A Midwinter Fantasy - Leanna Renee Hieber [53]
“Oh, gods,” the innkeeper gasped, his face utterly white. “She wasn’t lying.”
Half the occupants of his bar were already running for the door, and the only regret Mace felt was the fear he sensed in Ruffles outside, who couldn’t understand battler hate and was bolting in terror. He was just turning to go find her when the door to the kitchen banged open, hitting the wall so hard that even Mace turned to look.
A woman stood there, thin and tired, her hair done up in a messy bun and her clothes faded and worn by toil. Her face was lined with old worries, but even as Mace looked at her, the lines were dropping away, amazement returning her youth as she stared at him, her arms covered in soapy water to the elbows and her apron stained and worn.
“Mace?” she whispered.
“Yes,” he replied uncertainly, staring at the strangest reaction to his hate he’d ever seen in his life. He let the aura drop.
“Mace!”
She screamed and ran forward to throw her arms around him, burying her face against his chest. This close, he could smell her soap and her scent—one he’d smelled many years ago, during a night spent banished to a stable with only a single visitor. Smiling, he put his arms around her.
“Sally,” he said, and she started to cry.
Chapter Five
Sally was seventeen when she came to him that night nineteen years ago. Mace had been standing in an empty stall, though of course the entire stable was emptied of animals to try and accommodate him. Jasar had been especially petty since the journey began, not having wanted to travel in the first place and being angry with Mace for other reasons. He’d tormented his battler to distraction, making him angrier and angrier until, by the time they reached the village, Mace was steaming with hatred and not caring how far he broadcast it. He’d been wallowing, Mace knew, especially since Jasar was too small-minded to be bothered by his hate, but he hadn’t been able to stop himself. He’d just wanted to hate, to make sure everyone shared his misery.
That changed when Sally came in. He was so busy imagining tortures for his master that he didn’t even realize she was there until she spoke. Mr. Mace, she called him. The second he heard, he shut down the hate. His master he’d see die a thousand different deaths, but he’d never deliberately hurt a female of his own volition. She’d called his name again, so afraid of what he could do to her but so brave, and he’d stepped out of his stall to see her.
Her beauty had almost undone him. He’d seen many women in the castle where Jasar lived, and he’d had many of them as well, slaking his needs on them and preventing his own madness, but Sally was different. She wasn’t dressed in a noble’s finery or a servant’s uniform. She wore a simple homespun dress, her hair curling around her face where it came loose from the bun, and her hands curled in her apron, twisting the fabric in a way that made his heart surge. She was innocent and sweet, and deep inside her he felt the needs that she was afraid of facing in herself, needs she certainly hadn’t come into this stable expecting to experience.
She asked him to stop scaring everyone in the inn. He nodded in agreement: he only wanted to hurt Jasar, and to Jasar the hate meant nothing anyway. Instead Mace felt the deep longing she had, the loneliness and surety that no one could ever want her, and he drew it into himself, blending it with his own never-ending desire before sending it back to her. He heard her breath catch and wanted to take her into his arms. Instead she fled back to the inn. He let her go, despite longing as always for a woman’s touch. This was what he was