Zayn kicked open the inn door with a grunt, dragging a half-conscious Bran behind him like a sack of potatoes.
Well, not quite. Potatoes didn't occasionally slur compliments about how "the moon was secretly judging him."
Nor did they randomly twitch and mutter, "I swear I only paid for two girls…"
Zayn's arm was looped tightly under Bran's shoulder, doing most of the heavy lifting.
Bran, in contrast, was putting in negative effort.
His legs just sort of shuffled along the floor like a broom someone forgot to pick up after sweeping.
And gods, the man was heavier than he looked — muscle and alcohol made for a hell of a combination.
"Moderate spender, my ass," Zayn muttered to himself. "You single-handedly funded an entire brothel economy tonight."
He finally reached the stairs and stared up at them like they were the gates to the underworld.
With a deep sigh, he hoisted Bran up, step by painful step, the wood creaking under both their weights.
