Page 95 of Of Sword & Silver

“Of course not—” I start, fury building in me.

She has no idea. None of them do.

No idea of what I’ve done, or where my ill-gotten funds went, or who I am.

Because… I didn’t trust her with those parts of me. I blow out a breath, staring down at my filthy leather pants.

“Fine,” I murmur. “You’re right.”

“You never let anyone in and?—”

“I said fine,” I repeat.

She stares at me, the anger in her warm brown eyes cooling slightly. “Fine?”

“Yep. Morrow and you want to trust me, and I agree. It will make things easier for… what we have planned.”

I’m afraid to say the word heist. Who knows who’s listening in this strange suite of rooms?

“This is a nice place, you know?” I ask awkwardly, already at odds with having to trust. And we haven’t even started whatever hellish shit Morrow has in mind. It is, too. A huge white stacked stone fireplace dominates one side of the living area, a trio of arched windows providing a view of the winter forest. The whole place is tastefully decorated, from the silk rugs I’m still lying on to the luxurious chairs and divans spread about.

“There are four bedrooms,” Caedia tells us with authority. “The wood they used for the beds speaks to me.” She goes back to grinding herbs, humming in a low voice.

I blink at her.

Lara clears her throat.

Right. Because that is totally normal.

“You and the Sword are sharing a room,” Lara commands.

“What?” I sputter. The Sword simply grunts at her.

Typical.

“Do the math. Caedia and I will share a room, Morrow can have a room, but you and the Sword… you need to work out whatever your problems are because I’m sick to death of it,” Lara hisses, her eyes flaring purple.

Great.

“Fine by me,” the Sword says.

Morrow holds a hand over his mouth like he’s disguising a laugh. I bare my teeth at him, daring him to let it out.

“See?” Lara says, pointing at me.

“Stop it. We haven’t even done the trust-building yet,” I complain. “Put your finger away. You haven’t even given us a chance to get along. And build trust. Or whatever it is Morrow is suggesting.”

“Whatever in the gods’ names is wrong between you two won’t be solved by this,” he mutters under his breath.

I glare daggers at him, then look to the Sword for support.

Shouldn’t he be arguing against this too?

He’s not, though, he’s not even looking at them.

His attention is firmly and wholly on me, and my awareness of him roars to life.

“So,” I squeak out, desperately swinging my gaze to Morrow, who seems outlandishly amused, gods damn him. “Trust exercises. Where do we start?”

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