Hour of the Lion by Cherise Sinclair (reading a book txt) 📕

Calum sighed, and his gray eyes lightened. 'I find intestines as unappealing as blood.

Alexander, do please recall you are sheriff of this county.'

'Well, hey, that did slip my mind.' Alec took an audible breath, and tension flowed out of his body. He spoke to the old guy, 'Thorson. Looks like you get to enjoy the hospitality of my jail. I need a word.'

The man‘s voice was hoarse, not surprising considering Alec‘s knee was wedged against his larynx. 'My word is given.'

'Albert?' Alec‘s frozen gaze turned to pudgy.

'My word is given,' Pudge repeated.

As Calum released his captive, Alec hauled Thorson to his feet and pushed him sideways so the two drunks stood together.

Standing in front of them, Calum crossed his arms. 'I will forgive your debt to me, but this woman works for me and was doing only what she was hired to do.' His words were soft and sheened with ice. 'She offered no insult to you, yet you‘ve done her damage. By the law of reciprocity, she is owed.' He looked around his bar.

Puzzled, Vic followed his gaze. Two men and the college girls appeared confused. So did the young couple by the fireplace and a man seated at the bar. Everyone else in the place stared at her with expressions ranging from coldly angry to assessing. A second later, heads bowed slightly, and a murmur came from the room. 'She is owed.'

What the hell was going on? Vic opened her mouth to ask and reconsidered. Right now, Calum looked nastier than her first drill sergeant after a recruit dropped his rifle in the mud.

When his gaze lit on her, she almost snapped to attention.

Thorson‘s mouth tightened into a bitter line as he stared at Vic, repugnance streaming from every pore in his body. But he answered quietly, 'We will discuss the compensation with you, Cosan—uh, Calum.'

'Indeed, I think not.' Calum nodded at her. 'Your discussion will be with the one who is owed. I‘ve found her honorable and fair for a—I believe she can determine her own recompense to achieve balance. Let us say, this Monday, your bookstore at one o‘clock. Miss Waverly, does that meet with your approval?'

'Sure. Sounds fine.' What exactly had she approved? Feeling blood running down her face, Vic swiped a hand across the gash on her cheekbone and saw rage flash into Alec‘s eyes. The situation felt too volatile, and retreat seemed the best solution to defuse it. 'Excuse me while I get cleaned up.'

She moved through the room, her eyes fixed on the kitchen door to escape the stares. Her face hurt, and the humiliation hurt worse than her face. That old guy shouldn‘t have been able to lay a finger on her. He‘d not only kicked her, but had actually gotten in a punch. From the look of him, he had to be approaching seventy.

Seventy. God help me, I"m already over the hill and not even thirty yet. And what was all that about being owed? Some mountain custom or something? Calum had a few questions to answer.

In the kitchen, she dropped into the chair by the setup table and worked on releasing the lingering adrenaline.

Unfortunately for her state of mind, less than a minute later, Calum stalked into the room, followed by Alec. And didn‘t they both look like they still wanted to kill someone. Her, probably. She‘d handled the men badly and disrupted the whole tavern.

She raised a hand, realized her knuckles were bleeding on Calum‘s clean floor. God, I can"t win. 'I‘m sorry, guys. I didn‘t—'

'Shut up,' Alec said, the shortest sentence she‘d ever heard from him. Yeah, he was pissed off. He yanked a paper towel off the roll, stuck it under the water.

Fine, okay, shutting up. But Calum stood on her other side, and she really needed to tell him how sorry she—

'Look at me,' Alec said.

She turned back, caught the full effect of blazing green eyes. He knelt in front of her, so close she could see faint scars across one cheek. Parallel lines. She stiffened—lines like the ones around her ribs. Claw marks.

He grabbed her chin, his fingers firm. Warm. 'Hold still. This is gonna hurt, baby.' He pressed the cold, wet paper towel against her cheekbone.

'Ouch,' she murmured.

'Listen,' he said, 'there—'

'Move.' Calum nudged Alec over with his knee. He yanked a chair closer with one foot and seated himself before taking her hand. His gray eyes were almost black, his mouth tight. Muscles flexed under his white shirt—he was ready to wade into a fight, all right.

'I didn‘t mean—'

'Shut up,' they said, almost in chorus. Calum held out a small bottle to Alec. 'Put iodine on that rag.'

'Hey, no, wait.' Her grab for Alec‘s wrist was a little too late, too weak. He forced her hand down on her thigh and pressed the cloth to her face. It burned, napalm in a bottle. She‘d hated the shit since she was a kid. 'Jesus, I survived the fight and now you‘re trying to kill me,' she muttered. 'What kind of archaic medicine is this?'

Alec grinned, and his grip on her hand eased, turned to almost a caress. 'You‘re too tough to die, woman.'

A compliment? His words slid through her humiliation like the sun through fog. She glanced at Calum, just in time to see him dump half the bottle of iodine on her knuckles. She yelped.

'Shit! Fuck!'

Whups. Not a diplomatic way to talk to a boss. She bit down on her lip, ignored Alec‘s snigger. 'Um. Sorry.'

'I do hope you refrain from that language when my daughter is present,' Calum said mildly.

His eyes had returned to gray, and his lips twitched upward.

She relaxed back into the chair with a whuff of relief. Calum used a finger to smear antibiotic ointment on her knuckles, and then handed the tube to Alec. They acted like she‘d been broken into pieces instead of barely dented.

Both of them were intent on making sure she was okay. Nobody‘d ever done that before.

Oh, in the Marines, a buddy would slap