Page 68 of The Silversmith

I gasped quietly.

Perhaps I shouldn’t have pushed him on the outfit, after all.

The man scoffed. “I wasn’t talking to you, asshole.”

A deep, sinister chuckle rumbled out of the warm wall of muscle to my left.

I found myself leaning toward him, drawn into his safety. “Gavin.” I whispered his name as a warning.

“It’s merely a question,” he purred in response, folding his long, calloused fingers before him. “A question our friend here seems quite reluctant to answer.”

“Fuck off,” the man sneered.

“Now, now,” Gavin drawled, his lips curling into a sinister smile. It was feline, strangely at odds with his rugged form, but just as dangerous. “Is that any way to speak in front of a lady?”

At that, I rolled my eyes. As if he didn’t have the filthiest mouth I’d ever heard.

The red-haired man scanned me with his bright-green eyes, as if contemplating whether or not I was worth it. “Let me get you away from this buffoon.” He offered me his hand, apparently deciding I was.

On my other side, Gavin leaned forward, close enough that I could feel the glorious strength and heat of him. Inhaled a hint of leather and cedar.

“Touch my girl, and you’ll never see that hand again.”

My veins flooded with a different kind of heat.

The man lifted an eyebrow, his gaze drifting toward my low-cut top. “Looks to me like she’s asking to be touched.”

My stomach lurched, my cheeks burned, and Gavin was on his feet, pushing me behind him in one swift motion. I fully expected a brawl. Or a one-sided battering.

A hush descended upon the room. He stood unwavering, a silent, rigid shield before me. I glanced at my friends, apologizing with my eyes because this—causing this scene—felt like my fault. It wasn’t, I knew it, but if I had just listened to him and changed into something more modest, then maybe—

“I suggest you hold your tongue before I take my time cutting it out,” Gavin growled at the man, who stepped back slowly and held up his palms, not without ire. Smart enough, at least, to suppress a retort.

Only when the man was on the opposite side of the tavern and commotion resumed did Gavin relinquish his position as my sentry and gently lower his hand to my back, anchoring me.

He shifted to block the rest of the room from seeing me. “Are you alright?”

“I’m fine,” I said, shoulders relaxing. “You don’t need to start fights over me, you know. Especially over some vulgar words. He would have left me alone eventually.”

He reclaimed his stool at the bar, his protective hand remaining on my back. “Ella, if you think starting a fight is the worst thing I’d do for you, you have not been paying attention.”

“Your girl?” I mumbled quietly so only Gavin could hear.

He finally removed his hand, leaving an unwelcome cold spot in its wake. Giving only a grunt in acknowledgment, he motioned for Damond to refill his drink. I looked between his scowling face and his empty glass and counted. This was his fourth. No, fifth.

“Are you okay?” I asked, motioning to his glass. “Do you have a problem?”

“What do you think, Ella?” His voice was low, eerie. A quiet calm. “Do I have a problem?”

“You sure drink a lot. Like Phillip.”

“Hmm.” He tapped his fingers on his empty glass and winced. “No. Not quite like Phillip.” He motioned again for Damond, who threw his head back with laughter. Something he found humorous, at least between the two of them.

“Then why?” I pressed.

“It takes the edge off.”

“What edge?”