HennessyTheAuthor

In a dangerous world where warlords rule, monsters roam, and treachery lurks behind every corner, there exists a mercenary known only as Dude.

No title, no fancy lineage—just Dude.

Women whisper his name in hushed tones. Men either want to hire him or kill him. He’s a walking contradiction—deadly, yet lazy; cocky, yet irresistibly charming; a warrior with the strength of ten men but a habit of forgetting his own plans mid-fight. He never says no to coin, danger, or a damsel in distress. And somehow, no matter how insane the odds, he always pulls through with a smirk on his lips and a blade in his hand.

But it’s not just his swordplay that’s legendary.

After the dust settles, the women he saves find themselves drawn to him—whether it’s the thrill of survival, the heat of the moment, or just the way his rough hands feel against their skin. And when they give in to the tension, the passion that follows is nothing short of earth-shattering.

Tales Of A Swordsman

I was elbow-deep in poultices and bandages when the door to my infirmary flew open and in stumbled a man who looked like he fought a bear, lost, then insulted its mother.

"Are you the healer?" he grunted, clutching his side.

I looked up from my herbs. "Are you bleeding on my floor?"

He gave a crooked grin. "Depends. Do you charge extra for charm?"

His name, of course, was Dude. Because why would Fate ever send me someone normal?

He winced as I stitched him up, but never complained. Instead, he kept flirting—through gritted teeth and bloodstained humor.

"You have lovely hands," he said. "Strong, precise, slightly murderous."

"Flattery won't get you pain relief."

By the time I reached his thigh wound, he smirked and asked, "Dinner first, or is this how you undress all your patients?"

I blushed. I cursed him. I stitched anyway.

When infection hit, I stayed by his bedside. He rambled nonsense. Called me "angel," "enemy," and once, "Queen of Porridge."

I should've left him to sweat it out. But when he gripped my hand and whispered, "Don't leave," I stayed.

At some point, his hand slid to my hip. My breath caught. He murmured something low, sultry, unintelligible—and incredibly indecent.

I pretended not to hear. I definitely didn't let go.

He recovered. Slowly. Beautifully. And stayed longer than necessary.

"I think you like me," he said one morning, standing shirtless in my doorway, every muscle annoyingly well-defined.

"I think you're delusional," I replied, trying not to stare.

He kissed me anyway—hot, hungry, hands anchoring me to the counter.

He left eventually—mercenaries always do. But he came back.

"I figured out I like being patched up by someone who cares. And moans when I kiss her."

Now, he guards my door. I warm his bed. And every scar he earns comes with a kiss. Sometimes two. Sometimes a full night of tangled sheets and whispered promises.

Loving him? That's the wound I never want to close.

The Healer & Dude