Page 12 of Stealing Tink

Ew.

“I’ll take your silence as a ‘yes,’” he says.

All right, time to be going. I turn to leave, but before I’ve taken a step, the man grabs my shoulder.

I wrench away, whirling to face him.

“Rethink that, miss,” he says, kicking his stool out of the way as he stands to tower over me. “A woman like you will need someone to take care of her around here. I’d be willing to protect you—for a price, of course,” he says, flashing me a set of rotted teeth.

He’s human. If this were a one-on-one fight, I could take him. But the other men at the bar must be his friends, because they abandon their stools to rise in rank behind him.

“I think she might need more than one bodyguard,” the second one says.

Panic has me itching to take a step back, but if I’ve learned anything, it’s that displays of fear only encourage men like this.

“Hold on now,” says the third. “Maybe we should wait for her to give us an answer. What do you think?”

Before I can stop him, he lunges forward, shoving his hand into my pocket and plucking out my coin purse. Then, with a sneer that curls his full upper lip, he dumps the coin purse upside down.

Tiles clatter to the floor.

CHAPTER 7

It’s a stupid move, one driven by emotion alone, but before I can think about my safety, I fold to my knees, scrambling after the runaway tiles. The men cackle, the rest in the tavern either laughing along or going silent as they watch the scene unfold.

With the edges of my palms, I slide the tiles across the floor, gathering them in a pile, but one of the tiles gets stuck in the floorboards. Laughter echoes across the tavern as I try to scoop them back into my hands.

Before I can gather them back into my pocket, one of the men kicks them with the side of his foot, sending them shooting across the floor.

My mouth struggles in an effort to cry out. As always, no sound emerges.

“Poor thing can’t even cry,” says the red-shirted man.

I lunge for the scattered tiles, but the men outnumber me, the other two joining in, this time launching them toward the fire with the sides of their boots.

“Shouldn’t be playing with children’s toys at your age,” says the leader of the pack.

“That’s enough,” shouts the man behind the counter. It’s not the bartender. No, this man has an air of authority about him.

The tavern goes silent.

I must be getting soft as I expect him to kick the men out. Instead, he points to me and says, “You. Out.”

I go to pick up the tiles, but just as my fingers linger over the “JOHN” tile, the man’s voice booms.

“I. Said. Out.”

And then I do something I figure I’ll be ashamed of the rest of my life. I stare up at him, not with anger, but pleading. Please, I beg silently. Please don’t make me leave them.

But the man’s arms are crossed. His head makes a sharp jerk toward the door.

I glance around the room once more, surveying my options. Everyone is staring, no one bothering to raise a finger to help. The hooded man in the corner is nursing his drink, either oblivious or indifferent to the scene unfolding across the room. I long to fight, but this isn’t one I would win. Even though there’s a part of me that would rather die than part with these tiles, I know it’s not what John would want.

It’s impractical, illogical. The tiles can no more bring me back than your mind can. Always the voice of reason, that stupid friend of mine.

When I haul myself to my feet, I’m not leaving behind carefully crafted pieces of wood, but fragments of myself. Stolen smiles. Silent laughs. The first joke I made in my years trapped in Neverland. A kiss that never was.

But when I turn and dust myself off, I don’t look back.