Page 21 of Of Sword & Silver

I swallow, slightly less confident in the way I’m playing this.

“I thought you hated me.” The words surprise me, and I regret them as soon as they slip out of my mouth on a whisper. I make myself smile again, and this time it’s jagged as broken glass.

“The only way I could get any sleep was to stop your teeth from chattering in the night.”

He rolls off of me in one elegant, fluid motion, and embarrassment burns across my cheeks and chest.

“I do hate being sworn to you. Immensely. Maybe more than you will ever understand.”

“Oh? Is that why your sword was so hot and hard against my back?” I flutter my eyelashes, even though I’m slightly ashamed of how easy it is for me to resort to goading him. Not enough to stop, though. “Is that how you earned your name? The Sword? Because I have to admit, it’s much bigger than I thought it would be, considering how?—”

“They call me the Sword because that’s the last thing my enemies feel.” A chill emanates from his words, and I hug my arms around myself, feeling the truth of it hit me. I am a consummate liar, thanks to my abilities—but my talent works both ways. He’s not lying. “I am a slaughterer. A warrior and a murderer.”

I roll my eyes because, my goddess, what an ego. “Oh please, great and terrible Sword, I cower at your feet.”

He scowls at me, tugging on his ragged shirt. My mouth goes dry as it hits me: we weren’t just cuddled up. He was holding me to his naked body.

An inferno rages over my face and I turn away, too quickly to be able to pass it off as playing it cool.

“You need better clothes,” I force myself to say. “I can slip down to Cottleside and steal you some?—”

“No.”

“No?” I repeat, fastening my cloak around my neck. Highly annoyed, I shake my braid out and rake my fingers through the tangled mess of my waves, staring him down. “What do you mean, no? Would you prefer to have frostbitten toes? Oh, Sword who hangs heavy and low, we tremble before you, toeless one.” I genuflect before him, and when I glance back up, I swear I see a hint of a smile before it’s replaced with that same gloomy scowl.

“I do not need you to steal for me, thief. I have my own ways of finding what I need.”

“I don’t have time to take care of you when your feet freeze off. Don’t be a stubborn ass.”

“It’s infantile to call names. Though I suppose… it fits.” His gaze runs up and down my body, the sneer of his lip making me want to punch his very punchable and too-good-looking face.

Goddess, couldn’t it have been anyone else to help me find a cure for this stupid curse? It had to be this asshole?

“And how old are you, exactly? I suppose when you were born a thousand years ago, everyone else seems infantile to you. You know, maybe I should call you Grandfather instead of Sword. Grandpapa. Ancient, rusty, derelict Sword, the mighty relic of Death himself.”

His eyes flash with pure anger and I grin at him, delighted to have finally annoyed him enough to get that reaction.

“Come on, Grandpapa,” I sing out. “You’re not all there anymore, are you? But if you insist on walking barefoot through the snow, I can’t stop you. Have to respect my elders and all that, right?” I wink up at him, thrilled to have the upper hand.

He moves closer, filling my vision—my awareness—with him.

Maybe I overplayed my hand.

Wouldn’t be the first time.

“You’ll pay your respects to me in good time, on your knees,” he growls.

Fury wipes away any remaining enjoyment of needling him. I tug on my boots aggressively, thankful for the rich fur lining on the interior. Without the asshole warrior wrapped around me, it’s freezing cold. Or it should be—but I’m steaming hot from his remark.

I don’t give him the satisfaction of responding, simply throwing open the tent flap and letting him think he got the last word.

It’s to my shame that I am bothered by it. The thought of being on my knees before him. The thought of doing exactly what he insinuated, even though he said it just to piss me off.

My own fault for bothering to acknowledge his anatomy this morning.

I stomp onto the snow, then pull up short, looking around in fear.

“What’s wrong?” the Sword asks, somehow right behind me. He follows my gaze.

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