Page 20 of Of Sword & Silver

An odd coughing sound. Snow crunching beneath something heavy.

I start to stand, ready to cut whatever is out there to shreds, when strong arms bracket my shoulders, a clean warm palm across my mouth. My eyes go even wider and I struggle for a second.

Lips press against the shell of my ear and I go completely still, my knuckle cracking as I grip a dagger too tight.

“It’s alright. It won’t hurt us. Or the mule. Most likely,” he whispers into my ear. “If you scream, or attack it, though? You’ll regret it.” One hand strokes easily up and down my back, like he’s trying to comfort me.

Which is absurd. Completely, absolutely absurd. Ridiculous. Maybe I’m dreaming.

The sound of footsteps crunching on snow draws closer still, and the Sword tightens his huge hand over my mouth, not violently, just enough to muffle any sound I might make, should I decide not to listen to him.

He must not understand how much I value my own skin.

Whatever is out there is big, and the fabric of the tent shudders as the creature moves around it. A drift of snow sloughs off the roof of the structure, but the Sword’s hand keeps running up and down my spine.

It’s warm and snug in the tent and I blink, slowly, slower still, and I’m tired enough to relax back into his huge, hot body in spite of myself.

He’s not holding me because he wants to, I rationalize.

He’s just trying to keep me from doing something that will keep us both killed. Probably thanks to the oath we swore.

Might as well take advantage of his body heat… and the feeling of safety. From the oath, of course. He won’t hurt me; he can’t.

It’s with a sense of surprise that I doze off again.

A rush of wings outside wakes me up and I shift, the blanket heavy and stifling hot all around me.

Heavy. My eyes fly open and I stiffen… only to realize I’m not the only stiff thing in the tent.

It’s not a blanket. It’s not even my cape, which, based on the tangle around my feet, I kicked off sometime in the night… and replaced with the Sword.

He’s curled around me, his breathing deep and even, and if it weren’t for the fact his cock is well aware of me in his arms, I might even be able to trick myself into falling back asleep.

Because he’s warm and comfortable.

That’s the only reason.

But his cock is very much awake, and the odds of me falling back asleep with it prodding my spine are absolutely zero. I try to roll away, to wriggle free, but he grunts in his sleep, his arms tightening around me. My eyes widen as he throws a well-muscled leg over mine, effectively trapping me next to him.

Traitorous heat floods through me, and I grit my teeth against it.

No way am I attracted to him. He goes by the Sword, for goddess’s sake! He could not be more obnoxious or high-handed and so what if he’s objectively beautiful?

He clearly despises me, and seeing as how I am my own favorite person, that dynamic would never work.

A bird trills outside the tent, its shadow rippling across the waxed canvas exterior.

I need to get him off me, and I need to do it quickly—the more obnoxiously the better. An evil grin kicks the corners of my mouth into a smile, and instead of rolling away from him, I snuggle closer, rubbing my ass against him before turning to face him.

For the first time in my life, I hope my breath is absolutely horrible when waking up next to handsome man.

“Good morning. I see now why they call you the Sword.” I sing the words because that seemed to irritate him the most yesterday.

His eyes open slowly, his dark lashes standing out against the white of his hair. In waking, his face seems younger, less angry. His silvery-white hair slips as his head moves, revealing those pointed, not-human ears.

How old is he?

My eyes drift from his ears back to his now wide-awake gaze, his brow furrowed as he regards me.

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