Page 100 of Of Sword & Silver

“Kyrie,” the Sword says warily. “You are safe.”

Relief wars with the sense of betrayal at the sight of him.

“I guess it would be too much to ask for me to die already,” I manage, my voice hoarse like I’ve been screaming.

I blink. I was screaming. In my sleep.

“You were having a nightmare,” the Sword continues.

I open my hand, and the dagger falls to the bed. The Sword’s fingers close over the hilt.

“Are you going to slit my throat, since you want me dead so badly?”

“Kyrie,” he says, and my name’s never sounded so pained, so full of hope and fear.

My throat works as I swallow.

There is something I don’t understand happening here, between us.

Hells, I don’t understand anything between us, not at all, not one bit.

“You will ruin me,” he says, and my breath catches as his attention slides down my throat to the curve of my shoulder, to where the sheets don’t hide my nudity. “Why aren’t you wearing night clothes?”

“I didn’t expect any visitors,” I manage, aiming for nonchalance and missing by a mile. Or a hundred miles.

“We were supposed to share a room.” His voice is a soft murmur, and goosebumps rise along my arms.

“I didn’t think you’d come to bed,” I say truthfully. “I thought you’d have the sense to sleep out there.” I jerk my chin at the living room.

“Do you want me to come to bed?” he asks, cocking his head at me, something like lust shining in his eyes.

Or maybe I’m just seeing what I want to see there.

Maybe I’ve only ever seen what I want in him.

Murderer, prisoner, captive, partner… friend.

But what is he, who is he, really?

“Why do you hate me so much?” I ask him, and the tears I refused to shed earlier spill in earnest. “Do you really think I’m evil? That I deserve to die?”

“I have never hated you. I hate… who I have to be around you.” The words are careful and loaded with a truth I don’t understand, can’t make meaning from in this moonlit moment. “I hate that I keep hurting you, and you keep lashing out at me, and that I can’t seem to learn how to… be a friend to you.”

“Friends,” I echo.

The way he’s staring at the exposed swell of my breast beneath my collarbones doesn’t feel friendly.

My lower body pulses.

“Friends,” he repeats. “Do you want to be friends?” His voice breaks on the word. “My friend?”

“Friends don’t usually want each other dead,” I say thickly.

“I don’t want you anywhere but at my side, Kyrie.” It’s fervent, and my magic responds to the truth in it, reverberating through me.

“Then explain—” I start, but his hand grips my cheek, his eyes fiery as his lips draw closer to mine.

“Explain what?” he asks. “How I want to kiss you so badly I wonder if I’m the one who’s cursed? Cursed to need you with every beat of my heart?”

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