Page 80 of The Silversmith

“Then fight!” he shouted, tearing my sweater open so I was left in nothing up top but my undergarments.

I screamed and lashed out, my hand a claw of nails nervously bit down to the quick. Not sharp enough. So I gripped his bearded chin, and I dug in.

He bared his straight white teeth, smiling wickedly. “That’s not enough, sweetheart.”

“You… asshole!” I spat, swiping across his face. And though he did not take liberties with his touch, he didn’t ease his hold on my shoulders, the grip on my ribs, or the pressure of his hips that pinned me to the ground, either.

Screaming, panting, I thrust my body forward and crushed my forehead to his mouth. He jerked back from the force, giving me just enough time to remember the knife wound in his shoulder—the one I’d put there just days ago. There was no blood, no sign of it, but I could envision it well. Too well. Intrusive memories of the bloody sight, horrified at how I’d hurt him, flashed across my mind.

I was so terrified to hurt him, yet here he was, willingly dragging me back to last night.

And I hated him for it.

With a defiant screech, I gripped his thick, hard shoulder, placed my thumb over his healing wound, and shoved in my finger with all my weight behind it. The bloody flesh squelched so horribly, I had to will my breakfast not to make a reappearance. But I clenched my teeth and pushed even harder.

Then, I kneed him in the groin as hard as my small body would allow.

He grunted out a few curse words and was off of me.

Seething, I scrambled to my feet and backed away from him, ready to strike if he tried anything like that again.

A gash on his lip dripped red from where I’d slammed my forehead against his mouth. His tongue darted out to lick the blood as his lips curled into a wry smile. A movement so unexpectedly sensual, it pissed me off even more.

“That’s my girl,” he hummed, rising smoothly to his feet. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, dangerously captivating eyes locked on me.

“I thought you were going to… to…”

His left eyebrow lifted questioningly, daring me to say it.

I huffed angrily, at myself and at him, because I knew better than that. He would never.

“Had to make you believe it,” he said, brushing a few dead leaves off his black sweater sleeves. “That fucker may have been the first to force himself on you, but he may not be the last.”

“You’re a prick!” I gritted out, eyes burning.

“And I’ll happily be a prick for the rest of my gods-damned life if it means pissing you off enough to fight for yourself!”

Shaking, I shouted, “That crossed a line!”

“I agree,” he uttered, his voice coated with ice.

An unfamiliar sound left my throat—a growl, almost like his, but not near as menacing. I lunged to shove at him. “Then why did you—”

“Because!” he hissed, gripping my wrists in his calloused hands, firm but gentle. His eyes softened when he murmured low, “Because there is no line I will not cross for you.”

I could muster only a huffed-out breath in response. So I stepped back—pointedly distancing myself from him—and folded the tattered pieces of my black sweater over my exposed torso. I crossed my arms to hold the cloth in place and refused to meet his zealous stare.

In my periphery, I saw him lift his own black sweater over his head and cover the distance I’d put between us.

“Arms up.”

Still seething, I obeyed, eyes locked on the ground as a glorious gust of sweet, earthy leather and cedar washed over my head, around my body, soothing me. His sweater hung down to my knees, covering up every part of me he’d exposed with his attack and then some.

I detested myself for never wanting to take it off. And for the breathless gasp that left my lips when I looked up and saw his bare chest.

My lips parted, mouth agape, stunned by his remarkable form. Rippling sinew stretched across the broad plane of his chest, connecting two mountainous arms made of flesh-coated steel. I’d caught hints of the terrifying details of his physique that day he returned soaked to the bone from his hunt. Only now, he was bare, and… good gods.

My breath hovered low and uneven in my chest. His tattoos—the tally marks… there had to be hundreds of them, looped around his forearms, elbow, and biceps, spanning across his rugged chest in rows before repeating the same design on his other arm. And scars. So many scars, some faded and white, some dark, some pink and fresh. So much history and torment and blood…