Page 159 of The Silversmith

It would be a disservice to my new chance at life to lie to myself about who he was to me. My instinct had known, I think, that his protection, his guidance, all of his strange, longing looks, his desire, his intense and mysterious words, had all been his way of trying to tell me what I meant to him. It just hadn’t made sense. I thought he had been waiting for some elusive, alluring woman. But it was me. She was me, and now I had to be someone else.

I didn’t know how I would fulfill my duty to these people, but I would take the time owed to me and figure it out. My way.

Simeon’s attempt to make me fresh clay molded into his weapon of choice had failed. In taking my memories, he had taken away the very foundation of who I was. But Gavin had given me the tools to rebuild it here, in the present. Despite the oath that bound him to my enemy. He’d let me figure out my strengths on my own without tying me to a centuries’ old union he wasn’t sure I would want. He was far from a perfect man.

But he had been there for me.

And once, long ago, even if I couldn’t remember, he had been mine.

That was something no magically forged identity, no evil curse, no ancient duty, or charming betrothed could make me forget.

I wasn’t sure what to believe in my heart. Who to trust. But I stared out at the endless ocean and thought of him.

I let the brush of those two silver rings—our timeless bond, for better or worse—soothe me as they rustled against my neck in the cold ocean breeze.

Chapter thirty-seven

Elias Winterton

When I was five, I memorized every single crag and angle of my rocky bedchamber ceiling. And then I spent every night thereafter tracing the edges and lines until I fell asleep. For over twenty years, it worked, lulling my methodical brain to rest while I planned every detail of my future, of this war, of the life I would give to my wife. The queen.

Until those plans—my lifetime in the making—fell through, and she didn’t come.

Two weeks. That’s how long it had been since the Sinclairs, Ezra Hart, and Gemma Tremaine had returned without her. Caz Sinclair, the poor bastard, without his leg. He had been honorably excused from duty in my forces. I made sure of that personally. An explosion of the temple in Tovick had done it, Finn had explained. When I asked what the hell they’d been doing in Tovick, they’d looked at me like I was insane. Simeon’s orders, they said.

Tremaine had remained remarkably quiet—something I’d never known her to be. Given she knew the queen better than any of us—perhaps better than Elowen herself—her continued silence was unnerving.

Ezra Hart arrived fuming about some big, arrogant fucker named Smyth—Simeon’s last-minute addition to their group that I certainly hadn’t agreed to. Apparently, this Smyth buffoon had taken it upon himself to drag my betrothed halfway across Nyrida, teach and train her, all without my permission. Ezra said Smyth had forced my betrothed under his wing, followed her around like a damn guard dog, and did the gods know what else to her.

Gemma didn’t have much to say about him, either.

When I sat up in bed, the pretty blonde beside me stirred. I ran my hands over my face and cringed. Had forgotten she was even there. For months, I had resisted being with a woman out of respect for the queen. Once I knew she was really coming, anyway. But after no sign of her and no word from Simeon, I had… faltered.

My pulse throbbed in my ears from too much whiskey the night before. I groaned at the crystal decanter shattered in pieces all over the maroon and gold rug my grandmother had gifted me for my twenty-second birthday. It was expensive—imported from wool traders in southern Wymara—and matched the deep-scarlet bedding and upholstered sofa that sat before the dwindling hearth. At least none of the red-oak furniture from Peradine had been destroyed during last night’s passionate spree. But that rug…

“Shit.” I pinched the bridge of my nose and rose to clean the mess.

“Eli?” A warm, thin hand brushed against the back of my thigh as I stood.

With a roll of my eyes, I sternly corrected, “It’s ‘Commander’ outside the bedroom.”

She reached for my hand, but I refused to turn around. No one was ignorant of my exploits, but the last thing I needed was anyone beneath me in rank thinking they could undermine my orders.

The husky sound of her laugh chafed my ears. I heard her shift in bed behind me. “Well, we’re still in the bedroom, Commander.” She snaked her hands around my waist and brushed her naked chest against my back. “But I’ll call you whatever you want if—”

“Get out.” I shrugged out of her touch and exhaled heavily through my nose. “Please,” I added, cringing at the harshness of my tone. Last night was nice. Hot, wild, loud, and rough. Always was with Larisa.

I was even considering one more round with her when, without a single objection, she left my bed and tiptoed around the shards of glass on the rug. Her spectacular tits bounced with every movement and that long, lean, tan body was… delectable. And her tight, round ass was still red from my hand. She caught me watching and gave me a bashful smile while slipping into the joke of a silk red gown she’d flaunted last night. Her sensual movements were intentional. There was nothing shy about Larisa Cates.

“Tonight?” she asked, lingering by the door with a coy grin plastered on her beautifully angled face.

“I don’t know,” I sighed, irritated as I folded the rug into four squares to keep the shards from escaping. “I’ll send for you.”

“As you wish,” she crooned, taking her time with the doorknob, “Commander.”

The door closed behind her, and I paused to massage my temples for a moment of quiet solitude. But mere seconds later, four angry knocks made me jump. I cursed under my breath and contemplated my next words to Larisa. Cruel enough to keep her away just for a week or for good?

I opened the door and found relief instead. It was a woman—far more important to me than Larisa—a woman who required less attention and demanded no post-coital cuddling, which I thoroughly despised.