Page 75 of The Silversmith

He shifted so I couldn’t see. “Don’t look. I’ll have Damond take care of it.”

“Is he used to taking care of bodies like this?”

Gavin didn’t respond. He stepped through the kitchen, down the hallway, and carried me up the stairs like my extra weight was nothing.

The way I felt in his arms was everything. I could live there, engulfed by his strength and resting in his delicious comfort.

And then the indent of two silver rings beneath his shirt and my fingers reminded me that I couldn’t.

I was quiet as he set me down carefully next to the bed.

“Stay here.” He paused at the door to look back at me, his expression strict. “Did you hear me, Ella?”

I’d caused him enough grief for one day, and I could tell he needed assurance, so I nodded.

The bed was empty and the room silent while I waited. Dying embers crackled in the fireplace, and a chill—more frigid than before I went downstairs—descended upon me. This chill was the old familiar cold of loneliness. I shoved it out and reminded myself I wasn’t alone anymore.

Returning after twenty or so minutes, he avoided my stare as he placed a pair of pure-white satin panties with lace around the edges in my hands. I could tell just by looking at them they would fit.

“Where did you get these?” I suppressed a snort.

“It doesn’t matter.”

“Do you carry these around with you? Have you had them with you this whole time?”

He cursed. “Of course not, Aryella. I have—I have my own space here, in Tovick.” He ran his hands through his hair. And yes—red—that was red in his cheeks. I bit my lip, enjoying seeing the rare sight of a flustered Gavin Smyth. “I spend a fair bit of time here.”

“And you collect these from each of your conquests?” I giggled.

He gave me an irritated scowl. “That’s not funny.”

“It’s a little funny,” I mumbled. I didn’t know exactly how long his wife had been gone, but I expected he had experienced his fair share of women since then. I assumed any man would. Besides, his patience was alarmingly thin when discussing anything remotely intimate around me, but I was developing a mischievous streak.

“Would you just put on the damn underwear and go to sleep?”

I jumped, startled at the panic I heard rising in his throat.

“Okay, okay,” I mumbled, eyes wide.

He watched me tensely as I held the panties to my nose to check for odor. Because, well, they were mystery panties. They looked a little old but smelled fresh and clean, like lavender.

“They’re clean. They’ve never been worn.”

“Why do you have never-worn women’s panties—”

“Ella,” he warned, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Fuck. Please.”

“Alright, alright.” I motioned for him to turn around so I could change. “You have a filthy mouth, you know that?”

“And a filthier mind,” he growled.

My eyes widened in shock, and as usual, his words, actions, and presence all sent warmth from my cheeks to my belly.

I slipped on the panties, soft and comfortable against my skin, and muttered, “I’m decent.”

He slowly faced me again, eyes glued to my every movement as I climbed into bed. “Good n—”

“Will you stay with me?” I rushed out, desperate to avoid the chill of that empty room. “Just until Gemma gets back from wherever she went. I don’t really want to be alone.”