Curling a little fist, I knuckle up and feel ridiculous. And that I’m making a mistake. He doesn’t want to see me—
There’s aclickand the slab of metal creaks open. The fact that the hinges are not well-oiled checks out. They’re no doubt the only ones on the property that make any noises.
Now I really do feel a blast of something you could cook a pie with.
As the interior is revealed, the black candles check out, so too does the rap that stomps around in the background. The forge is a circular, stone enclosure, vented through a massive ceiling hood. Flames jump and hiss as if resentful of their containment, yellow and orange spirits that are as restless as the warrior that sits on the far side, his back to the wall, his aggression facing forward.
Directed at anyone who disturbs him.
Me.
You.
Vishous is sharpening a blade, running a whetstone up and down the black steel that’s pointed straight out from his…
OMG. I literally can’t finish typing that.
Let me paint the picture. His knees are spread wide, so there’s an absolutely unavoidable eroticism in the way he’s sitting and what he’s doing as he goes up and down that shank with the pointy end. I have a thought he’s doing this on purpose, just to throw me off. But I immediately disregard that hypothesis.
His mere presence throws me, and he knows that. He doesn’t need any additives or preservatives as they say.
Vishous is 100% organically overwhelming—
The exhale of Turkish smoke that comes out of his mouth curls up to obscure his diamond eyes. As he stays silent, I dub in various hi-how’re-yas.
Fancy meeting you here.Spoken in that arching tone with that arching brow.
You’re late.Spoken in a dark tone with a head-on stare.
Get the fuck out. Spoken in a flat, disinterested tone.
You bore me—
No, he wouldn’t go that route. Too obvious.
“Hi?” I say. “I mean…hello.”
God. I’m socially incompetent on a good night, but this is a nightmare. And while I stand on the far side of his fire, feeling like an absolute idiot, I think about how much I love my job for so many reasons—chief among which is the fact that it means I get to spend ten hours a day by myself.
This is every cocktail party I’ve ever been to happening all at once.
So how can I be J. R. Ward at all these public events, you might ask? I don’t have a fucking clue. I’m riddled with phobias: *cough*airplaneselevatorsbridgesheightsetcadnauseam*cough*. But for some reason, the most common one—public speaking—escaped me. Maybe it’s because I’ve made my quota with all the others?
Oh, but I also don’t have trypophobia.
Fear of little holes—
Squirrel. Sorry.
As my heart does messy push-ups in my chest, another exhale in front of V’s face dissipates so that both the goatee and the tats at his temple are fully visible in the flicker of flames. And given that he’s still not talking, I pray that my brain will think of something coherent to fill the silence, but this is faulty reasoning. No combination of syllables will unlock the awkward in this situation.
“I think I’ll just go.”
I point my thumb over my shoulder, you know, just in case he doesn’t remember where the door is or how it’s used—
“This is Wrath’s dagger.”
As he looks back down at the weapon, I clear my throat. “Is it?”
