Blade of Secrets (Bladesmith #1)(9)

He leans forward, his lips puckering.

I step back, rise to my full height. “What are you doing?”

“Making you feel better about the mace.”

Oh no. What do I do? Run for it? Or say something? Which would be less embarrassing at this point?

“No, thank you,” I say, and then I want to slap myself. What a stupid thing to say to someone trying to kiss you. But what else do you say? I haven’t ever had someone try to kiss me before. I haven’t prepared for this kind of confrontation.

“What?” he asks.

I cringe. I probably didn’t make sense the first time. “I don’t need you to make me feel better. I’m just fine.”

“Kiss me anyway,” he whispers in some sort of deep tone that I haven’t heard from him yet. He leans forward once more.

Goddesses. Why is it happening again?

I can’t say No, thank you again.

“I don’t want to,” I say instead. Is that any better? Why is it so hot in here? I feel like I can’t breathe in this dress.

“No one will ever know,” he says, following me across the room as I try to get away from him.

“I’ll know.”

At that, Asel freezes in place. His eyes shrink behind his eyelids as he scrutinizes me. As though he’s looking for just what’s wrong with me.

And I know there’s something wrong with me, but him looking at me like that isn’t helping my state of mind.

“What’s wrong with you?” he asks, confirming my thoughts. “I made you laugh twice.”

“You were counting?” I mean, I was counting, but that’s because no one but Temra ever makes me laugh. And why should those two comments of his go together unless—

Oh.

I see now what all of Asel’s words were meant to do. Not make me feel better at all about the mace but to lead to something that he thought would make his night more enjoyable.

He’s a despicable lady hunter.

The panic recedes, replaced with fury.

“You think saying a few nice words to me earns you a kiss? That’s not how it works.”

He blinks once before standing straighter, trying to match my height, but he still falls inches short. “Most women would kill to get me alone.”

“I very much doubt that. Most women are far too sensible to have such poor taste.”

He scoffs in outrage, dares to step forward. I cross my arms over my chest, hopefully hiding my shaking hands, and letting my biceps bulge with the muscles there.

Thinking better of trying anything, Asel steps around me and all but rushes out of the room.

I’m left alone, the faraway chatter of a hundred people lightly filling my ears. I take a seat in one of the elaborate sofas facing the weapon.

Now that the threat is gone, my thoughts turn back to the conversation. Everything I said. Everything I did. Did I really flex in front of him?

My thoughts tumble out of control, fixating on each mortifying sequence of events, down to the horror of having to stand up for myself.

I’m distracted as another presence fills the room.

A woman enters in an almost lazy manner, a glass of wine held in front of her. She looks once at me and then to the weapon on the wall.

“Are you her? Ziva, the blacksmith?”

I don’t know if I can take being social for one second longer. I manage a nod, before sinking further into the chair.

“I saw the governor’s distasteful little brat running from the room. Good for you,” she says. “Whatever you did, I can promise he deserved it.”

I manage to breathe out a sound similar to a laugh. “Who are you?”

“Warlord Kymora Avedin,” she says, approaching the mantel to get a better look at the mace. “A pleasure to make your acquaintance.”

A warlord? I’ve never met one of those before. But I’ve heard of her. She served under the late king before he split the kingdom into territories. Kymora is smaller than I would have thought someone with such a title would be, but at my height, most girls seems short to me. She wears her tan hair pulled back into a bun, with one lock twisted into a braid and pinned to the side of her head. A scar runs from the center of her right cheek to her ear, but it was well tended to, the line smooth and white, rather than puckered and pink. A broadsword hangs at her side, but by the slight bulges in her clothing, I gather it is not the only weapon on her person. I place her at about forty years of age, though it’s hard to tell, as she’s certainly taken great care with her physical health.

“Exquisite work,” she says, reaching out to touch one of the flanges. “Such a shame it’s being wasted on a wall. Utterly ridiculous for such a fine piece.” She takes a sip of her drink.

I like her. She’s so upfront, dismissing with any formalities. It puts me at ease immediately.

“Thank you. That’s exactly what I was just saying.”

“I’m in town to commission a piece from you,” she says without any more preamble. “Something to wear at my side, not dangle in front of guests, I assure you. I’ll be stopping by the forge later this week.”

“I’d very much like to make something for you,” I say, and I mean it.

“Excellent. I’ll see you later, then. Think nothing more on this,” she says, indicating the mace. “Maybe you’ll get lucky and someone will rob the place.”