Page 112 of The Silversmith

“I’m not scared of you, I’m scared for you.” I turned my head to look at him. “You’re filled with so much anger. I’m afraid it will swallow you whole.” He stilled, and I grabbed his hand. “I can’t go to those Caves until I know you’ll be okay.”

Scorn contorted his rugged features. “Aryella, you going to those Caves is the last gods-damned thing I want to think or talk about right now.”

“I hate the thought of you alone,” I pressed. “I need to know you’ll be okay.”

Shadows consumed him, his rage an entity with a mind of its own and lashed out the moment I threatened it. Vying for dominance over me and anyone else who wanted to free him of it.

“Tell me how you got that scar, Ella.” His voice was clipped. I followed his gaze to the old, faded white scar above my heart.

“I don’t know,” I stuttered, shifting the towel up to cover up the blemish. “It happened when I was young. I asked, but Elowen never told me. Surely you don’t remember some of your scars?”

His eyes brimmed with yearning. “I remember everything.”

I searched for something to quell his rage, to relieve him of the tension in his body and heart. Tension that was ripping him apart. “That sounds like a lot of work.”

He stilled. I held my breath.

Relief washed over me when he dropped his head between his shoulders and laughed. “Gods, I lo—”

He bit back the words, consumed by shock. My heart plummeted to the bottom of my chest and a lump swelled in my throat.

But he’d stopped, which meant what he was going to say wasn’t important or true enough to finish.

That was good, I told myself. Because he couldn’t. We couldn’t.

Gavin cleared his throat. “I’m going to check on your wound.”

I nodded, afraid to trust my voice.

The ceiling of the cabin was bare and dull, but I furrowed my brow, jaw clenched, and stared at that ceiling like it was the most interesting thing I’d ever seen. Memorized those faded wooden grains. Anything to keep him from seeing the tears that threatened due to unspoken words and a reality we couldn’t have.

And yet, as he tended to me, I felt the sadness subside and my body respond. As if my instinct knew him in a way my mind didn’t, and no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t remain distraught in his presence. Only safe and free. My body reacted to his dangerous but gentle hands on my stomach. A gentleness I felt he reserved for only me.

If he lowered his hand past my navel, he would feel the heat that gathered. The sensitive, aching wetness that had me fighting to arch into his touch, despite my pain. One touch of his fingers was all I wanted.

My breaths quickened as my imagination ran wild. My hips squirmed with a mind of their own. Begging for him. And his palm rested on my stomach, steadying me. I felt him lean toward me, his hot breath on my stomach as he looked closely at my skin, or maybe just to tease me. I didn’t know. Couldn’t think clearly. I opened my mouth to beg him to touch me between my legs just once, but—

He stilled. One of his fingers touched the curved smile of a scar between my navel and the place I ached for him.

The tension in the air snapped like a dry bone.

In one swift movement, he covered my body in the white bedsheet.

“What’s wrong?” I gasped. “Is something wrong with me?”

“No.” He squeezed my hand and tucked a piece of hair behind my ear. “You’re perfect.” Skin blanched, he avoided my questioning stare as he helped me sit up.

“Elowen told me about that scar below my stomach from when I was little,” I spat out nervously. “I had a growth. A physician removed it.”

“A growth.” The words sliced out of him.

I nodded. “I don’t remember it. I was two, maybe three.”

He rubbed the back of his neck as he stood. He turned to study the roaring flames, lost in thought, before instructing me to get dressed for bed. I slipped into clean undergarments and my white nightgown. When he heard me crawl back into the bed, he turned and went to the chair in the corner of the room.

The bed felt so cold.

“Gavin?”