Page 21 of The Silversmith

He met my gaze in earnest, and my stomach clenched.

“They must be paying you a lot to take care of me.” I laughed nervously, anxious to fill the silence. “You seem a little overly concerned about someone you just met and only need to transport from one place to another.”

“I’m not here for money.” The words snapped out of him, deep and seething.

“Okay.” I swallowed a lump in my throat. “I’m sorry. Are you always this… grim?”

“Grim.” He raised his eyebrows, chuckled humorlessly, then carefully lowered and released my arm. “That’s a new one.”

“You just seem… weary. Angry, maybe,” I added, cringing. “Who hurt you? Or pissed in your porridge, as Gemma would say.” I cringed again. So awkward.

“It doesn’t matter.”

“It matters to me.” I surprised myself with my boldness.

“Of course it does,” he sighed. “That’s just who you are.”

His eyes darted to my mouth as I scrambled to retort. “You hardly know me.”

He studied his hands, eyebrows creased in thought. My eyes wandered to the tattoos on his forearms. They spiraled around his triceps, past his elbow, likely up and over his biceps, shoulders, and chest, maybe beyond. I wondered what they counted. Where they ended.

“You’re right.” He stood to his feet. “And I guess you could say I’m here because I’m good at killing, and you need to be too.”

The heat in my belly chilled to ice.

“I’m not sure that’s something I want to be good at.”

“I can’t tell you who to be, Ary,” he sighed, discomfort flickering through his gaze, gone as quickly as it came. “I can teach you to think for yourself and survive.”

“Think for myself?” I laughed ruefully. “Within the last two days, all I’ve heard is who I’m required to be, what I’m obligated to do. There’s no space for my own thoughts.” The words poured out of me startingly easily.

“Then make space,” he countered. “Don’t let them tell you who you are. May I?” He gestured to the basin of water on my dresser. I nodded and watched, mesmerized as he rinsed his massive, calloused hands.

“You sound confident that you know me quite well after only twenty-four hours,” I continued, my voice a little too squeaky. “Enough to tell me what to do.”

“And I will continue to if it ensures you learn how to fight back rather than concede to others.” He gestured to the room, the house around us, implying that… I had already given up. “So that you’re prepared to stand up for yourself when Alistair Winterton, his grandson, and their people realize you can’t be confined to their pretty golden throne.”

Was it an insult or a compliment, to not… comply? A challenge, perhaps? To be something different than what they would ask of me. Something… more.

Or had he decided, after only a few hours, that I would fail before I’d even begun?

“Don’t you think it’s a little presumptuous to assume you know what I need better than I do?” I feigned defiance.

His nostrils flared. “How could you know what you need if you aren’t even sure who you are?”

I gritted my teeth, eyes narrowed up at him. This man—so brutally forthright—lit a spark of anger in my chest. He made me want to fight back.

“Why did Simeon send you instead of Elias Winterton?” I asked. “Given his reputation as the army leader and my… betrothed.”

Something dark and hot burned through his gaze. His strong jaw flexed in discontent. “Would you rather your betrothed have come?”

“I don’t know, I… I never said that,” I answered. “I just thought you were supposed to train me to lead them, to save them, not hate them.”

“There’s a difference between what I’ve been told to do and what I plan on doing.”

My eyes shot open wide. “What do you plan on doing?”

Smyth’s assessing stare lingered on me while he dried his hands with the towel I’d used after my bath the night before. His silence should have scared me. Instead, it intrigued me, frustrated me, and I locked my stare on him.