Page 23 of Forged In Magic

She was so confused. For years, she’d been so sure that casual sex was all she should ever want from a man. Then Isaac happened. He talked the talk, saying he wanted more from her. That he cared for her. Well, in her book, relationships were supposed to be an equal amount of give and take. But as soon as Kate needed something from him, he pulled back. If he cared so deeply about her, wouldn’t he have understood how much her career meant to her? Wouldn’t he have wanted to help her in any way he could?

It wasn’t just that forging the sword would help the magic world, it would mean that her skill had helped. Her, Kate Stone, who her ex-fiancé said wasn’t good enough because she was a woman. If Isaac had wanted to give her the tattoo, to help her, it would say he respected her skills and her as a person.

Being able to work with the sword and help contain the evil would mean no one would ever again be able to say she wasn’t good enough. That she couldn’t do what a man could.

After stewing over Isaac and tossing and turning for what felt like hours, Kate forced all thoughts of him from her mind. When she met with him in the morning, she needed to be strong and not show him how much he’d hurt her. For that, she needed sleep.

Laying on the bed, she took a deep breath and forced her mind to go blank, then closed her eyes. At first it worked, and her body relaxed and she sunk deeper into the mattress.

Then images of the dead people on the restaurant floor swam before her mind’s eye. She remembered the terror she’d felt, how it had snaked up her spine and taken hold.

Instead of trying to push the images aside, Kate chose to replace them. She visualized the sword. Next, she imagined herself working with it, seeing her fire manipulate the magical metal. It would work for a few minutes. Then visions of the bodies crowded back into her mind, and she would start all over again with visualizing the sword.

It became a never-ending cycle until exhaustion finally won out. Sometime in the early hours of the morning, she must have fallen asleep.

The dream started just as the scene had played out in the restaurant. Then it morphed as most dreams did.

Dream Kate tried to look away from the bodies on the floor, but something tugged at her leg. She looked down and one of the bodies, its eyes now wide open, had pitched itself closer to her. Its body distorted with the movement as its hand firmly grasped Dream Kate’s ankle. She screamed and jerked her leg, trying to step back, as terror paralyzed her.

Another body inched forward and grabbed her other leg. Continuing to jerk and pull herself away, she yelled at the bodies. She couldn’t kick them because their grip on her was too tight, squeezing her flesh like it was clamped in a vice until she thought her bones would break.

Dream Kate was tiring quickly. When she tugged on her leg again, she looked down. The remaining bodies had their eyes open and began to chant “Help me.” Their voices sounded hollow and surreal as they chanted the plea over and over again.

“This is your fault,” Crouching Man said. “If you had flashed when Isabella told you to, she wouldn’t be dead.”

Confused by his comment, Kate looked to where he pointed and tried to scream, but no sound emerged.

Kate’s own scream pulled her from the dream. She was panting like she’d sprinted a marathon, her throat dry and scratchy. The image of Isabella on the floor, a charred hole in her chest as she pleaded for help, was fresh in Kate’s mind.

She turned her head to read the clock on her nightstand and then flopped back on the bed. “Ugh,” she mumbled. Only six—still three hours before she had to meet Isaac at his shop.

Too afraid to sleep now, she threw off the covers, got out of bed, and trudged to the bathroom. Maybe a shower would help clear the haunting images from her mind.

An hour later, showered and dressed, Kate sat at her kitchen table, sipping her third cup of coffee. When she tried to eat something, her stomach revolted, images from her dream taunting her. Coffee would have to do.

Trying not to think about the dream, Kate rehashed everything that was said in the boardroom the night before. That turned out to be a bad idea.

By the time she arrived at Isaac’s shop, past feelings of inadequacy were driving her and she was ready for a fight.

“I’m working on the design,” Isaac said in way of greeting.

“Okay.” She sat on a tattoo chair and stared at his back.

Fifteen minutes passed without either of them saying a word. She watched the clock, and each round of the minute hand cranked her anger higher, as if the clock had a direct link to her emotions.

All the times she had worked so hard to prove herself as a swordsmith but was dismissed by her peers because she was a woman ran through her mind. The sexist comments and ridicule she’d endured because she didn’t have a dick.

“If I were a man, you wouldn’t hesitate to give me the tattoo,” she said to Isaac’s back. “No one would have to force you.” As soon as the words left her mouth, she realized she hadn’t really meant the words for Isaac. They had been for every man in her past who hadn’t trusted or respected her. Isaac was just the lucky guy who was hearing them.

He turned on his stool and lifted his gaze to hers. A frown marred his forehead, his eyes narrowed in anger. His expression told her she had gone too far.

* * *

Kate’s words had been clear, and yet Isaac had trouble believing what he’d heard. He stood but didn’t utter a single word, too stunned by her accusation to respond.

Staring into her eyes, he waited a moment, hoping his brain would shift back into gear and give him a reasonable way to respond. He opened his mouth, then shut it again.

Her comment had cut deep. Not because of the actual words, per se, but because they revealed her true feelings about him. She believed his decision was based on some farfetched idea that he didn’t see her as an equal.

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