Chapter 187 - Hundred And Eighty Seven
Byron entered the tavern, the thick, smoky air immediately enveloping him. The room was dimly lit, illuminated by flickering candles and the warm glow of the fireplace. The air was heavy with the mingled scents of ale, tobacco, and the cloying sweetness of cheap perfume. The sounds of boisterous laughter, drunken singing,young women dancing and the clinking of tankards filled the room, creating a chaotic, yet strangely comforting, atmosphere.
He found a relatively quiet corner and settled into a worn wooden chair, ordering a strong drink from the barkeep. He clutched a crumpled piece of paper in his hand, his knuckles white, his expression grim.
A woman, her face painted with rouge and her dress cut low to reveal her ample cleavage, approached him, her smile predatory. "Would you like to cool off, my lord?" she asked, her voice a low, seductive purr as she served him his drink.
Byron glanced up, his eyes cold. "It’s not needed, thank you," he replied, his voice curt, his gaze returning to his drink.
The woman, unwilling to lose a potential customer, leaned closer, her perfume filling his nostrils. "Are you sure you don’t need help cooling off?" she asked,her lips behind his ear, her breath warm giving him a ticklish feeling, her voice laced with a playful challenge. "You look like you could use one, judging from your sour expression." She bent even lower, her cleavage now prominently displayed. Her fingers caressing the back of his neck.
Byron turned towards her, his expression hardening into a cold, dangerous mask. He slowly stood up, his movements deliberate and menacing. He reached out, his hand closing around her neck, his grip tightening. "Don’t make me repeat myself," he said, his voice a low, threatening growl.
The woman’s eyes widened in shock and terror. She gagged, her breath catching in her throat, her hands clawing at his arm, desperately trying to loosen his hold. A strangled whimper escaped her lips as she struggled to breathe.
The tavern owner, witnessing the scene, rushed forward, his face pale with fear. "My lord, please!" he pleaded, his voice trembling. "Please, she meant no harm! She doesn’t know any better!" He bowed repeatedly, his hands clasped together in supplication.
Byron held the woman’s gaze, his eyes cold and unwavering. He held her there for a few more seconds, until her face began to turn a shade of purple. " Don’t kill her." His inner voice spoke to him. Then, with a sudden, almost casual movement, he released her. She collapsed to the floor, gasping for air, her chest heaving, her hands rubbing her throat.
The tavern fell silent, the boisterous laughter and drunken singing replaced by hushed whispers and nervous glances. People shrank away from him, their eyes filled with fear and resentment.
He turned away, ignoring the woman’s terrified gasps and the tavern owner’s frantic apologies. He resumed his seat, picking up his drink, his expression impassive. He mood was already soured.