Page 142 of The Silversmith

Briefly, mercifully, I lost consciousness, only to be dragged back into his hell of invasive shadows.

Again… and again… and again…

Time became a blur. The parts of me that turned numb—that shut down—began to ache. My appendages stung and burned. Frostbite, maybe? It had to be. Swallowed by exhaustion, my chin limply dropped to my bloody shoulder.

And I realized—exhaustion, stinging, burning… I was feeling something other than shredding pain.

Exhausted but mercifully empty of darkness, I tried to lift my chin and blink away the lingering tears.

And then warm hands—his hands—were on my shoulders. My arms, my face.

“Ella!” Gavin pleaded, shattering through shadowy, consuming haze. “Aryella!”

Adrenaline pulled my eyes clear open. I looked at him, damp with sweat and struck with horror, then down at my skin, now pale and bloody but free of that black sludge in my veins.

No more shadows… for now. But if Gavin was here… what Molochai could do to him…

“No!” I screamed, jerking, thrashing away from him. “You can’t be here! You have to go!”

“I’m not going, Ella.”

The ropes that bound me splintered when he severed them with his switchblade.

“You have to! I’m sorry,” I breathed, crumbling into his arms without the ropes’ support. “I wanted to end this.” My body shuddered with tired, pathetic sobs. “I thought giving myself up would end this.”

“And it’s my fault you thought sacrificing yourself was an option,” answered Gavin, his powerful voice breaking. His warmth draped over me, a protective, comforting blanket. I felt his gentle fingers on my chin before the cold shock of metal on my mouth. “Drink.” He parted my lips with his thumb. “It’s water. Drink.”

I obeyed, grasping both of his forearms as he held the canteen to my lips. Once my vision began to clear, I took in his scarred, shirtless torso as he knelt before me and realized that the blanket of warmth I felt was his shirt cloaked over my no longer naked body.

“Gavin,” I choked, and tried in vain to push him away. “Your wife isn’t here.”

“Yes, she is.” He took me in his arms and pressed a desperate kiss to my forehead. I felt his cheeks wet with tears and realized he was crying.

“You need to put me down.” I tried to wriggle myself free, shoving weakly against his chest, but his arms were unbreakable steel. “He doesn’t have your wife. I’m so sorry, but she isn’t here! You have to leave me!”

“She’s here, Ella,” he said again, searching my eyes as he cradled my cheek, silently pleading. “And I’m not leaving.”

“You shouldn’t have followed me—”

“I have followed you through four hundred years and I will follow you through four thousand more!” His eyes—full of love and fear and sorrow—burned into mine. “You are my wife.”

His words, like wisps of air, were fleeting, impossible to catch or prove I’d heard them. I was willingly trapped by the desperate love in his fervent gaze, but what he’d said…

“What?” I breathed.

“It’s you.” His voice was strong and clear. I hadn’t misheard. But it wasn’t possible. “You are my wife, and wherever you go, I follow.”

I tried to shrink away from him, but he was holding me, cradling me like precious goods.

Like he truly believed his own delusion.

“That’s not poss—”

“You don’t remember because it was another life, Ella, a life that was taken from you a very, very long time ago,” he rushed out. “You were sixteen, I was nineteen.” He cradled my face and smiled through his tears. “You needed a weapon, so you came to me. You snuck out of the castle and came to my blacksmith’s shop. You asked me to help you, and I couldn’t breathe when I saw you.” He let out a tattered sob and kissed me again. “Four centuries later, and you still take my breath away.”

I grasped at his words, trying to make sense of his story. And then, when I couldn’t, I tried to withdraw. But there was nowhere to go. I tried to push him away but was languid and frail from abuse, heartbreak, and betrayal.

“I don’t understand,” I cried softly. “You’re lying to me.”