Page 9 of The Silversmith

Still resting against my back, the man’s hand flexed.

“There was a wolf in the barn.” I cleared my throat. “The chickens are gone.”

Gemma pulled me in for a tight hug. Behind her, three young men stood up from the kitchen table. Two had black hair, one sandy blond, and all three held kindness in their eyes. While none were as intimidating as my wolf slayer, these men—all here at once—made the furniture look comically small and crowded my family’s humble cabin.

When I shifted to remove my jacket, the pain in my arm smarted. The wolf’s bite was far more noticeable without the extra layer.

“Ugh,” I whispered, studying the ragged, bloody flesh while trying not to grow nauseous. It looked worse than it felt.

“May I?”

A startled noise—part squeak, part gasp—escaped my throat when a deep voice rumbled beside me.

Before I could answer, my rescuer’s long, rugged fingers locked around my unscathed arm and pulled me to the chair next to the fireplace. I gulped down a ball of nerves when he knelt down on my right. He made a motion for me to hand over my wounded arm. I paused, eyeing him warily, if only because I should be wary of the massive, menacingly handsome older man touching me with hands that had effortlessly killed a wolf mere moments ago.

“That bite needs to be treated,” he commanded, his deep voice beguilingly soft but stern. “Let me help you.” His appeal cut deeper than the wound on my arm and warmed my chest and stomach. I sucked in a breath, startled at my body’s hasty reaction.

But I cautiously obliged and peeled back the sleeve of my shirt. Gemma gasped, horrified at the sight of the bite.

The wolf slayer wasted no time. Unfazed by the gore, he fastened an iron grip around my wrist and reached for a bottle of foul-smelling liquor from his bag. He pulled the cork out with his teeth and held my arm still. I flinched and sucked in a tattered breath at the stinging pain when he poured it over my wounded skin. His eyes flashed to mine, and I gauged his every move.

It was clear this wasn’t his first time tending to a wound, and I found unexpected solace being at the mercy of a man who knew exactly what he was doing.

“The bandage will need to be changed no later than this time tomorrow. Sooner, if it bleeds through.” When he finished, he gently fastened and closed the bandage.

I flinched at the pressure and friction of the cloth. Our eyes met briefly, my pulse climbed sharply, and sweat dampened my palms.

“Then you should change it daily, or more often if it gets wet, until healed.”

“Thank—” I cleared my throat, but my voice was still a mere whisper. “Thank you.”

He gave me a single, stern nod and stood, towering over me. His deep-brown stare lingered on my face, so intense I could hardly stand it.

“You’re lucky it didn’t get your whole arm, aren’t you?” one of the men spoke up from the kitchen table, mercifully cutting the tension in the room. When I glanced back at my wolf slayer, he’d already retreated to stand against the wall beside the hearth.

“Don’t scare her!” Gemma had started to prepare drinks for each of my visitors. She used her foot to shove a pair of casually outstretched boots off the remaining empty seat at the table. “She’s not exactly used to four dirty men showing up in her cabin.”

The men appeared to range in age from mid to upper twenties—older than me but younger than my wolf slayer. He looked to be around thirty, maybe slightly older. But what did I know, with so little experience with men?

Gemma brought me a glass of water and, upon seeing the goose egg on my forehead, wrapped some ice and snow in a cloth to reduce the swelling. And the rest of them—they stared at me. It was an effort not to recoil from the attention. Regardless of the warmth in their gazes, the way they all watched… I felt on display. They were all very attractive, and I didn’t know how long to look or if I should look or if it was rude to stare, but they were all looking at me.

So I couldn’t help but stare back with wide eyes, politeness be damned. As if I’d miss something if I wasn’t careful.

“Gemma?” I hissed nervously, afraid to take my eyes off them all. “Who’s in my house?”

She moved to stand behind my chair. With a hand on each shoulder, she guided my attention back toward the sofa, where the three of the four new men in my house had moved to. “These men are here to help.”

I pulled back from Gemma and shot her a nervous glare.

“Caz Sinclair,” said the first of them, his voice cheerful and smooth. Caz was the tallest of the three, lean, with shiny black hair and hazel eyes. I guessed he was the oldest aside from the man who’d saved me. He presented himself with a dramatic, playful bow. “And my brother Finn,” Caz added, gesturing to the man sitting beside him. He looked a year or two younger, with almost all the same features, including his hazel eyes. He was slightly shorter than Caz, but what he lacked in height—which wasn’t much—he made up for with brawn.

“An honor.” Finn bowed more reservedly than his brother. “We have waited a long time to meet you.”

The third of them—a young man with sandy-blond hair and freckles—gave me a shy smile and nodded. “Yes, an honor,” he echoed Finn’s sentiment. “I’m Ezra.”

I shot a wary glance in Gemma’s direction. “You—” My throat scraped, drawing heat to my cheeks in embarrassment. “You too,” I finished shyly.

“Why so quiet?” Caz’s hazel eyes twinkled as he chuckled. Finn shot him a warning stare. “We are here for your protection and companionship. Nothing more.”