Page 102 of Of Sword & Silver

He must have bathed.

We’re smiling at each other.

He rolls off me to the empty side of the bed, tugging his shirt off. A clean shirt.

“Did you bathe in here while I was sleeping?”

“I did.”

“Pervert. I bet you loved being naked with me right here,” I purr.

“I did,” he agrees, his palm going to the back of my neck, pulling me close. “I can show you, if you want.”

“No. You’re going to have to court me.”

“Court you?” he huffs a laugh.

“I can’t be distracted from planning the heist, though,” I tell him, rolling over to my side and propping myself up on an elbow. “So yes. You have my permission to court me. And then, after the heist, we can see where this takes us.”

“I already know where it will take you. You’ll be ruined for all other males. For eternity.”

I roll my eyes, laughing. “I’m going to remind you of that if you fail to live up to your own inflated expectations.”

He glances down to where his cock’s tenting his pants. “I’ll give you inflated, alright.”

I burst out laughing even harder and he tucks me against him, his body warm and muscular and comforting.

“I’m sorry I made you feel…”

“Terrible?” I suggest. “Like I should be dead?”

He falls silent, but his hand strokes a steady rhythm on my upper arm.

“Death comes for us all,” he says finally.

“But not yet,” I say firmly.

“Not yet,” the Sword agrees, pressing a kiss to my shoulder blade.

36

THE SWORD

When I wake, morning light is streaming through the window in shades of wintery gold, dust motes glimmering in the air. I reach out—but Kyrie is gone, her side of the bed cold under my hand.

Her taste haunts me. I squeeze my eyes shut, preferring the dark to the bright of day, holding onto the feel of her curves, her softness against me.

Time, ever vigilant, presses onward towards our fate.

Hushed conversation sounds from the other side of the door and I sit up, dressing in record time, splashing some cold water on my face. Mostly, I’m steeling myself for another day of shame warring with my intense attraction to the thief who’s stealing my heart.

The door creaks open to the living room, the wooden knob slick and polished on my palm. A fire blazes in the huge hearth, and Kyrie and Caedia lean over a large unrolled parchment on the floor, furniture pushed out of the way to make room for it.

I raise a brow, neither of them pausing to even look up at me.

Speaking in low tones, Kyrie points at the parchment—blueprints, I belatedly realize—and Caedia nods.

“And you won’t have any problems with it?” Kyrie asks her, nose scrunching in slight disbelief.

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