My Bratty Wife
Chapter 187 - Hundred And Eighty Seven

Chapter 187: Chapter 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.

Whispers rippled through the tavern, the other patrons watching him with a mixture of fear and disgust. "He’s a madman," one muttered. "How could he do that to a woman?" another whispered. "what a monster," one said though drunk. "He almost killed her," another hissed. "All this men that think because they are of high status they can do anything ," a third muttered, their voice laced with resentment.

Byron ignored them, his gaze fixed on the crumpled piece of paper in his hand. He took a long sip of his drink, his expression darkening as he reread the words.

A man, emboldened by the alcohol and the anonymity of the crowd, spoke up, his voice loud and slurred. "I wonder if he was raised by a woman at all?" he sneered. "Because if he was, his mother really did a terrible job."

The traven erupted in laughter which was actually sounding like a mockery to Byron’s ears. His hand tightened around his glass, his knuckles turning white. He slammed the glass down on the table, the sound echoing through the tavern. He turned, his eyes blazing with fury. He reached inside his coat and pulled out his pistol. The tavern fell silent, the laughter and chatter abruptly ceasing.

He aimed the pistol at the man, his hand steady. "You were saying?" he asked, his voice low and dangerous. But Byron didn’t wait for him to answer. He pulled the trigger. The bullet ripped through the man’s throat, the sound of the gunshot followed by a wet gurgling sound. The man crashed to the floor, his eyes wide in shock. The tavern erupted in chaos, screams and shouts filling the air.

Byron lowered his pistol, his expression cold and indifferent. He dropped a handful of coins onto the table, the clatter of metal echoing through the frantic activities. He then calmly walked out of the tavern, leaving behind the chaotic scene and the dead body.

Byron exited the tavern, his expression still hard and cold. He walked towards his waiting carriage, his movements precise and purposeful. "Lord Byron," his aide greeted, bowing slightly as he opened the carriage door.

Byron stepped inside, settling into the plush seats. "Clean up the mess inside," he instructed, his voice flat and devoid of emotion. "And make sure it doesn’t go out in public. I don’t want a scandal."

His aide, accustomed to Byron’s behavior nodded without question. "Yes, my lord," he replied.

Byron paused, his gaze hardening. "And by ’clean up the mess,’ I mean ensure absolute silence," he clarified, his voice laced with a chilling undertone. "If that means killing everyone in there to keep them quiet, then so be it."

His aide’s expression remained unchanged, his loyalty unwavering. "As you command, my lord," he said, closing the carriage door.

The carriage began to move, its wheels rumbling over the cobblestones. Inside, Byron leaned back against the cushions, his eyes closed, his mind racing. He was agitated by the letter he just received and he knew he needed to act fast.