Page 67 of The Silversmith

Wholly satisfied with the best birthday dinner I’d ever had, I shifted left, where pungent amber liquid from Gavin’s short glass wafted across my nostrils. Whiskey, if the sweet, grainy odor was any indication, and stronger than anything Phillip ever drank.

“Can I please try that?” I turned to face him, the heel of my hand beneath my chin.

I was met with his usual mask—furrowed brows and scowl. His intent to hide whatever dark and angry truth lived inside him didn’t faze me. I narrowed my eyes in retaliation. A challenge. I still trusted him with reckless abandon.

“No,” he uttered.

“So grumpy,” I sighed, then nodded to the fading wolf’s bite on my forearm. “You offered me alcohol a week and a half ago.”

“That was different.”

I rolled my eyes and pointed at Ezra on his second beer a few seats down. “So Ezra’s allowed to drink alcohol and I’m not?”

“Ezra is older.”

“By two years,” I said, folding my arms across my chest and redirecting his attention back to my scantily clad chest. Like earlier, want burned through his expression at my movement, his brown eyes growing wide with frenzy as he tore his eyes away. “That’s nothing. I’m nineteen.”

“Barely.” His deep voice rumbled with disdain.

I looked around. Indeed, I could see why he had asked me to change my clothing. The men around us made no attempts to hide their interest and were liberal with their gazes. And it wasn’t just me. Farther down the bar, where Gemma sat with Finn dressed in similar tight, thin black pants and a light-blue blouse, she was fending off a few admirers of her own.

But I did seem to draw the most attention, to Gavin’s chagrin. There were wandering eyes on me constantly. Within five minutes of sitting at the bar, two men had approached me, both scrambling away the moment they saw Gavin’s murderous stare.

It wasn’t just that Ezra was older. He was male. He wasn’t me. He wasn’t—to the other men in this bar—prey.

A third man with bright-red hair and emeralds for eyes was the final straw.

He sidled up to the empty seat to my right and brushed against my arm in a way so overtly sensual, so persisting, it had to be intentional. “Good evening.”

I forced a smile but slanted my shoulders away from him, ever so slightly. Maybe he would catch the hint.

“What are you drinking, beautiful?”

Hint not caught.

He was older than me, probably midtwenties. He wore a brown, fur-lined jacket and his red hair was cut cleanly with matching scruff, impeccably groomed. Endearing, had I been interested.

“Just water.”

The man laughed, and I noticed his gaze flicker to my chest. I forced an uncomfortable swallow. I really hadn’t thought it would be this bad. Were most other men like this? I just wanted to enjoy my evening.

“That’s no fun,” he crooned. “Can I get you something more… relaxing?”

My protector’s angry fingers restlessly tapped on the wooden bar top to my left. I could feel it in my stomach.

“No, thank you,” I hurried out. “I’m fine.”

“Nonsense.” My red-haired admirer waved Damond over. “A glass of your best wine, please, for the lady.” And then he put his hand on my arm.

Oh, no.

“Do you enjoy having hands?”

I closed my eyes and shuddered at the deep, dark voice that could make demons flee.

The man nodded at Gavin and with an arrogant smirk, asked me, “Who’s this? Your keeper?”

“How about legs?” Gavin’s stool groaned under the sheer weight of him as he turned to face me, to stare at the man with a cold, murderous glare. “Eyes? Ears? A cock?”