Page 14 of The Silversmith

“Okay,” I forced out.

“Okay?” Gemma repeated hesitantly.

I straightened my shoulders and tried to feign confidence. If I faked it long enough, maybe it would stick.

“I don’t know how I’m going to do it. I can’t say it’s what I want because I don’t really know what I want.” Frustration welled in my chest at the sympathy in their eyes. I felt no malice for Gemma and these men, but sympathy seemed easy to give as a consolation prize for something I had little choice but to accept. I think I preferred Smyth’s brooding in the corner to the pity of friends. “Even so, what I want doesn’t matter when the life of every person in this world is at stake, does it?”

And it was either go with them or, according to Smyth, die a slow and terrible death, but I didn’t have the gumption to admit that part aloud.

Silence.

My pulse raced, guilt threading through me for my sour words. But was I wrong? What would appease them, if not my acceptance? I tried to concede without holding back the truth of my feelings. It was a delicate balance I’d need to learn in order to lead.

“We won’t disappoint you,” Caz finally assured me with a wink and a smile.

I blushed, unacclimated to the doting attention of men. The overwhelming amount of testosterone in the air made me want to retreat into myself.

Ezra cleared his throat. “Can I have a moment with Ary?” He glanced at the others. “Alone?”

Smyth gauged my reaction, and when I didn’t object, gave a terse nod to Caz, Finn, and Gemma and ordered, “Outside.”

Smyth had been mostly silent since tending to my wound. He’d let Gemma and the others take the reins for a while, but it was clear he was in charge. They grabbed their coats and braved the cold. Smyth followed, not without shooting a warning glare at Ezra before closing the door behind him.

The silence between us was awkward, like prickly little spikes suspended in the air, waiting to strike if the wrong move was made, the wrong word spoken. That wolf must have left behind some of its fighting spirit when it bit me, because I found myself speaking first, even though Ezra was the one who asked to talk.

“Do you…” I cleared my throat, sticky with nerves.

Ezra sat down on the tattered crimson sofa in front of the fire and gestured for me to sit across from him. I obliged.

“Do you have any other family in the Caves?”

My cousin fiddled with a stray thread. “My dad passed away when I was young, but my mom is still alive.”

“I’m sorry,” I whispered. “About your father.”

“We’ve all lost someone.” Ezra shrugged, and I sensed he didn’t want to discuss his own losses. “We take care of each other.”

Having a community like that did sound comforting, even if going there meant thrusting myself into a role I would never be ready to fill.

After a long pause, Ezra released the sofa’s thread from between his fingers and sighed. “I can’t imagine what all this feels like.” He looked around from where he sat, hands resting on his lap.

I took my time assessing his boyish features. He, too, was handsome. His dimples crinkled when he smiled, and his dirty-blond hair was thick and disheveled. To me, Ezra’s most familiar trait was that blue-eyed curiosity I had seen in Ollie. They weren’t brothers, but they could have been.

“And I know Gemma said it, but I hope it helps to hear it from me… you’re not alone in all this.”

I forced a smile and nodded. “You look like them.” I faced the fireplace and watched as the heat of the flames danced languidly. “Phillip and Ollie.” I waited for Ezra’s reply but was greeted again by silence. “I never did,” I explained further, turning to face him. “I never looked like them.”

“Do you look like your mom?”

“No.” My mother’s chestnut waves always flawlessly framed the stunningly sharp angles of her rectangular face, and her hazel eyes could criticize you from miles away. And her skin was warm and tan. Quite a contrast to my soft face and pale flesh. “She’s beautiful.”

They all had been beautiful. Of the few memories I had, my favorites were Ollie’s bright eyes, his little hand in mine, and his giggles trailing behind me through the yard. I could remember the joy I felt with him on those days. There had been a few, filled with playing in the fields not too far from the house on the rare occasion it was warm enough to forgo our hats and gloves. He had been a brilliant little boy with a mind fueled by excitement and imagination.

“I always blamed myself for Oliver and my fath—Phillip,” I corrected, knowing I could never call him my father again in good conscience. “Gemma doesn’t know who killed them. I would venture a guess it had something to do with my parentage.”

“It’s not your fault.”

I flinched, not convinced by his words and not ready to go there with him. “That chair there in the corner,” I pressed on, “Phillip, your uncle… used to sit in it, and I would sit on the floor with Oliver in my lap. Not every night, but some.” Not every night because some nights, Phillip began early with the rum and his speech slurred too roughly for us to understand. I left that out, how I used to take care of him when he got lost in his drink. So my mother didn’t have to and Oliver never saw. “He would read to us.”