Page 45 of Of Sword & Silver

His eyes are fixated on my ugly scars, and not just the one I was showing him. His chest heaves, and he takes a step closer to me.

A different, new energy dances around him and I freeze, unsure of what’s wrong. “I mean, I believe you,” I bite out, nervous. Which is… weird. I don’t get nervous.

I absolutely do not get nervous around jackasses who go by the name “Sword,” for crying out loud. No matter how handsome he is. No matter he’s looking at my bare skin, sending waves of heat over it.

“Ugly, right?” I choke on an awkward laugh, hurriedly pulling my blouse back down.

His hand brushes against mine, sending that echo of our shared power streaking through me, making me still, hardly breathing.

He pulls the hem of my blouse back up. I’m holding my breath, captivated. Wondering what he’ll do next.

“And the rest of these scars?” His voice is a low caress, sending goosebumps pebbling across my skin.

This is dangerous. He’s too close, too large, too interested in the marks that tell the story of my upbringing with the Sisters of Sola, like they’re some code to be deciphered.

Like they’re the key to understanding me.

I start to elbow his hand away, but then he touches me—touches the scars that ruin the smooth, freckled skin of my back—and I can’t move.

“This is the work of your goddess.” It’s not a question, and I don’t need to answer.

Not like I could, anyway.

“Her handmaids, at least,” I say, my voice thin and breathy and not at all like me.

I step back, and the strange spell breaks.

“Lovely people, your sisters,” he says in a voice that tells me he thinks anything but that.

“Don’t get much of a say in family,” I shrug. “My fate was sealed when they slit my mother’s throat in front of me.”

Live, little bird. Live.

His gaze never leaves my face, dark eyes boring into me, no hint of the smile that transformed him earlier.

This is the Sword.

This is the male that slaughtered dozens upon dozens of my sworn sisters.

There’s no sympathy there to even look for.

“Right,” I say, choking out a laugh. It sounds like a sob. “Sorry about that.”

He reaches out to me, like he might hold my chin in his hand, like he wants to touch me—but draws back.

“This is not your fault to apologize for.”

I tear my gaze away from him, feeling like some piece of me’s been stripped away, raw and tender.

Vulnerable isn’t an emotion I’m familiar with.

Vulnerability gets you killed, or hurt, or whipped by the women who raised you or the man who caught you, starving, with a crust of bread.

“Right.” I clear my throat. “What else do you need from here? We don’t have a lot of time to gather a crew and make a plan for the midwinter masque.”

He hasn’t looked away from me.

I can’t tell what he’s thinking.

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