Page 115 of The Silversmith

When I finished my second, the pleasurable burn in my veins began to dull the pain of my wound and lessen the burden of my anxious thoughts. I changed into my nightgown early, preparing to stumble into bed when ready, and hummed the music I’d danced to with Gemma a few weeks ago in The Black Badger. Twirling around the cabin until sweat pricked the back of my neck, I let myself feel as light and free as possible. I bound my long silver hair into a messy bun atop my head, if only to let my skin on my neck cool.

Three beers, then four. For an hour, maybe two, I continued to dance and swirl around the small space.

Until I slammed into a solid wall of heat, cedar, and leather.

I hadn’t even heard the door open. I craned my neck up.

He did not look happy.

“Ah,” I sighed, taking an unsteady step backward. Irritation and relief washed over me in equal measure at the sight of him. I waved my hand to the empty room around me. “Look who decided to join my little soiree.”

“What are you doing?” His words were sharp and cold.

I shrugged and swayed where I stood.

His nostrils flared. “Are you drunk?”

I put my free hand on my hip. “Maybe.”

Pinching the bridge of his nose, he released a sigh distressed enough to sink my shoulders and arouse my guilt. Not fair, the guilt, so I forced my shoulders to straighten.

“Did you know that alcohol impairs healing, Aryella?” He quickly and silently counted the few empty bottles scattered around. “How much have you had?”

I arched an eyebrow. “What does it matter to you?”

“What does it matter to me?” he growled, fury roiling through his muscled form. His angry gaze landed on the uncorked bottle of odorless, hot-pepper hell I’d left on top of the liquor cabinet. His eyes shot open, stunned. He cursed under his breath and reached for the bottle in my hand.

“No!” I growled and held my fifth beer—just opened—against my chest.

He chuckled humorlessly. “Well, aren’t you an angry little lush?”

“Don’t call me little!” I snapped, because I wasn’t sure what a lush was. “And I didn’t say I was done!”

“Okay, Aryella.” He narrowed his eyes and nodded calmly. Too calmly. He stepped forward until his body was flush against mine. Those tiny, trembling pants—always impossible to control in his presence—began to flutter past my open lips. My already unsteady knees shook, threatening to collapse when he gripped my chin between his thumb and index finger, lowering his lips dangerously close to mine…

A squeal escaped my mouth when the bottle slipped out of my hand.

I gasped and shoved against his chest. The bastard had only done it to distract me.

“You are done.” The command snapped out of him, low and deep. He kept his eyes locked with mine as he chugged the rest of my beer, his lips lingering where mine had just been. He set the empty bottle on the liquor cabinet and nodded towards the bed. “Sit down.”

Fuming, I saw no choice but to obey.

“Eat.” He handed me a few pieces of bread. “I’m surprised you haven’t retched all over this cabin.”

I took a reluctant bite and watched as he filled my empty metal canteen with water from the faucet.

“Drink this. When you’re finished, I will refill it for you, and you will drink another.”

My shoulders slumped. “I don’t want to.”

“Then you’ll regret it in the morning.”

I scowled. “Is that a threat?”

“No,” he bit out. “It’s a fact.”

The exhaustion in his eyes was palpable. My heart hurt to see it, and my brain hurt not knowing why he was so tired.