Page 70 of Of Sword & Silver

“Here,” he rasps, holding out an earthenware mug. “Drink.”

“Should I swallow?” I ask, arching one eyebrow suggestively.

“Shut up,” he says, standing so abruptly water sloshes over the rim of the cup as I take it.

The water tastes heavenly on my tongue, cold and fresh and perfect. The fact that the Sword all but threw it at me in an awkward rage makes it taste even better, too.

“You wanted to kiss me,” I say in a sing-song voice.

“I wanted you to live,” he growls, suddenly over me, one hand slamming into the wooden headboard, his face so close to mine I can scent the sweat on his skin. “To live, Kyrie, and you could have told me sooner that you were hurt. But no. You were as stubborn and intractable and infuriating as you always, always are.”

“I didn’t know I was stung.” An uncomfortable tightness settles deep in my chest and I make myself look away from him, outside that same window where the sun is slowly rising.

“If you hate me so very much, Sword,” I swing my gaze back towards where he’s pacing along the wall, silver hair shining in the growing light. “Why do you want me to live so badly? Wouldn’t it be better for you if I were wiped off the board completely?”

He stops walking. Turns his head to me.

So preternaturally still, he doesn’t even seem to be breathing.

“I swore an oath to you, you fool. You made me, if you remember correctly.”

“The oath didn’t cover any kind of accidental death or damage,” I say, narrowing my eyes at him, suspicion growing. “You do hate me; you aren’t denying it. So why, Sword? Why do you want me to live?”

He’s within a hairsbreadth of my lips again in an instant, the bed sagging under the weight of his knee on the mattress.

“Because you are my burden, Kyrie of Sola, my responsibility to bear, no matter how much I pray I could be rid of the torment you so willingly hand out on a daily basis. The mere sight of you is punishment for every misdeed I’ve ever committed.”

I flinch as though I’ve been slapped.

The door flings open and the smallest woman I’ve ever seen glides through it.

The Sword immediately backs away, ducking through the door behind the woman, leaving me reeling on the bed.

Not from the manticore’s poison, or from the memory of what we nearly did together in that damned hot spring.

From his words, his vicious tone, and the clear truth in every syllable.

The sight of you is punishment for every misdeed I’ve ever committed.

It hurts. It hurts more than the remnants of poison in my shoulder.

“I didn’t think he’d ever leave,” the small woman says.

“What?” I ask, finally taking her in. She has green-tinted skin, long greenish-blonde hair falling in gentle waves to her waist. A wreath of tiny white flowers sits on top of her head, giving her a girlish quality, though she must be at least my age. “What do you mean?”

“That male. The Sword? He hasn’t left your bedside in days. Took his meals in here, too. I thought he was going to murder me if I didn’t take care of you.”

“You’re a healer,” I say, then tilt my head, studying her strange appearance. “Are you a dryad?”

“Half,” she says, a sad smile on her lovely face. “If I were a full dryad, I wouldn’t be here, would I?”

She doesn’t wait for an answer, but busies herself by grinding up a potent blend of herbs in a black mortar on the bedside table.

I sink back into the pillow, my eyes stinging with tears I refuse to shed. I’m not going to fucking cry because the Sword is a horrible bastard murderer without one ounce of gratefulness in his stupidly gorgeous body.

I’m not going to cry because I’m apparently the worst person he’s ever met in his entire long life.

I am not going to cry because I don’t give a shit what he thinks of me.

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