Page 65 of The Silversmith

His nostrils flared. I waited, standing my ground until he gave a long, deep sigh. “Would that… appease you?”

I nodded. “Yes.”

A muscle in his jaw flexed. “Then for you, I will.”

The door to the bedroom closed and locked behind him.

I exhaled, sat down on the bed, and removed my boots. Part of me wanted to crawl into bed, throw the covers over my face, and let the black night that I’d seen in the eyes of Nyxar soothe me. The other part of me wanted to rise from bed, go downstairs, and experience every moment of life I could before going to those Caves. Before my marriage with a man I wasn’t sure I wanted. Before a war. Before I likely had to say goodbye to—

I winced, forcing away the thought.

First, a bath.

Chapter seventeen

Ilet the men use the downstairs bathroom and waited for Gemma to finish. When it was my turn upstairs, I took my time.

Cold rivers and lakes had been our only source of water for days. The bathwater was hot on my skin, drawing sweat and tension and death out of my pores. Renewing me. It was glorious.

When finished, I changed into a pair of tight black pants that Gemma had lent me days ago. They were hers, a little long, but I was able to tuck the extra fabric into the ankle of my boots to hide it. I found a sage-green, bell-sleeved shirt with a tight cross-wrap tie around the midriff and a very generous neckline. The fabric was like velvet with a floral design in a darker forest green. The blouse had been another gift from Gemma. She’d surprised me with a few items from Freyburn, but I hadn’t had the chance to wear most of them.

I let my hair—still damp but brushed, smooth, and free from the binds of a braid or messy bun—fall down my back and across my shoulders.

The vanity’s mirror showed me someone I struggled to recognize. My breasts were fuller than I’d realized, despite a frame that felt too frail to belong to a warrior. Always hidden beneath loose-fitting sleep gowns and baggy shirts, I’d never paid too much attention to the curves of my body. Had never cared.

But this outfit hinted that the curves I used to have were slowly coming back. The tight black pants showed off the subtle wave of my hips. My breasts felt a little more sensual. Just one of them was almost too large to fit in my small hand, but not—

I sucked in a breath, then blew it back out, sending the suggestive thought with it.

If I failed to control my wandering imagination, I wouldn’t last very long out there at all.

With my hand on the doorknob, I paused. As if to give myself a chance to change my mind. But everything was covered. And Gemma, who did whatever she wanted, wouldn’t think twice about wearing this. I could, too, on my birthday.

I took a long, deep breath and opened the door.

Gavin abruptly straightened from where he leaned against the wall, eyes wide with panic. He wore all black, his short sleeves showing off every bit of gloriously inked skin. “No.” The sound he made was throaty, choked off, and foreign. Like a plea.

And I swear, he audibly gulped.

“What?” I demanded.

“No, Aryella.” Deep and firm this time—panic and plea nowhere to be found.

“No, what?”

“You are not wearing that.”

I crossed my arms over my chest, and his eyes flared and heated. Blood rushed to my cheeks when I realized my movements had pushed my breasts together. “Excuse me?”

“No,” he uttered, the sound a low, distressed rasp as he shifted his stance, wincing. “No fucking way.”

My stomach plummeted. I must have looked worse than I thought.

“What say do you have in what I wear?” I hissed, the burn in my eyes an embarrassing nag.

“I don’t care. Go change.”

“I won’t.”