Page 10 of Powerful

My whole life takes place in this small amount of space. On one half of it all, I make a living as a blacksmith. But a messy bed lies on the other side, accompanied by several mismatching cabinets filled with whatever clothing and food I happen to have.

She seems to shy away from that intimate part of the room, though I watch her gaze linger on the crumpled covers of my bed. Her eyes stray back to the assortment of weapons lining the walls before poking at the large anvil beside the fireplace. ‘You’re a blacksmith.’

I cross my arms over my chest. ‘How incredibly observant you are.’

Ignoring my comment, she asks, ‘Who do you sell these weapons to?’

I shrug. ‘Whoever is smart enough to want one.’ I’m met with a questioning look, urging me to elaborate. ‘Everyone in the slums should have a way to defend themselves. It’s survival of the fittest.’

Her eyes are locked on the several shelves of weapons. ‘I guess I’ve never seen Loot that way.’ She frowns solemnly. ‘It’s always felt like a home.’

I swallow. ‘Homes tend to hurt you the most.’

At that, she’s quiet for a surprisingly long moment. That is, until she’s not. ‘So, you just hand someone whatever weapon they want?’

I lean against a wall, watching her take in my handiwork. ‘Well, they typically ask me to teach them how to use whatever weapon they choose.’

She turns to face me with a shocked smile. ‘And you help them?’

‘Don’t act so surprised.’

‘Sorry,’ she laughs defensively. ‘It’s just that, I thought you didn’t have any goodness in your heart to give?’

‘Well, not to you,’ I scoff. ‘I’m not wasting any ofmy goodness on someone who clearly already has an abundance.’

She laughs again, and though that wasn’t my intention, I’m not complaining about the outcome. ‘I’ll take that as a compliment.’

‘Of course you will,’ I mutter before pushing off the wall to stride towards her.

She tilts her head up to meet my gaze. ‘Ready to get your measurements taken?’

‘Do I have a choice?’

She beams. ‘Nope!’ Her eyes scan the room in search of something before she finally asks, ‘Do you have a measuring tape?’

After tearing through my cluttered cabinets, I happen to find the rolled tape I stowed away. Adena makes quick work of unraveling it before I’m being ushered into the center of the room.

When she clears her throat, I look down at her in question. ‘Um.’ Her eyes shift uncomfortably. ‘I’m going to need you to take your shirt off.’ Before I can even open my mouth, she’s rambling rapidly. ‘See, I can’t get a true measurement with all the pockets on your clothes. I mean, you can keep your pants on because the ones Imperials wear are loose as it is, so it’s really justthe shirt that needs to come off. Unless, you don’t want to, of course—’

‘This is not worth a ten-minute explanation.’ I sigh while pulling the shirt from my body in one swift movement. It slides easily over my head, considering it’s mostly made of a spandex material with a protective leather panel down the front.

I throw the shirt to the floor, watching her eyes follow the movement as she thoroughly avoids the sight of my bare chest. She squints down at the crumpled fabric before bending to run her fingers over it. ‘The leather prevents most of the sparks from burning your skin?’ When I nod in agreement to her observation, she adds softly, ‘But the rest remains breathable enough to wear beside the fire.’

‘And the pockets are just convenient for miscellaneous tools,’ I add simply.

A small smile curves her lips. ‘Reminds me of something I made for Pae. Except, the pockets were for stolen goods.’

We are quiet for several slow heartbeats.

‘Alright, stretch out your arms for me, please.’

I reluctantly obey, standing before her with a bare chest and arms outstretched. She’s quick to run themeasuring tape along the length of each limb, jotting the measurements down on a scrap of paper she scavenged. Her eyes dart over my body, never staying too long on any patch of skin in particular. But I don’t miss the bob of her throat, the brush of her fingers. Which are incredibly cold.

She smells of honey, of happiness incarnate. And it’s entirely too distracting.

She then reaches her arms behind my back, encircling the tape round my chest. ‘Don’t mind me,’ she mumbles awkwardly, her breath warm on my skin. After reading the measurement and proceeding to jot it down, she looks up with a comical look of concern. ‘Well, someone is not eating their sticky buns.’

I give her a flat look. ‘Well, someone has been eating – or stealing – them all before I can get one.’

---