The tavern was loud and Mikhail was thriving in it.
He was slouched at the same table, boots on the wood, a mug sloshing half-empty in one hand. His cheeks were flushed from the alcohol, but his grin? Still sharp. Still cocky.
Gold glinted in piles on the table. More than enough for a warm bed, food for days.
But Mikhail wasn't interested in any of that.
He was interested in winning.And he had. Over and over again for the past few hours. The last guy had cried.
Actually cried.
Mikhail had laughed so hard he nearly fell out of his chair.
On the other side of the tavern, Medusa leaned against the bar, sipping something strong and trying her best to pretend she wasn't traveling with a demon who was becoming a local legend for snapping wrists.
She was flushed too — but not from drink.
No. She was flushed because there were three men around her, all leering and laughing like she was some prize up for auction.
