Page 67 of Of Sword & Silver

“No, that’s not necessary,” I interrupt. I hate to think of these folk giving us any of their hard-earned belongings.

“Nonsense.” The older woman beams up at me. “We can’t have you going around shirtless, or you’ll start a riot worse than that manticore did.”

Kyrie’s laugh rings like a bell. “She’s right about that, Sword.”

“Sword?” Recognition dawns on the woman’s face. “Well, I can’t say I expected to see you. I’ll leave you two to it, then.”

With that, she scurries off, stopping me from asking any further questions.

She recognized my name.

It happens, and it shouldn’t alarm me as much as it does.

Kyrie wiggles in my arms and I kick open the door, walking through and shutting it again with my foot.

Suspended lanterns cast a warm glow throughout the natural cavern, and just as the woman said, there are several cakes of wax-paper-wrapped soap next to a statue of Heska herself, the mother goddess, the patron of love—and of hate.

Every god has two faces.

Odd to find a statue of her here, in between Nakush’s and Sola’s territory, of all places. A small dish sits in front of her, with a bevy of coins. Donations, I assume.

I make a mental note to drop some of my own coin here afterwards. Offending Heska would only make things harder for all of us.

“Lavender,” Kyrie says suddenly.

“What?”

“Lavender soap.” She points a filthy finger at one of the soaps, and I pluck it from the pile.

I take a few steps forward, past the rustic table piled with soap and towels, then stop again.

“There’s only one.” The hot spring doesn’t allow privacy—none at all. There are no convenient rocks to hide behind, no set of pools or dividers.

“I can wait, if you want to go first,” Kyrie says softly. “Just plop me down and I’ll close my eyes.”

Her fingers are trekking up my neck though, one after another. Her palm cups my cheek, and I swallow hard, my throat bobbing.

I shouldn’t be selfish. I should not give in to this… feeling of closeness to Kyrie.

“You could join me,” I rasp, my voice deeper than usual.

White teeth flash as she bites her lower lip, something I suddenly, desperately want to do, to taste it, too.

“Are you sure that’s a good idea?”

“No,” I say shortly. “It is not a good idea.”

Her hands move down my neck to the buckle fastening my pauldrons together between my shoulders.

“Wouldn’t want them to rust,” she says, her green eyes focused on the task at hand.

I groan. I want her. I want her fiercely, the adrenaline from battle still singing through my veins.

I set her down, working quickly to shuck off the armored barrier between us, giving in to the very mortal need that has me so firmly in its grip.

Kyrie’s breath is coming sharp and fast, and her eyes are glazed.

“I’m going to wash up,” she says mildly, her voice shaking. I close my eyes because gods, just the thought of this happening, of her coming to me willingly, is enough to get me hard.

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