keep your men polite so you can claim you're 'just offering help.' You set a fee low enough to tempt, then raise it when we're dependent."
Darric chuckled softly. "That's a vivid imagination."
Ronan didn't argue. He simply turned slightly, letting his gaze sweep the room.
Patrons watched openly now. Fishermen. Caravaners. Hunters. A couple off-duty village guards at a corner table with half-empty mugs. Everyone listening. Everyone waiting to see what kind of place the Winking Widow was going to become.
Ronan let them.
He spoke just loud enough for nearby tables to hear, calm as if discussing menu changes.
"This is an inn," Ronan said. "Not a toll gate. People come here to eat and rest. They don't come here to watch Rowena get shaken down."
Rowena's throat bobbed. She stared at Ronan like he'd just set himself on fire for her.
Darric's smile thinned. "Careful," he murmured.
Ronan didn't raise his voice. He didn't threaten. He didn't even look angry.
He just shifted the battlefield.
He turned toward the nearest table—three fishermen with rough hands and sharper eyes—and nodded politely.
"Food's clean now," Ronan said. "Rooms are getting fixed. If you want this place to stay open, you pay Rowena. Not parasites."
One fisherman—grey beard, missing two fingers—snorted. "Parasites?"
Ronan tilted his head. "That word offend anyone?"
The fisherman's laugh was rough. "Not me."
Another patron, a caravan woman with a scar across her cheek, lifted her mug. "We came here because it's the only roof worth a damn," she said. "Don't make it worse."
Murmurs rose—agreement, irritation, the low growl of a crowd that didn't like being treated like prey.
Darric's companion near the door shifted, eyes flicking to the tables. His hand went closer to his belt.
And Ronan knew something important:
Darric had timed this for a busy hour because crowds intimidated victims—
—but crowds also protected them.
Too many witnesses. Too many voices. Too much attention.
The kind of attention that made a "polite" gang look like what it was.
Darric's smile tightened further. He glanced around, gauging.
Rowena's voice finally found itself, shaky but present. "I— I don't need your protection," she said.
Darric looked at her like she'd said something cute. "You think you don't," he replied gently. "But you do."
Ronan leaned forward slightly, voice quiet but carrying. "No," he said again. "We don't."
Darric's eyes narrowed. "You're making this messy."
Ronan's gaze stayed steady. "You brought it into a room full of paying customers. That was your choice."
Darric held Ronan's eyes for a long moment, smile still in place like a mask nailed to his face. He was weighing options.
If he pushed, the crowd might push back.
If he threatened, the guards in the corner might feel obligated to stand.
If he drew steel, the inn would explode into violence—and violence drew civic attention, and civic attention made business difficult even for gangs.
Darric exhaled. A small sound of annoyance, quickly hidden.
"Fine," he said lightly. "Not today."
He pushed off the counter as if the conversation had simply ended on friendly terms. "Enjoy your lunch, everyone."
His men began to move toward the door with practiced ease, not hurried, not defeated—just withdrawing.
But Darric paused at the threshold.
He turned back and tapped the wooden doorframe with the toe of his boot.
Tap. Tap.
A sound small enough to be nothing—yet it carried, because the room was listening.
Darric smiled at Ronan like they were sharing a joke.
"Cute," he said.
Ronan didn't respond.
Darric's gaze slid to Rowena one last time—lingering, possessive—then back to Ronan.
"Tomorrow," Darric said pleasantly, "I come when you're empty."
Then he stepped out into the wind, taking his men with him.
The door swung shut.
For a heartbeat, the inn held its breath.
Then the room exhaled in a rush of voices, anger, relief, and nervous laughter. Someone cursed. Someone spat on the floor. Someone else muttered, "About time someone said no."
Rowena's hands trembled on the counter.
Ronan turned to her, voice low. "You alright?"
Rowena stared at him, eyes wide, throat working. "You… you did that," she whispered.
Ronan's gaze stayed steady. "We did," he corrected.
Rowena swallowed hard, then nodded once—small, shaky.
And in the kitchen doorway behind them, the inn's warmth crackled like a hearth being tested by a draft—
—because Ronan knew Darric was right about one thing.
Tomorrow, the crowd wouldn't be there.
And trouble never asked twice.