Page 20 of The Silversmith

“What kind of agreement?”

He didn’t answer, knelt back down, and waited patiently for me to extend my wounded arm. I obliged. He cradled my arm like it was porcelain and might shatter.

The exposed wound was hideous. Teeth marks emerged among pieces of torn, mutilated flesh.

“Will my arm be okay?” I closed my eyes to stave off the mounting dizziness.

He must have sensed my imbalance, because he shifted closer and barricaded his knee between my hip and the edge of the bed. His leg felt like a boulder pinning me to my seat.

“It will likely scar,” he said, “but yes, your arm will be fine.”

I opened one eye, peering down as he added a light ointment to the ragged flesh that burned, then cooled.

I opened my other eye and admired everything else about him. The wild crease of his brows as he focused. His strong, straight nose. The powerful cut of his jaw, covered by a well-groomed beard that managed to be thick without being too bushy. And my favorite thing about his handsome face: his deep-brown eyes that sparkled even though he wasn’t smiling. It was difficult to look away.

Curious of his reaction, I asked, ”Have you met Elias Winterton?”

Flames of anger flickered through his steady gaze, visible for a mere second before disappearing. A failed attempt to hide his disdain. “Can’t say I’ve had the pleasure.” The words leapt off his tongue like a spark off hot coals, stinging me, even as I tried to pull away. He didn’t fasten the bandage as tight as the day before, and when I went to tighten it, he ordered gently, “Leave it loose. It needs to breathe.”

I obeyed, flinching only from the friction as I slid my arm through the sleeve of a light-blue knit sweater my mother had left behind.

“Do you need anything for the pain?” Smyth asked, his knee still pressed against my hip like he was afraid I’d slither right off the mattress. “It might be worse today than it was yesterday.”

“What do you have?”

“Nothing conventional.” I didn’t really know what that meant, so I waited. “Alcohol,” he clarified. “But no more than one for you.”

“Oh, I don’t know if that’s a good idea. Phillip drank a lot, and it wasn’t… good.”

The wound was now clean and freshly bandaged. I thought Smyth was about to leave when his fingers twitched against my elbow. His eyes snapped to mine, concern and rage melding into… worry. My heart sputtered.

“Did he hurt you?”

“No,” I said breathily, then cleared my throat. “No.” Surer this time. “He was just sad.”

Smyth’s eyes narrowed, assessing me… for lies?

“Probably because he had to look at me every day as a reminder of my mother’s affair.”

“None of that bullshit was your fault.” I jumped at his startling aggression. “They were lucky to have you.”

“I don’t think they wanted me here,” I muttered bitterly, the words slipping out of me before I could stop them.

“What?” he snapped, his intense stare on me. “What did you just say to me?” The heated edge to his voice demanded a response.

My eyes widened in shock. “I… I said I don’t think they wanted me here.”

“Why the f—?” His voice was strained, his face contorted in pain. “Why?” Rather than retreat, he stayed where he knelt, body close, his heat encircling me like a warm blanket.

“Because I was so… numb. I used to feel like there was nothing alive in me,” I confessed, my body ejecting the words like a poison. I cringed at my candor. I hardly knew this man, but I was a moth with thin, fragile wings drawing too close to his incinerating blaze. “After my accident in the cellar, I felt like I was missing so much of myself and—”

“The accident?”

I nodded. “A few years ago. When I was seventeen, I fell in the cellar, hit my head, and fell unconscious. I can’t remember any part of my life before that.”

Smyth stared at the bed beside me and slowly nodded. “Do you feel that way now?” He rubbed a gentle thumb over the skin of my elbow, which he still hadn’t let go of. “Numb?”

“No.” I gulped, looking up at him.