Page 9 of The Blacksmith's Heart
His gaze lingers on mine a beat too long, and I wonder if he feels it too—the pull between us, undeniable and electric. I can’t stop thinking about that kiss we shared the night of the storm, right here in his shop. I can’t stop thinking how much I want himto press his lips to mine again, and how I’ve come to crave his warm body pressed against mine at night in his bed.
I’m growing addicted to this man and every fiber of me is trying to warn me how dangerous that is.
“I’m not used to this,” I admit, breaking the silence.
“Used to what?”
“Relying on someone.”
He grunts softly, his forehead hovering against mine. “You should get used to it, Angel, because I like taking care of you.”
Chapter Six
Liam
The crunch of glass under my boots sends a surge of rage boiling through my veins. The barn windows, every single one of them, are shattered. Slivers and shards litter the ground like some twisted mosaic. And then there’s the paint—bright red slashes of spray paint defacing the walls, scrawled across the new yoga equipment Callie was so excited about. It’s a gut punch, pure and simple.
Callie stands beside me, silent but trembling. She’s been back in my life for less than a week, and already I’ve had to watch her unravel multiple times. She’s being targeted, there’s no doubt about that–or is it someone targeting me? Going after the only thing that’s become important to me in this life? Her arms are wrapped around herself, and though her face is pale, her eyes burn with unshed tears. I want to find whoever did this and make them regret the day they were born.
“I don’t understand why someone would do this,” she whispers, her voice breaking.
My fists clench at my sides. “Because they’re cowards,” I growl. “And they thought this would scare you.”
Her gaze darts to mine, wide and full of doubt. “And it’s not working, right?” I ask, softening my tone. I step closer, towering over her, but she doesn’t back away. “Tell me it’s not working, Callie.”
Her lips press into a thin line, and she shakes her head, though I can see the fear she’s trying to hide. “No. It’s not.”
“Good girl,” I murmur, brushing a stray strand of hair from her face. “We’ll clean this up. We’ll make it better than before.”
She nods, but her gaze shifts back to the destruction, her resolve wavering. I can’t stand it. I can’t stand seeing her like this.
“Callie,” I say, my voice low and steady, “they don’t get to win. Not here. Not ever. They’re fucking with the wrong guy.”
She takes a shuddering breath, and I see her straighten her spine. “You’re right,” she says, her voice firmer now. “You’re sweet, but I can’t help thinking I got you involved with something that’s bigger than both of us–something you don’t deserve to be involved in.”
“Don’t say that–protecting you is the only thing that matters to me now. I just got you back, no damn way will I let anyone take you from me,” I murmur, the words slipping out before I can stop them. I tip her chin so her gaze meets mine. “Do you believe me?”
Her warm eyes hang with mine, sadness and hope lingering in equal measure. “Y-yes.”
“Good, don’t forget it. I’d rather die than let them hurt you.”
Her eyes snap to mine, and there it is—that spark that always knocks the air out of my lungs. Even in the middle of this chaos, she’s mesmerizing. Her lips part, like she’s about to say something, but instead, she just nods and turns toward the mess.
We get to work. Together.
Hours later the barn smells like paint thinner and sweat. We’ve been scrubbing and sweeping, cleaning up the mess someone left of her new studio, and while the place is starting to look less like a crime scene, the damage is undeniable. Most of the yoga mats are ruined, and the custom blocks she ordered? Unsalvageable. I’ve never hated spray paint more in my life.
Callie scrubs at a stubborn streak of red on one of the salvaged mats, her brow furrowed in concentration. She’s got a streak of paint on her cheek, and her hair’s a mess from where she’s been shoving it out of her face. She’s beautiful. Fierce. And she has no idea.
“You’re staring,” she says without looking up.
“You’re gorgeous,” I shoot back, my voice gruff.
Her hand freezes mid-scrub, and she glances at me over her shoulder.
“Flattery won’t get you out of finishing this,” she says, her tone teasing, but her cheeks flush a delicate pink.
“Wasn’t trying to get out of anything,” I reply, stepping closer. “Just stating facts.”
