Page 59 of The Silversmith

“I need to go into the market for a few things.” Gavin’s deep, commanding timbre eclipsed all thoughts of my betrothed. “You stay here with the others. Don’t stray far.”

I stood from my spot by our campfire. “Can I come with you?”

“No.”

“Really?” Lifting my chin, crossing my arms in defiance, I pressed, “Are you sure?”

He studied me, knowing what I would say if he denied me my choice. He’d trapped himself with that one. It was like watching a marble statue crack in real time. Consequences be damned.

“Shit,” he hissed, running his hand over his face.

I finally let loose my triumphant grin.

“Listen, there are rules. You’ll speak nothing but pleasantries to anyone. Do not give your name. You’ll stay less than five paces from me at all times. Do you understand?”

“I thought you said you don’t want me living in fear.”

“I don’t. That doesn’t mean it’s something I am capable of, however. Not when it comes to you.” He gripped my shoulder and let his fingers curl possessively around the back of my neck like at the horse barn. Whatever had kept him from touching me these past few days seemed to be dissipating. Fast. “So,” he pressed, recapturing my attention. “Do. You. Understand?”

I bit my lip and nodded. “Yes, sir.”

“Good.” He studied me from head to toe, contemplating. “And don’t call me sir.”

But the hungry gleam in his fervent stare made me wonder if he secretly liked it.

Our whole group decided to go into town. “No soldier left behind,” Caz joked. Now, I stood in a small, stuffy shop of trinkets with Gemma and Ezra while Caz and Finn ran their own errands and Gavin discussed something important with the shop owner in a low, hushed tone.

Gemma caught me watching him.

“You’re spending a lot of time with him,” she observed sourly.

I shrugged, still happy from the way his touch made me feel, and looked through an old book with stale, yellowed pages. “He’s teaching me a lot.”

“Uh-huh.” She focused on a small but detailed wooden figurine of an eagle, its wings spread wide. “Don’t be naïve, Ary. Men like Smyth—when they’re finished using something, they leave it broken.” She returned the eagle to its place among a cluttered shelf of similar wooden figures.

“I know you don’t like him.”

“It’s not a matter of liking him.” She faced me, fierce eyes blazing with ire. “The only reason I haven’t found a way to force him very, very far away from you is because I trust that Simeon has his reasons. But Smyth? He is overstepping. He is getting too close to you. He is violent, crude, hired muscle, and you are our queen.” She crossed her long arms over her chest. “And most importantly, he is not Elias, who already adores you even without having met you.”

My smile fell. “If Elias adores me so much, he should have come for me himself.”

Fuming, I sought Ezra in the corner of the shop by the window, leaving Gemma to gawk at—but not deny—my words. She had just as much a right to decide Gavin Smyth’s worth to me as Simeon had to decide that people in Tovick were more valuable than those in the ransacked, oppressed village we’d passed through yesterday.

They had no right.

Ezra glanced up from the history book he scoured and gave me a brief grin before refocusing. A clear but kind signal he didn’t want to be bothered. That was just fine. I stood next to him in silence.

Not long had passed since we’d left Warrich, and my friends’ loyalty to Simeon and the Wintertons had become clear. The anticipation and excitement they felt at the thought of uniting me with them, with Elias, was palpable. I really wanted to feel the same, but I didn’t.

I held onto the part of me eager to make companions with people like Marin. I held onto it, determined to not return to the cold, lonely girl I’d left in Warrich. I tried to let that hope be enough to give my heart some peace. Living free in the world was enough. My friends were more than enough.

But I couldn’t shake my instinct about those Caves.

I couldn’t help the wariness I felt that Elias hadn’t come for me himself. What kind of husband would he be? Would he let me fight, or keep me resigned to the throne? Christabel’s prophecy claimed I was the one who needed to destroy Molochai. But in Freyburn, Gemma made it sound like Elias would be reluctant to let me participate in his annual training.

Then there was my mother, who’d left me to starve and claimed I needed to remain dainty and small. To fit Elias’s preference, perhaps?

Maybe he was a good man, a noble man. My friends were good. If my friends adored him, he likely was good too. Perhaps Elowen was the disturbed one, not my betrothed.