Chapter 17: The Rival's Charm
The Ember & Stein was packed, a solid wall of noise and heat that hit you the moment you crossed the threshold. It was the good kind of chaos—the clink of pewter mugs, the sizzle of fat dripping from the rotating haunch of boar over the central hearth, the roar of laughter from a table of off-duty guardsmen losing badly at dice. Smoke from the hearth and tallow candles hung in a hazy blue layer near the ceiling, scenting the air with woodsmoke and burning wax under the stronger smells of roasted meat, yeast, and the tang of unwashed bodies.
Taichi was in his element, a conductor before a rowdy orchestra. His hands moved with a deft, efficient rhythm—pouring, wiping, sliding coins into the lockbox, all while trading barbs with a red-faced merchant. His cheeks were flushed from the heat, a stray lock of brown hair stuck to his temple. He looked alive, vibrant, completely in control.
From his corner table, Yamato watched him like a hawk watching a single sparrow in a flock. He hadn’t touched his second tankard of the spiced ale he usually savored.It sat sweating a ring into the scarred oak, forgotten.
“You’re doing that thing,” Koushiro said, not looking up from the parchment he was sketching a star chart on. The scholar was sipping a small glass of honeyed wine, looking profoundly out of place among the brawny patrons.
“What thing?” Yamato muttered, his eyes never leaving Taichi.“The brooding, possessive stare.It’s unsettling.And conspicuous. You’re making the guards at table four nervous.”
Yamato ignored him.His focus was absolute. He tracked the easy smile Taichi gave the merchant, the way his warm brown eyes crinkled at the corners. It was a professional smile.Polite. Then the door swung open, letting in a burst of cool night air and a new patron, and Yamato’s spine straightened.
The man was an alpha—that much was immediately clear from the way the ambient noise dipped for a half-second, heads turning unconsciously. He was tall, nearly Yamato’s height, with a lean, wiry strength. His hair was the color of dark roast coffee, tied back at the nape, and he moved with a languid, confident grace that spoke of skill, not just bulk. He wore practical traveler’s clothes, worn but well-made, a long knife at his belt. His smile was easy, disarming, as he nodded to a few faces, scanning the room before his gaze landed on the bar.On Taichi.Yamato’s jaw tightened.
The stranger—Ryo—sauntered up to the bar, waiting a beat until Taichi finished with the merchant. He leaned an elbow on the polished wood. “Heard the words ‘best mead’ and ‘this side of the capital’ used together. That’s a dangerous claim, friend.”
Taichi turned, a fresh towel in his hand, his professional mask ready. Then he seemed to really look at Ryo.The alpha’s energy was different.Not challenging, not domineering.Open. Curious.Taichi’s shoulders lost a fraction of their defensive rigidity. “Only dangerous if it’s a lie,” Taichi said, his voice carrying over the din. “You willing to risk it?”
“Life’s dull without risk,” Ryo laughed, a warm, rolling sound.“Let’s have it. The strongest you’ve got.”
As Taichi turned to pull a special bottle from beneath the counter, Ryo’s eyes swept the tavern with an appraising glance, lingering for the briefest moment on Yamato’s frozen figure in the corner. A flicker of recognition, of assessment, then he looked back to Taichi, who was pouring a deep amber liquid into a smaller glass.
“Something to chase away the road dust?” Taichi asked, sliding the glass forward.
“Something to chase away the memory of the road dust,” Ryo corrected, lifting the glass.He took a sip, paused, then his eyebrows shot up. He swallowed, letting out a slow, appreciative breath.“Okay.You win. That’s… incredible.What’s in it? Besides magic.”
Taichi’s genuine, proud smile unfolded then, the one Yamato felt he’d earned only in rare, quiet moments after hours of stubborn peeling and sweeping.It was a sunbeam cutting through the smoky haze.“Trade secret. But the magic’s just good barley and better patience.”
They talked. Ryo asked intelligent questions about the fermentation process, made a joke about a brewer in the next town over whose ale tasted like horse liniment. Taichi laughed—a real, unguarded laugh that crinkled his eyes and showed his teeth.The sound lanced through Yamato’s chest, hot and sharp.
A low noise, almost imperceptible, started in the back of his throat.
“Yamato,” Koushiro said, his voice low and urgent.He finally looked up from his star chart. “Don’t.”
“Don’t what?” Yamato’s voice was gravel.
“Don’t do whatever you’re thinking of doing.He’s a customer. Taichi is working.This is his territory, not yours.You’ll embarrass him. You’ll embarrass yourself.”
Yamato’s fist clenched on the tabletop, the old wood creaking under his grip.Koushiro was right.Logically, he knew it. But logic was a thin parchment burning away under the hotter, older fire in his blood.His alpha senses were screaming. The stranger’s easy, non-threatening pheromones were a trick.A challenge. And Taichi’s scent—that usually faint, sweet undercurrent that announced his unclaimed status—was shifting, blossoming in response to the attention, to the engaging conversation.It was brighter.Happier.
It was betrayal.
He watched, muscles coiled, as Ryo leaned further over the bar, saying something lower, for Taichi’s ears only.Taichi listened, his head tilted. Then he shook his head, a blush painting his cheeks a delicious pink as he laughed again, softer this time, more intimate.That was it.
The chair scraped loudly against the stone floor as Yamato stood up. The world narrowed to a tunnel: the crowded space between his table and the bar, the two figures outlined in the firelight. The roar of the tavern faded into a dull rush in his ears, replaced by the pounding of his own pulse. Koushiro said his name again, a sharp exhale of warning, but it meant nothing.He moved. Not a rush, but a deliberate, steady advance through the press of bodies. Patrons shifted out of his way instinctively, sensing the stormcloud in his wake. He felt the weight of his own size, the scars on his knuckles, the cold certainty in his gut. He wasn’t thinking about proving his worth, or courting, or peeling potatoes.He was thinking about removal. About making the interloper understand, in the most basic terms possible, that the smile, the laugh, the blush, were not his to provoke.
He was five paces from the bar when Taichi’s eyes, bright from laughter, lifted and found him. The omega’s smile vanished, replaced by a flash of alarm, then a hardening of his features into a familiar, stubborn defiance. Ryo followed Taichi’s gaze, turning slowly, his own easy smile not fading but shifting, becoming something more assessing, more prepared.
Yamato stopped, a solid wall of alpha aggression, his blue eyes icy as they locked onto Ryo’s.
“You’re in my seat,” Yamato said, his voice cutting through the noise around them like a blade.