Page 24 of The Silversmith

“Breathe.”

I focused on his smooth, even voice like it was my own heartbeat. Sucked in a tattered breath and dug my fingernails into the rigid arms holding me steady.

“That’s it. Again.”

I took another trembling breath.

“And again. Good girl.”

I blinked away the tears and saw that Smyth was the one who anchored me. The moonlight from the window glowed on his dark-brown hair. Those promising brown eyes fixed on me as he said, “You are safe.”

Gemma stood behind him, her ebony curls wild and caramel eyes shining with fear and tears.

A small, broken noise escaped my throat. Equal relief and fear—not of him, but of whatever… that was. Wherever I had been.

“I… I was locked in a golden coffin with a cloudy glass top.” My voice trembled. “I could breathe, but the air was thin. There was someone watching me, waiting, but they never let me out, no matter how much I begged, or h-how loudly I screamed.”

Gemma shuddered. Smyth’s only response was the muscle in his jaw that always flexed.

When I noticed my fingers white-knuckling, my nails pressing into his skin, I eased my hold and lowered our hands to the bed. The bedside lamp spread a gentle glow across the small bedroom, enough light that I looked down and gasped. What I’d done… his skin…

“You… you’re bleeding.” Tiny little half-moon cuts, right where my fingers had been. “I’m sor-sorry.”

“I’ve had worse,” he assured me. True, if his scars were any indication.

Something warm and precious tugged in my chest at the realization that he hadn’t pulled away, even as I’d hurt him.

“I’ll make you some tea.” Panic gripped me by the throat when he moved to get up, and I might have reached for him out of instinct if he hadn’t added, “I’ll be back,” like he’d read my mind.

Gemma approached me carefully after Smyth left. “You were screaming and crying and I couldn’t wake you up. You were…” She shuddered. “You were scratching at your chest and your neck like you were trying to get out of your own body.”

I lifted my cold fingers to my neck and felt the sting of the thin lacerations. The familiar burn of tears returned. I lowered my hands and saw the blood on my fingertips, on my palms—not Smyth’s blood, but mine—under the dim light of the lamp. Bile rose in my throat. It was an effort to force it down.

“He heard you screaming and nearly busted the door down.” Gemma glanced to the door, her beautiful brow furrowing in the direction he’d gone. “I couldn’t get you to wake up, but he…” She sighed. “You’re alright.” But her smile didn’t reach her eyes. “That’s what matters.”

Smyth returned with hot green tea—with honey, of course—and a few warm, damp towels. He watched, leaning against the doorframe, while Gemma cleaned the blood off my neck and collarbone, as I sipped from the trembling cup—intentionally empty enough to avoid spilling. His usual impenetrable stare was peppered with worry.

“Do you think you’ll be able to go back to sleep?” Gemma surveyed the cuts on my neck to ensure they’d stopped bleeding. They were mild, but they stung.

I nodded, unsure if it was true. But it was still dark outside, so I had to try.

And I did sleep a few more hours. Peacefully—which may have had something to do with the soothing sound of his steady pacing outside the bedroom door.

Even the nightmares cowered before him.

Chapter eight

As Smyth promised, when the winter sun peeked out from the clouds to offer a sliver of warmth against the chilly air, I was summoned outside to begin training. I stood next to a snow-dusted spruce tree, arms crossed, elbows gripped by each palm, waiting for Smyth to finish sharpening a knife.

He turned to face me and immediately stopped, running his fiery gaze up and down the length of my body. “Why are you standing like that?”

I rubbed my elbow nervously. “Like what?”

Concern flickered through his expression. His face tightened, eclipsing any escaping thoughts. I sucked in a breath when he marched toward me, his broad, towering form closing in. He unfolded my arms—his touch like lightning through my body—and laid them at my side. It irked me, how I let him touch me as if I wanted him to arrange me like a limp doll. As if he could show me the way, and I could trust it was the right one. But I let him, because he made me feel safe.

“You have nothing to hide and no reason to cower.” His blended words and touch were a panacea for my nerves. Smyth’s gaze darted to my lips, parted in surprise, and his fingers twitched on my arm. He cleared his throat, dropped his hand, and averted his eyes. “You also have a long road ahead of you if you want to survive, which I have every intention of ensuring.”

“I know.” My shoulders sank with a sigh. “I’m too… timid.”