Page 100 of The Silversmith

“You should eat,” I rushed out, eyes widening at the heat between my thighs before reining myself in. I stood from the bed, still in my comfortable, black lounge pants, wool socks, and ivory sweater from the day. “Your food is probably cold.”

I moved toward the bathroom, but he gripped my wrist and held me still.

“I didn’t thank you for helping me with that beast.” His fingers twitched against my skin. “I should have.”

I shrugged, my eyes lingering on the mesmerizing muscle beneath the tan skin of his scarred chest. The perfect amount of hair across his pecs, down his sternum to his navel, mixed with the ink all over him. He was savage. All man. I couldn’t help it, how he made me ache. Internal wildfire incinerated my senses before I could understand what I was feeling. “Like you said… you had a plan.”

He tilted my chin up with his finger and met my gaze. “Thank you, Aryella.”

I grinned at the memory of our first private conversation, and was reminded how I’d thanked him for saving me from that wolf, as well as his response.

“You don’t have to thank me,” I whispered.

His smirk showed me that he remembered, too.

“But,” I scowled at his chest wound, “do you want me to try to heal you? I don’t know if I’ll be able to, but I can try.” Filled with guilt, I recalled my failure with Caz. “If not, I think you’ll scar.”

“Do the scars disgust you?” he asked, his deep voice pinched.

“No,” I rushed out, brushing my fingers across the scar over my heart that barely peeked out of the neck of my shirt. “Do my scars disgust you?”

“Nothing about you disgusts me.”

My heart clenched. I smiled and brushed my fingers against his arm. “Well, I like your scars.”

It was something I’d wanted him to know that first day in Warrich.

“If you like my scars…” I felt the responding graze of his fingers against my skin. “Then let it all scar.”

My throat tightened. And I knew I wanted to—had to—feel him beneath my fingers, even if that was all I would ever have of him beyond our friendship.

“Can I see them?” I asked, rubbing the fabric of his shirt collar between my fingers. “Can I… touch them?”

His throat bobbed as he swallowed, but he nodded.

Slowly, I removed his shirt. Off his shoulders, down his arms. Purposely feeling his hot skin against my fingers as they traveled. He was smooth in all the places that weren’t scarred and rough, textured in the places that were. I gently ran my index finger along a pale-pink line over his collarbone. And then I touched each scar, memorizing not just the way the skin rose and dipped, but how he reacted to me. With shivers. Of delight, I think. I took my time. Savored the way my body ignited, how desire pulsed through me.

One scar, wide and thick, rested at the center of his abdomen, below his open wounds. I let my touch linger there, and then rested my palm against his skin. He tensed and sucked in a breath. But when I went to pull away—afraid his skin was sensitive from his wound even there—he covered my hand with his, keeping me in place.

“You’re incredible.” My voice trembled in awe.

He kept silent, but I felt his eyes on me.

I touched the tattoos next. Permanent, but smooth.

“How many are there?” I asked.

“Four hundred and two.”

“Will you keep adding more?”

His voice turned grave when he answered, “Gods, I hope not.”

I gave him a sad smile, refraining from pressing for his secret. His eyes grew haunted when he spoke of them, and I refused to stab my finger into any more of his wounds.

I shifted my attention to a faded pink mark on his bicep. Too thick to be from a knife. A sword maybe, but more like he had been brushed by a flame.

“Is that a burn?” I asked.