Torrent of Tears (Scourge Survivor Series Book 3)(26)

“There.” He pointed, then clasped his hands behind his back and stood at attention.

He’d led us to another of those futuristic bronze buildings with sweeping arcs and ornate scrollwork details. The one-story structure had huge wall panels folded back on three of the four sides. It gave the impression of an open-air building. The exhaust from the forge vented straight up from the chimney in the center of the building and out the hole in the roof. It rose in a swirl of charcoal smoke toward, but not nearly high enough to reach, the arch of the dome above.

As we closed the distance, I checked out the solid back wall. Covered in cut stone, it was cluttered with forge tools and a stunning array of custom weapons. There was something indescribably sexy about the sharp edges, spikes and barbs of new weapons. Having never been swung or struck, the line of the metal and the slice of the cutting edge remained perfectly unmarred.

With the walls open, the scorching heat crept along the paved street and met us like a cloying blanket. The forger, his back to us, set down his hammer, rose from his stool and stepped away from the flames. Pulling on the tie of the heavy leather apron he wore, he stripped off the protective layer and then his shirt. As he strode to the workbench on the back wall, he wiped his skin with the balled-up fabric.

Oh. Wow. The muscles on his back glistened and pulled as he retrieved a bottle and uncorked the neck. His shoulders and lats were thick in all the right places and tapered to a glorious ass cradled in a tight pair of jeans. At the small of his back, a silver buckle fastened the worn pair of leather chaps that protected his legs from flaring embers.

Heaven.

I swallowed hard as he tipped the bottle back and drank deep. Firelight danced along the smooth surface of the glass bottle and he turned to lean against the bench. My eyes were glued to the sweat-glistening definition of his abs. They plunged me into chiaroscuro bliss and the way his jeans hung low on his hips . . . yummm.

“Slumming it, Princess?” The low, velvet amusement in the voice snapped me out of my haze.

I abandoned the sightseeing sexpedition and met Rowan’s smug stare. His gaze stayed locked on mine, the intensity of those shadowed hazels warming me inside and out. I prayed to Castian and his dim-witted nieces that it was dark enough to hide the flush of my cheeks as I straightened. “I . . . uh, what are you doing?”

“Being ogled?”

I stepped toward the forge and examined the billet he’d been working on. He was in the beginning stages of tapering the edges. Without touching the glowing metal, I let my hand hover above it and traced its length. The tingling in my palm climbed over my skin as it had twice already today. “You’re using orichalcum for the flexibility within the core?”

“You know smithing?”

“A bit. Mostly I know swords. And I teach Spathology.”

His mouth lifted in a crooked smile. “An Attalosean Eligible who thinks beyond the color of her nails and gown? Who could have guessed.”

I pulled my hand from the singeing heat and stepped back. Sweat glistened on my own forehead and my lavender gown was starting to cling. “I’ve been misjudged before and, no doubt, will be again. I thought you were a doctor.”

“Surgeon, actually. You could say I work with blades of all sizes.” My skepticism must have shown because he cast me an impatient glance.

“Did you study medicine in the Modern Realm?”

Rowan kicked up his chin a notch. “Believe it or not, Attalos has a strong and modern infrastructure of its own. Whatever the shortcomings of our government, everyone, including the Noble Council and the Queen, work to ensure Attalos thrives.”

“Considering the Nobles and Queen think arranged marriages and systematically eliminating cultural diversity is a good thing . . . well, friends can disagree.”

A look of hostility crossed his face. “Don’t flatter yourself, Princess. We’re not friends.”

His tone stung. The truth of those words was as solid as the scowl etched on Terran’s face. Bruin always said we worked better in a pack than as lone wolves, but apparently, no one in Attalos wanted to join my pack.

“My mistake.” I eyed the showcase of weapons hanging on the stone wall. “I’ll leave you to your work.”

I turned to leave and almost tripped over a child. The boy looked up at me with the darkest pair of eyes I’d ever seen. Maybe it was my sense of isolation or maybe the effect of the firelight on his dirty little face, but Zale’s servant boy had the haunted look of someone who’d lived through far too much. And he couldn’t have been more than eight years old.

“Hello again,” I said, accepting the note he handed me. “What’s this?”

The child plunged his hands deep into his torn pockets.

“The boy doesn’t speak, Princess.” Terran growled. “He can hear. He just can’t speak.”

“Oh,” I said, my voice catching. “Well, don’t let that slow you down, hon. I have a friend who can’t speak either. He’s the fiercest warrior I’ve ever fought with, other than my father. No one messes with Savage. Voice or not, he’s a respected warrior and many of us would die for him in battle.”

“Truth or tease?” Terran moved forward, starting to thaw in the heat.

“Truth, I swear.” The little guy listened intently, a million questions swirling in his eyes. “Would you like to hear stories about Savage some time?” A mass of matted, ginger hair bounced as he nodded. “Good. Then let’s do that.”