Fenris Dalka came to the tavern nearly every night, so why did he feel such a fool sitting at the bar, slowly nursing a beer, pretending to drink it like he often did? He huffed out his breath and kept his gaze forward, using the mirror to keep an eye on the door. From his vantage point, he could see every corner of the tavern as well as the entrance. He’d scoped out the perfect place to sit some time ago, and now, if he came in and someone was sitting there, he just stood over them, staring, until they got up and vacated his seat.

Fen knew he was intimidating and he used his rough, dangerous looks to his advantage. He was tall enough, but it was his broad shoulders and thick chest, his roped arms and five-o’clock shadow, and the piercing glacier-blue eyes he used to look right through someone into their soul that usually intimidated people. He rarely had to speak, and he preferred it that way. The regulars knew him and knew to leave him alone.

Music played in the background and laughter occasionally rang out, but for the most part, the patrons spoke in hushed whispers. Only the bartender ever spoke to Fen when he entered. A few of the regulars lifted a hand, or nodded, but most avoided his eyes. He looked nearly as dangerous as he was—a man with no friends, trusting only his brother and always hunted or hunting. He was even more ruthless and brutal than the whispers said.

His hair was long, very thick and distinctly silver, with black strands woven into the waves falling down his back. Most of the time he secured it at his nape with a leather cord to keep it out of his eyes. He had large hands, and his knuckles were scarred. There were scars on his face, one up near his eye and another that ran from his eye halfway down his face. There were far more scars on his body. Centuries of defending himself, every battle and every victory, were stamped into his bones.

Whispered conversations were easy enough to listen in on with his acute hearing, allowing him to glean a tremendous amount of information. But tonight was different. He wasn’t here for information. He was drawn . . . compelled by something altogether different this time.

Uncomfortable, he played with his beer mug, moving his fingers over the handle, gripping with his fist and forcing himself to let go before he shattered the glass. He wasn’t a man to do another’s bidding. He didn’t trust anything he couldn’t understand—and he didn’t understand the urgent need that kept him coming back night after night, waiting.