Page 19 of Of Sword & Silver

He’s not wearing clothes.

I mean, his dirty shirt’s wrapped around his waist as a small nod to modesty, but otherwise, he's...

I swallow hard.

He’s stunning. Too thin by a mile, but there’s no mistaking the elegant lines of his body, the powerful musculature that once was, that will be again.

I close my eyes and turn around, then berate myself silently because I might as well shout to him that despite my brain knowing better, my body is clearly responding to his.

Ugh.

“Good, glad I don’t have to send out a search party,” I say woodenly, all but running towards the tent.

“Right. You and the mule. Quite the party.” His low voice rasps over my skin, and despite the fact I’m fully dressed, it feels too intimate.

Tent. Tent. Tent.

I throw open the flap and toss the satchels inside, collapsing onto the waxed canvas that smells distinctly like horseflesh and dirt.

I’ve smelt worse.

Then he’s there, the Sword, crowding into the tent, too large and too naked and altogether too much. It’s dark in the tent, especially with the clouds full of snow blotting out the stars and the fire slowly dying outside.

I staunchly avoid looking at him, just in case.

And I definitely do not notice he does, in fact, smell much, much better. I sniff at my own armpit surreptitiously because now I wonder if I smell terrible.

Better to smell terrible, though. Safety in stink, or something.

I clear my throat as I pull off my boots, unfastening my cloak so I can use it as a blanket. Using my sock-covered toes, I push the packs into the middle of the tent, safely between the two of us. Not that we need the physical separation.

There’s no way in the hells either one of us wants to get any closer to the other than we have to. He’s made that abundantly clear.

Disgust curls my lip. He might be nice to look at, but I’ve never in my life met anyone who looked at me with so much undisguised malice. He’d rather stab me in the back than try to cop a feel in the middle of the night, I’m sure of it.

Plus, I smell bad. So there.

I start to unstrap my dagger belt from my hips, but stop at the last minute.

“Don’t touch me,” I tell him suddenly. “Keep your hands to yourself tonight, and every night.” My words are as sharp as the blades askew at my waist.

He grunts in assent. “Don’t flatter yourself.”

For some reason, his blunt asshole of an answer helps, and some of the tension melts from my muscles.

With that, I unbuckle the belt of daggers and lay it out flat next to me before curling up under my cloak, tucking one arm under my head.

In the darkness, the sound of the Sword lying down feels disproportionately loud, and I squeeze my eyes shut—only to be accosted by imagining what he’s wearing.

“You better be wearing pants,” I hiss into the darkness.

He just laughs, low and mellifluous. The sound sends a shiver up my spine. Only because it’s shocking. I haven’t heard him laugh yet—or seen him smile, even.

It’s the last thing I hear before I fall asleep, exhaustion tugging me under.

I sit up suddenly, awake in an instant. It’s full dark, the once-crackling fire silent as the grave. My fingers close over my daggers, and even though I don’t know what’s dragged me from sleep, my heart’s pounding, my nerves on high alert.

Then I hear it.

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