A tale of brawls, banter, and a night Mira would never forget…
The Laughing Boar tavern was packed tonight, full of drunken mercenaries, traveling merchants, and local troublemakers all looking to drink themselves into a stupor. Mira had been working there long enough to know that any night with this much ale flowing would end in either a fight, a fire, or both.
She wiped down the counter, tossing a damp rag over her shoulder as she glared at the man slumped at the far end of the bar. He had been there for hours, sprawled lazily over the wooden counter like he had no cares in the world. His tunic was half-unbuttoned, his boots kicked up on a barrel, and his sword—an impressive blade, she had to admit—rested beside his mug, untouched.
"Hey," she called, knocking her knuckles on the bar near his head. "You gonna order more or just drool on my counter all night?"
The man blinked lazily, as if just realizing she was there. He had sharp, wolfish features, sun-kissed skin, and dark, tousled hair that made him look like he just rolled out of a fight—and won. His lips curled into a slow, easy grin.
"Depends," he drawled, voice deep and smooth. "You throwing in a smile with that ale?"
Mira rolled her eyes. "I'll throw in a boot to your ass if you don't pay up."
Before the man—Dude, she assumed, judging by the way some of the other mercenaries had muttered his name—could reply, the door to the tavern slammed open.
A group of men stalked inside, their armor battered, their weapons sharp. Mira tensed immediately. She knew their kind—bandit scum who thought they could take what they wanted just because they had swords. The leader, a burly man with a scar splitting his cheek, scanned the room before his gaze landed on her.
"Well, well," he sneered. "Ain't she a pretty thing? Think I'll help myself to a free drink."
Mira clenched her jaw. She reached for the dagger hidden under the bar, but before she could move, the lazy mercenary at the end of the counter suddenly sat up, stretching like a cat woken from a nap.
"You know," Dude sighed, rolling his shoulders, "I was really enjoying my evening."
The bandit leader sneered. "And who the hell are you?"
Dude scratched his chin. "Name's Dude. And you're ruining my drink."
The tavern went silent. The regulars exchanged glances, and Mira swore she saw one of them whisper oh, shit.
The bandit scoffed. "You think you're some kind of hero?"
Dude yawned. "Nah. I'm just a guy who really hates assholes."
The fight broke out fast—Mira barely had time to duck before Dude moved like lightning. One second, he was at the bar, looking half-asleep. The next, he was behind the bandit leader, yanking his head back by the hair and slamming his face into the counter.
The rest of the gang lunged at him. Dude just sighed.
"Alright, let's get this over with."
He dodged the first swing with an easy sidestep, caught another man's wrist mid-punch, and twisted until the guy yelped and dropped his weapon. Mira had seen mercenaries fight before, but none like him—he was effortless, almost bored, like this was just another night for him.
He picked up a wooden stool and smashed it over one thug's head. Then, with a smirk, he grabbed a half-full tankard off the counter, downed the ale in one go, and used the mug to knock out another attacker.
"Now that," he said, setting the empty mug down, "is a damn fine drink."
Within minutes, the bandits were either unconscious, groaning on the floor, or scrambling to escape. The leader, his nose bloody and his pride shattered, managed to stumble toward the door.
Dude tilted his head. "You should probably leave a tip."
The man fumbled for a coin pouch, threw it on the floor, and ran.
Mira exhaled, the tension in her body fading as the tavern erupted into cheers. But her eyes were fixed on the mercenary, who stretched his arms above his head like he hadn't just single-handedly wrecked half a gang.
"Well," she murmured, stepping around the bar. "That was something."
Dude turned, flashing that same easy grin. "Yeah? What part impressed you—the chair throw or the ale chug?"
She snorted. "The part where you didn't even break a sweat."
He leaned against the counter, watching her with an expression that made heat coil low in her stomach. "Sweetheart, I can do a lot without breaking a sweat."
The tavern had emptied out. The only ones left were Mira and Dude, sitting in the quiet glow of candlelight.
She studied him—this mercenary who fought like a demon but acted like nothing ever phased him. He had an air of danger about him, but beneath it, there was something infuriatingly irresistible.
"So," he said, swirling the last bit of ale in his cup, "you gonna offer me a room for the night, or am I sleeping under the bar again?"
Mira raised an eyebrow. "That depends. You expecting a discount?"
Dude smirked. "I dunno. You offering one?"
She could feel the warmth pooling between her thighs, the tension thick between them. The way he looked at her—lazy, confident, like he already knew how this was going to end—made her pulse quicken.
Without another word, she grabbed him by the collar and pulled him toward her. Their lips crashed together, heat exploding between them. He responded instantly, strong hands gripping her waist, pulling her flush against his body.
"Well, damn," he murmured against her lips. "And here I thought I'd have to try harder."
Mira smirked, running her fingers through his messy hair. "Shut up and take me upstairs."
He lifted her off her feet like she weighed nothing, carrying her up the stairs with ease. The second they reached her room, he kicked the door shut behind them.
And then, all words were lost—swallowed by the heat, the passion, the way he touched her like he had all the time in the world to savor her.
By the time the sun rose, Mira knew one thing for certain—Dude wasn't just a mercenary.
He was a legend.
The End… for Now.