Page 111 of The Silversmith

Danger and darkness spiraled in his stare. “You said you trust me, Ella?” he asked calmly.

I nodded.

“Then I need you to trust me when I say your last fear in this life, or any life, mortal or eternal, should be that I won’t like what you look like naked.”

I stared at him—eyes wide, cheeks hot. Fire licked my core. I forced a trembling breath.

“Understood?” His deep voice was strained.

I nodded and forced a swallow through my dry mouth.

“Good.” He motioned toward the bed. “Now lie down for me.”

With an unsteady sigh, I lowered myself onto the bed, highly aware of every surface of my exposed skin. He watched me at first, but when the towels began to slip, he became very interested in his own boots. I readjusted the towels to cover my waist and breasts.

“Gavin?” I asked.

“Yes?”

“If you won’t kiss me because you don’t think you can stop,” I rushed out, “I’m having a hard time understanding how this is any better or… easier for you.”

“This is… practical.” But his voice was still strained, and he stared at his feet while taking up space on the edge of the bed. “You need my help.”

The desire that pulsed in my center and soaked me between my thighs felt anything but practical. I heard him dip the sponge into the water and held my breath, waiting for that first touch.

“It might be a little cold,” he muttered.

“Probably for the best,” I whispered.

He chuckled in breathless surprise and touched the sponge to my forehead. I gasped and shuddered. Cold, indeed.

“Do you want to talk about what happened today?” he said, distracting us both from the weak pants passing through my lips. “With that Insidion.” Our eyes met, and I knew the guilt and sorrow read plain on my face when he added, “You were defending yourself.”

I broke our gaze, closed my eyes, and focused on the cool touch of the sponge on my skin. He wetted my hair, splayed out on the pillow beneath my head, and took his time washing out the blood.

“I know I had to do it,” I said finally. “Or I might have died.” He took a third, dry towel and carefully brushed any remaining water off of my forehead, nose, and cheeks. “But I’m afraid I’ll see the light leave his eyes every time I close my own.”

“For a while, you might.” The sponge in his hand—warmed slightly from the friction of his ministrations—led careful strokes along my jaw and neck.

“But it gets easier?”

“I can’t answer that for you.” He rinsed the sponge and washed my left shoulder. “But it did for me. Though I suppose the first time I killed someone, I never regretted it to begin with.”

“Who was it?” I looked at him and found no traces of warmth in his stare.

“Someone had been harmed and frightened. Someone I cared about very much.”

His wife, I presumed, but I was afraid to ask. I didn’t want any of our few remaining moments to be about her. Maybe that made me selfish. I wasn’t sure I cared.

“You killed the person that did it?”

He languorously stroked the sponge from my shoulder down my left arm. I closed my eyes, lips parted, breathing shallowly, allowing myself to savor the soothing touch.

“He should have been punished long before I got to him.” He rinsed the sponge with one hand and softly dried my neck, collarbone, and left arm with the towel in the other before repeating on the other side. “But he wasn’t, so I took care of him myself.” After what I saw today, I knew he hadn’t hesitated. No remorse. Only death.

“When you were fighting that Insidion that got away, it felt like you went… feral, almost. Like you went somewhere else.”

He focused on my arm as he dabbed it dry. “I’m sorry I scared you.”