CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
Malrik’s POV
The tavern reeked of sweat, wet fur, and spilled ale. Just the way I liked it—filthy, loud, and full of prey too drunk or too dumb to recognize death when it walked in.
I pushed the door open with a slow creak, stepping into the dimly lit den of mongrels.
The moment I entered, conversations faltered, glasses froze halfway to lips, and heads turned. Their eyes lingered longer than they should have.
That always prickled my skin. Those eyes—they made me uncomfortable.
But I smiled anyway, though it didn’t reach my eyes.
It wasn’t the kind of smile that put people at ease. It was the kind that made your skin crawl.
Still, I moved through them like mist—fluid and unbothered—finding my place at the far end of the bar.
The tavernkeeper, a grizzled wolf wi
