Escape to the Sea (Tangled Hearts #1)

Chapter 4 A Fighting Chance

Tomlyn

The punch comes at me dead on. It’s easy enough to dodge; Steffon is a moron and thinks his bigger body will automatically let him win. I guess against most folk it would. But with me? Well, I’m used to facing down bigger, badder, nastier things than this guy.

I duck down, throwing my weight at his knees. Steffon topples over and as he’s registering the shock of the fall, I pull up and land a hard uppercut directly to the underside of his chin, blood spurting as his teeth or tongue bang together in his mouth. As he starts to stir, I land another clean punch to the side of his face and his eyes roll into the back of his head. Night night.

“He’s done it!” Darion whoops, his voice magically amplified throughout the arena. “Mad McDanna’s taken down one of the meanest and maddest of Benny’s Boys on the block! What a fight!”

The roar of the crowd, the clamoring, screaming, cheering of the fighting pits hits me a wave. I take a deep breath under the dim lights and with it, the smells of dirt, blood, rank body odor, and sweat ground me in place, the energy from the fight wearing off. I raise my arms, locking my hands behind my head as I grin and spin around the circle, flexing my chest muscles in the closest thing to a victory lap that I’ll have. This is no Fayne’s Follies, but it’ll do.

I make my way out of the circle as pit workers haul Steffon out—it takes five of them struggling against Steffon’s dead weight before one of them finally levitates him—and I make my way to Darion, the blue demonkin announcer.

He switches off the magic enhancing his voice as he grins at me, fangs bared. “Great job, McDanna! But maybe make it look a little harder next time? Or at least throw one for the crowd?”

“Or maybe you find better fighters,” I chide back.

“Hard to do that when you’re clearing them out.” He gestures back behind him to the bookie. “She’s got your winnings for the night.”

I clap Darion on the shoulder as I pass him and get my purse. By the time I make it to the back, where the fighters are allowed to keep a few things, the dull aches and cuts from the night are starting to register with my body. Passing a mirror, I investigate from top to bottom. Bruises are hard to spot against my charcoal gray skin, but the bright red nicks from hitting the floor at a hard angle are more apparent. Leaning in closer to the mirror, I pull my slightly too long white hair up off my forehead, inspecting for any cuts that could still be bleeding. Nothing too deep: a good night indeed.

Digging through my satchel, I fish out a green stim potion and a small healing potion, knocking them back quickly. The healing potion takes effect almost immediately, my aches and cuts fading. The stim potion gives me the little boost of energy I’ll need to make it home safely.

Sitting on a bench, I wipe my chest down then sling the towel over my shoulder, starting to undo the wrapped bandages around my wrists. Sylf won’t be happy to know that I’ve been back here, but she never seems happy with any of the work I manage to scrounge up. I can hear her voice in my head: “It’s beneath you. What a waste of time.” For the most part, I agree—a lot of the jobs I’ve been taking are boring, or beating people up, but at least the fighting pits keep me in shape.

Before leaving my home, Karst, I was in incredible shape. That’s what happens when you’re running and jumping off walls and killing spiders the size of houses for the honor and glory of your clan. When I escaped twenty years ago, the city of Yaventown, with its melting pot of people and places, ended up being more of a home than Karst ever was.

But living in Yaventown doesn’t require killing giant monsters, so it was easier to coast through without keeping to the same strict regimens. During the Karstian expedition a year ago, I got my ass handed to me. That was a wakeup call. I can’t go back to my old charger routines, but the fighting pits are the next best thing.

As I start undoing the bandages on my other hand, I wonder if Sylf is back from her job at court yet. I bet if I get back soon, I might be able to catch her in that green gown. Mm, it’s been a long time since I’ve seen her in skirts, since she only wears them when in disguise. Not that I mind, but there’s something extra hot and dirty about the thought of shoving her against the wall with her skirts riding up, knowing that underneath she isn’t wearing anything else and—

I look up as the room suddenly goes quiet. Then I bite back a long sigh. Great.

Benny McElroy is standing near the room’s entrance, flanked by two of his ‘Boys’ behind him. One is a muscular woman with a great sword strapped to her back; the other is his right-hand minion, a wiry human named Shade, one of the few magical dagger wielders in his crew. This time, Shade’s sporting a mostly shaved head except for a strip of bright orange hair down the center.

Benny looks the same as he usually does, like a smug asshole. He’s in his usual attire, a pristine shirt and waistcoat jacket, hands neatly folded over a cane he doesn’t actually need to walk. It’s his preferred weapon to beat the shit out of people. As he turns to the side, he subconsciously shows off the tattoo sprawling down his neck, a crow bent over, eating a heart: a tribute to the chaotic god Tarth’an, The Governor of Crows.

“Tomlyn,” he says lightly, as if we’re old friends. “You had a good night.”

“Yeah, I’d say sorry about your boy, but Periti hates a liar. You should get better ones.”

Benny chuckles and pulls a cigarette from his pocket. Placing it in his mouth, he turns to Shade, who produces a flame with the snap of their fingers, lights it, and steps back. The gang lord of the Trunk steps towards me leisurely, one hand casually in his pocket. “It’s good to remind them they ought to stay on their toes. Like you’ve been doing, skirting around in the shadows, barely scraping by, and yet stronger than ever.”

I lean forward, trying to use my broad frame to take up more space. “Cut the shit, Benny. You here to do me in?” Benny’s got a rep for a reason, and I think I could hold my own for a bit, but he’s also got extra muscle with him. I’m not sure how it would turn out.

And if I die this time, there’s no coming back.

He blows out smoke from the cigarette. “Oh, Tomlyn, that’s all under the bridge now.”

“Is it? Last I remember, you had my boss, Fayne, murdered, blew up her gambling hall, and had your Boys slaughter most of my gang mates. Doesn’t seem like that would be under the bridge.”

Benny sighs, as if he’s bored and talking with a child. “Things move quickly in Yaventown and you’re smart in addition to strong. You’re avoiding your old haunts and my Boys, and still managing to keep busy.”

“Oh, I’m keeping busy all right, especially on my knees between Atrea’s legs. She’s very demanding.” The retort slips out easily, even though it’s stupid to taunt Benny like this. Sylf uses Atrea as her cover name and they, unfortunately, used to hook up. I know how badly he wants her back. But seeing the quick downturn of his mouth and twitch of his eye at the mention of her is completely worth it.

But then he smirks, as if my petty comment didn’t bother him. My hackles rise and I shift slightly. It’s a casual movement, but if I need to spring forward or to the side, I’ll be ready. He sits on the bench opposite mine and takes a long drag of his cigarette before turning back to me with that causal air in place.

“I’d like to make a deal. You’ve been a good boy and it’s a waste to have you skulking about in the shadows.”

“I’m not becoming one of your Boys,” I say flatly.

“I may be willing to overlook your previous associations with the Stitchers, but my Boys aren’t so forgiving.” He points his cigarette at me. “My Boys are running a knock-over job on a merchant two mornings from now and could use the muscle. Do that and we’ll call things square. You can roam the Trunk as you wish, without worry of retaliation.”

I roll my eyes and scoff. “Seriously? You think I’m stupid enough to fall for a trap like that? No thanks. If you’re going to come at me, just do it.”

Benny doesn’t seem fazed. “It’s a legitimate offer. Besides—” his dark eyes glint dangerously as he smiles “—I’m sure Keeper Abe will appreciate you having more opportunities. I know they’re used to seeing you often at the church with you living in that little flat so close, but he seems really concerned about you. It’s sweet.”

Everything in me goes cold. Benny knows where I live. He knows that I’m friendly with the local Church of Periti, the only place doing any amount of good for the people in the slums. If I don’t do this job, it will put all of them—Keeper Abe, Beatrice, the orphanage kids, and even Dispiria—in danger. Fuck.

I run a hand through my hair. “This knock-over job. Just taking the merchant’s goods? That’s it? No wet work?”

“That’s it,” he replies. “And then we’re square.”

There’s no way it’s that simple, and there are definitely folks within Benny’s Boys that fit my skill set. I mean, they’re not as good as me, but that’s what I offer, dumb muscle, right? So, he doesn’t need me there; he wants me there.

That’s not good. Benny wiped out almost everyone associated with Fayne the night the gambling hall exploded. As far as I know, only myself and my old buddy Virna managed to avoid him. With Virna now long gone with the Karstian exiles up north, maybe Benny’s decided to finish cleaning up his streets.

But the church? It’s not like they can up and move. Fuck.

“Fine,” I snap. “I’ll do it. And then we’re square.”

Benny smiles that not-smile of his, the one that’s crooked and eerie and wrong. Well, the good news is that if Sylf kills me after learning I took this job, then Benny can’t do it. At least she’d probably fuck me first. I hope.

~*~

“Are you out of your mind?!”

Nope, she’s not fucking me before she kills me. Eh, it was worth a shot.

Sylf Dawnwood, otherwise known as the infamous informant and ex-assassin codenamed Atrea Silverleaf, is glaring at me from across the bed. It’s cute. If I ever tell her that I think it’s cute, I would be double dead. She crosses her arms under her chest, and I sigh as I pick up another shirt from the hamper and fold it haphazardly before tossing it onto the bed.

“Look, babe, he’s got me by the balls, all right?”

“It’s a trap—you know that, right?”

“Of course I know that. But I don’t exactly have a choice.”

“There’s always a choice,” she snaps, snatching a pair of her trousers from the pile before aggressively snapping them in the air, straightening out the legs.

“He’s got the apartment near the church pegged. And, worse, he pulled Keeper Abe into it. Knows I’ve been coming and going from the church.” I run a hand through my hair. “Fuck, it took me twice as long to get here, looking over my shoulder and taking weird paths.”

“First of all, I don’t know why you bother keeping the apartment when you could live here .”

Goddess, here we go again. “Sylf, it’s exactly for situations like this that the apartment is useful. I don’t want to bring trouble to your door.” Besides, staying here for too long is… weird. But I don’t tell her that.

“ Our door,” she emphasizes with a look.

I sigh and grab another one of my shirts from the pile. “Look, I can’t let Benny threaten Keeper Abe and the others like that.”

Sylf rolls her eyes in an exaggerated annoyance, her trademark high ponytail swaying as she does it. “Do you really think they spent all those years in the Trunk unable to fend for themselves? Ward off the gangs? Give them a little more credit.”

I don’t know how to explain to her that the difference is that this time, it would be my fault. And that’s worse.

There’s silence as we finish folding. I let her take my last few shirts, watching as she folds them in neat precision. They’re softer and less masculine than some of the others, the most recent addition to my wardrobe. They’re clothes I only feel comfortable wearing around the house so far. Only around her.

When we get to the end of the basket, everything in little piles on her fluffy red and gold comforter, she lets out a huff. Setting both hands on her hips, she looks at me squarely. “What did he offer you?”

“Clemency, supposedly. I can go about my business without having to look over my shoulder or avoid the usual places.”

Her expression falls into the stillness that surface elves are so good at, but I know it’s her thinking face. She grabs a pile of shirts and makes for her drawers. The bedroom itself is large and open, neatly furnished with a tall armoire, a shorter long dresser for me, and a vanity. There’s also a small bookshelf in the corner where she keeps her nighttime reading. That is, of course, not the same as her reading pile in the more stately and decorative bookshelf downstairs, nor the same as the pile by her reading nook in the study that overlooks the gardens.

As she puts the clothes away, she says, “It’s still a trap.”

“I know.”

She glances back at me. “I’ll go through my spell scrolls and determine what might be useful for you. Make sure you take your jagerstocks.”

Another time-old argument. “I’ll try to remember,” I lie. Before she can give me an earful about why I should be carrying the dual spears all the time instead of accepting the obvious—they’re made of a platinum alloy and would make me a walking target in a heartbeat—I cut her off.

“So, how was court? Do anything fun?”

Sylf gives me a long look, this time her stilled expression masking her thoughts more carefully. She shakes her head and starts putting her clothes away. I help before moving onto my own clothes, eyeing her to wait for some kind of cue for her mood. When we’re done, she takes the basket off the bed, tosses it into its usual corner, and heads downstairs. I follow her to the study on the second floor, where she plops down into her plush armchair overlooking her small backyard.

She looks picturesque in a nice blue linen blouse tucked into gray trousers, wearing those cute little booties all the ladies seem fond of. The clothes only highlight her sharp cheekbones and the slight bow curve of her pink lips. She’s simply stunning; she always has been.

Sylf’s made a cozy little spot for herself in this rowhouse, which she calls Farendae. Her people name their homes, or so she said. I still don’t have the best grasp on surface elvish, but it is supposed to mean ‘The Hunter’s Blind’. I think that is way too long to name a house, and so, much to her dismay, I’ve shortened it to The Blind.

When she first moved into the Blind, she told the neighbors she was estranged from her rich merchant husband who’s always traveling. As she explained to me, the story makes it easier to explain why she has the house and money coming in without doing any work that is, well, not illegal. As for me, I’m the simple caretaker, hired to make sure all her needs are met.

The story doesn’t bother me. I know her and she knows me. My gaze lingers on the dangling opals in her pointed ears, then moves down to the matching pendant around her neck. Then to the gaudy, luxurious black diamond ring set in tear silver that I set on her hand a year ago.

A promise between us: karadin , of brotherhood, loyalty, and unwavering devotion, despite the fact she’s clearly above me.

Sylf has upgraded her standards with her living situation. Even a year into this place, it already feels like she’s been here ages, instead of slumming it in what is now my apartment in the Trunk.

“Hey, I’ll go set some tea, yeah?” I offer.

She glances over to me and nods and I disappear down the stairs to the main floor and into the kitchen, setting the kettle on the maginsta-stove. It’s advanced machinery for a merchant’s wife but apparently it was in the place before Sylf got it. There are lots of nice little upgrades throughout the three-story rowhouse, but honestly I’m just glad there’s a decent bath here—it’s nice not to have to pay all the time to bathe.

The water boils quickly, so I pour her tea—lemon and ginger with a dollop of honey—and bring it back up. She’s looking out the window, and I set it on a small end table next to her. Usually she has a book on the table, but today there’s a white rose in one of her nicer cups with the thorns cut. Huh. That’s new. I sit down in another armchair and kick my feet up on a small ottoman, then lean over to open a new letter from Delvin from up north.

I flick through the note as she sips the tea. The Karstian exiles we helped escape from the caves have settled in nicely somewhere in the woods deep within elven territory. It’s been quiet from Karst, he says, but they’re still wary of a raiding party coming to look for them. I know they’re in for a hard fall and winter. Periti knows my first few years on the surface weren’t easy.

I toss the letter back on the side table. “How was court?” I ask, trying again. It’s been a well-paying but extensive job of hers, taking up almost all the ten days of the week.

Sylf gives me an exasperated look. “House Duncan is boring . They don’t care about politics at all, since the crown manages the distribution for their agricultural goods. As long as the Linklaters remain in the imperial seat, they have nothing to worry about. They’re starting to lose their usefulness. I thought I made a useful contact the other night, but that was…” She trails off, her gaze going distant for a moment before her face twists in disgusted annoyance. “Stupid. Annoying. And a waste of time,” she snaps, taking the tea and carefully sipping.

Right, so something did happen and she’s not pleased about it and is dismissing it. Got it.

“And the Faesari?” I ask.

She rolls her eyes again. “Those Sea-walkers are the worst. Right up there with the druids from Selbrod. Not right in the head—too close to the fey or the great beyond.”

“Sea? What sea?” I ask, crossing my arms.

“Humans refer to it as the Wyrd Sea. But in Elvish it’s the Sea of Possibility .” The elven words barely register—my Elvish is getting better but I still mix it up with Kastii all the time. She continues, “It’s the plane the fey live on, where all elves came from before crossing the veil into Ilcanos.” She looks at me curiously. “Don’t you know that?”

I shrug. “The Karstians got cut off from the fey, ever since they went underground. The fey and the Wyrd Sea aren’t any business of mine.”

Her head tilts, considering, before looking back outside and sipping on her tea. Well, she may not be in a good mood, but at least she’s not in a bad one. I pull out my Peritian prayer book, but pause, my gaze going to the record player in the corner. I stand and head over, starting to rifle through my record collection for something relaxing.

“Tomlyn?”

“Hm?”

“Do the Karstians use the bioluminescence from the caves, the mushrooms and other growth, for lighting?”

I pause and turn to her. “Not really. We can all make dark light.” I hold my hand up, drawing on my magic with a spin of my hand, generating the small baubles of purple and teal light before closing my hand into a fist to extinguish the lights. “Why do you ask?”

She looks back out the window. “No reason. Just curious.”

I cannot believe I ever found Sylf hard to read. Something definitely happened last night. I want to pry, but I don’t want to make her angry. Besides, if it’s important, I’m sure she’ll tell me anyway when she’s ready.

I pull out a record of Two Dwarves and a Lute and set it on the player. The heavy gnomish contraption is expensive as hell, but we didn’t spend a floret on it. Cranking up the player, thinking about that day, is one of the happier moments of the last few years.

As the soft and soothing lute duets start wafting through the air, I approach Sylf and hold out my hand to her. She gives me a glare of protest, but softens at my smile. “Come on, at least one before I willingly throw myself into Benny’s trap?”

With a resigned sigh, she sets her tea down and takes my hand. I pull her close, my hand sliding to the small of her back by instinct. She lays her head on my shoulder and I rest my head against hers, closing my eyes. She smells fresh, like her jasmine soap, and her hand is warm against mine. I love her sturdiness, her steadfastness. Everything about her body against mine soothes me, like I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be.

“Hey,” I murmur, “Remember when we stole that record player?”

“Of course. How could I forget carting it in from outside the city and up through three districts flawlessly?”

I chuckle back. “A perfect heist.”

“Mm, one that Plan T didn’t ruin for once,” she teases.

“Hey, Plan T always works, just not in the way you plan for.”

She draws back a little and looks up at me with a soft smile, rare in that I’m the only one who gets to see it. I dip my head down for a long, slow, kiss. The dance slows to a sway as I break the kiss but keep my nose nuzzled next to hers. Who’d have thought I could ever have such peace and contentment with this incredibly dangerous and amazing elf? Her head tilts up, capturing my lips again, this time with a little more heat. I sigh against her lips and in an easy move, bend down a little and scoop her into my arms.

I rely on muscle memory to get us up the stairs and into her bedroom as she continues kissing me, my mouth, my jaw, soft and gentle. With each caress of her warm lips, the sweeter taste of desire and deeper affection stirs in me. I set her on the bed, both of us fumbling to draw the nice comforter back before unceremoniously kicking off shoes, trousers, and shirts. She lies back on the bed, staring up at me with an amused smile; maybe because I’ve taken the effort to bring her up to her bedroom.

To be honest, the bed is the place we fuck the least in the house—usually it’s on the large couch in the living room, or propped up on the counter, or against the wall, or on the floor (which is largely covered in carpets for this reason). But now I want to drink in the expanse of her. Amethyst skin against the cream sheets, her form lean and toned with legs for days. Thick, long dark blue hair splayed under her like a halo around the sharp angles of her face and her long, pointed ears.

Sylf reaches for me, and I move across the bed over to her, our bodies falling into their natural patterns as we fit together: my hands running up and down her torso, over her perky breasts, and down her legs; her arms slipping under mine to grip at the core of my back and press me to her as her hips roll up to meet mine; my mouth finding hers, her lips parted and her tongue teasing against mine.

My hand slips down between her legs to her heat, but she’s not quite wet enough yet. I kiss her jaw and croon, “How should I warm you up?”

“Just get the oil. I want you in me.”

Leaning up and reaching for the vial on the nightstand, I uncork it and coat my fingers before gently applying it to her lower lips. She lets out a hiss, her back arching at the sensation and I play with her folds a little before coating my cock, stroking it slowly to a full hardness as I stare down at her. She reaches for me again, wanting me close today it seems, and I oblige, leaning over and kissing her more heatedly this time, the burn of want and need coursing more strongly as I position myself outside her before slowly starting to slide in.

I break the kiss with a low groan, the tightness of her, the slight resistance, and the pained, slow entry too good. Her breath hitches and her hands press my torso down against hers, her legs locking up and around my thighs. I rock in her slowly, a sweet agony, as I trail heated kisses down the sharp angle of her neck to that gentle curve at the end.

Her hips rock to meet mine, her legs tightening and trying to push me into her. “More,” she whimpers.

I chuckle against her neck, still maintaining my slow pace, stoking the fire in me gently, patiently. “How the tables have turned, Mistress.”

I thrust a little harder in her and she gasps, her head pressing into the mattress in a slight arc. “Tomlyn,” she moans, half frustrated, half full of yearning and it does me in. I capture her mouth with mine again, moving faster, the fire growing hotter, stronger. Her hands move to my hair, and I take her right hand and intertwine it with mine, the cool silver of our ring against my fingers.

“Fuck,” I groan. I bury my head in the crook of her neck as my body moves with hers, a dance in perfect time. Harder, faster, her whimpers and gasps and all the other precious small noises she elicits propel me forward. “ Fuck , Sylf.”

I hear her high-pitched whimper. I savor the grip of her legs pressing against me tightly and her walls around my cock tightening before her body shudders with her release. She feels so good, I thrust hard into her a final time as the fire roars in me and I come with a loud cry, my body near digging into hers. The euphoria of the orgasm lingers as I pant heavily, my body slowly relaxing against hers. Her legs release their hold on me and I prop myself up a little to kiss her again.

After a long moment, she breaks the kiss and sighs, content. “Well, that’s one down.”

“You keeping count?”

She tries giving me a smirk back, but she’s too relaxed and it comes off as more of a cute half-smile. “Always. Good thing we have the rest of the day.”

I chuckle again. “Am I even going to have time to make dinner tonight?”

“You will if you get to work soon, Durin .”

I lean forward, kissing the sweat off her brow. As I sit back on the bed, my fingers tease at her wet heat. I love the way her eyes flutter as she softly gasps. “As you say, Mistress.”

Part of me wishes that I could stay here with her forever, but I know I need to do this. I need to get Benny off my back. Sure, Benny is probably luring me into a trap, but I’ve survived worse than Benny before. I’ll do it again. And after? Not only will I be free to roam around the Trunk again, but I’ll also come back to the most incredible gal on the plane.

It’s a roll of the dice, but I know things are finally in my favor.