Page 30 of The Silversmith

“The thirteenth of Helios.”

“Born in the summer.” I smiled. The thirteenth day of the seventh month of the year. I would have to remember.

“Mine is—”

“The third of Nyxar,” he finished for me. “A few weeks before the winter solstice.”

“How did you know that?”

“Because I know everything about you.”

I scowled, biting back nervous laughter and an indignant snarl as they battled each other, begging to break free. His arrogance, his presumption… they made me want to fight back.

And he knew it too. He smirked and proceeded to split a log in two with one effortless swing of the axe. Clearly something he had perfected.

“How could you possibly know everything about me?” I demanded.

“I told you.” He rested another thick log on the stump and geared to swing. “You’re my queen.”

I furrowed my brow and leaned forward, admiring the length of his powerful legs. They were like long, thick trunks that effortlessly supported his solid core and vast shoulders. Despite his toying, his provoking, I had the urge to draw close to him and touch him, just to see what a dominating body like his felt like.

I shivered and shoved the urge away.

“Can I help you with that?” I asked, pointing to the axe.

“Rest. I’ll teach you later.”

“You should teach me now.” I unwrapped the sandwich Gemma had packed me for supper and took a bite. “It would be a tragedy if you died and we didn’t have anyone to cut firewood for us.”

He laughed again, a deep, husky sound I was quickly becoming addicted to. “Later.” When he saw my lifted brow, he added, “I promise.”

Smiling, I forced my head to clear and sputtered the first question that came to mind, desperate not to lose the flow of our conversation. “If your name is Gavin, why does everyone call you Smyth? Is it your surname?”

“My occupation, what I used to be, long ago.”

“Like a blacksmith?”

He gave a short nod.

“What is your surname, then, if not Smyth?”

“Don’t have a proper one,” he answered coolly. “Just Smyth.”

“You don’t have one?” I narrowed my eyes. “Everyone has one.”

“Not me.”

“What about your mother and father?”

“Born a bastard.” Rage rippled through him, there one moment and gone the next. Surely his mother had a surname. If there was no father, Gavin would have taken hers. “My mother died in childbirth,” he explained. “She bled out and didn’t have time for much beyond a first name.”

My pulse stuttered in my chest. “I’m so sorry.”

“It’s been… a while, and I don’t remember her, of course,” he muttered, unbothered. “Ella?” The amused edge to his tone brought me out of my sad little rabbit hole. I looked up to see his smirk had returned. “Don’t worry about me.”

“Who says I’m worried about you?”

“Good girl,” he chuckled.