Page 5 of Big Forbidden Blacksmith

I’ll just have to make the best of every moment she’s here.

Chapter 3

Lara

When I was fourteen, my parents sent me off to Italy to train under a somewhat famous painter who also happened to be a family friend.

He was a short, stern-faced man who desired perfection when I had long been taught that there was no such thing as perfection in the world of art. But I was there to learn, so I listened. It was never enough for him. Everything I did was wrong in Pierre’s eyes, and eventually the voice of criticism in my head started to sound exactly like him. I’ve had many mentors over the years but his is the voice that stayed.

Every time I made a wrong stroke of brush I couldn’t erase, I would hear his voice in my head, whispering how much of a disappointment I was. How unskilled and untalented I was. How he hated spoiled rich brats like me for whom painting was just a little hobby. It didn’t matter to him that this was the only thing I ever wanted to do, ever felt passionate about. I never told my parents about how mean or disparaging he was, but it got to me so much that it affected my painting for a while.

For the first time in years, I wake up to inner silence. Sure, there are noises happening around the house, but my mind hasn’t been this quiet in forever. It’s peaceful without the nagging criticism of Pierre.

Well, not exactly as there are noises coming from around the house but my head is silent and peaceful and the annoying voice at the back of my head criticizing me for losing my passion is not there. It was bad enough that he’d sucked the joy for painting out of me so many years ago, but his voice lingering with me to suck up the rest of my motivation has been terrible.

I don’t hear his voice today. Honestly, I can’t even remember what it sounds like.

When I open my eyes, the curtains are drawn, but morning light is streaming from in between the gaps. There’s a little weight next to me when I shift, and a blanket that wasn’t there when I suddenly fell asleep on the couch last night. Lots of blankets, actually, and a mattress much more comfortable than the couch cushions.

“Hello, Bear,” I whisper sleepily, running my hand over the ball of fluff curled up beside me.

I should probably be alarmed at finding myself in a strange bed, but I’m not. It’s comforting. I’m still in my own clothes, but the blankets smell like pine and smoke. It’s as if Knox is there, even though it looks like I was the only one who slept in this bed last night.

“I must’ve been tired more than I thought I was,” I whisper to the little cat before pushing myself out of the big bed.

I manage to limp the bathroom where I clean myself up a little. I change into an enormous shirt that was left at the foot of the bed, though I’m not sure if it was actually left for me. I can’t really make myself care, because it’s nice to be enveloped in both warm flannel and the pine and smoke scent of Knox.

I carefully make my way down to the kitchen, but Knox isn’t there. Just the breakfast he left for me. I grab a piece of toast and head out to look for him, figuring he might be in the small outbuilding I saw last night. As I approach the small structure, the clanging sound of metal hitting metal fills the air. I hesitate.

I don’t remember if Knox told me what the small house was for, nor what he did for a living. Curiosity gets better of me and I push open the door, stopping at the sight that greets me.

My eyes are immediately drawn to Knox’s powerful form, muscles rippling with each powerful swing of the hammer. The sparks dance around him, illuminating his rugged features. Suddenly, the itch in my fingers is back.

I don’t even do portraits. I’ve never liked them and avoided working on the ones my mentors tasked me with. But there’s something about Knox that has me craving painting him. The urge to capture this raw energy on my canvas is irresistible. Everything about this moment, from the interplay of light and shadow to the intensity of his eyes when he turns to look at me—

“Lara?”

I gasp and step back. I was not expecting to feel this way upon hearing his voice. His brawny figure is already too much for me, but his deep, sultry voice on top of that makes me feel strangely warm and nervous. I can’t even make myself meet his eyes, but I know they’re on me. Instead, I try looking at his massive chest.

That’s a mistake.

He’s wearing an impossibly tight t-shirt under an apron that doesn’t do anything to hide the way his torso tapers into his waist. Something in me wants to run my fingers up and down the lines of his muscles, just to make sure he’s real.

“Lara are you okay?” he calls out to me again.

No, no I amnotokay.

“Yeah, I didn’t mean to interrupt your work, I’m sorry—”

“It’s alright,” the man says. He drops the massive hammer in his hands. It falls to the ground with a loud thud as he starts walking towards me.

I’m used to seeing men in suits or shirtless guys at the gym, but none of them have half the power that this man has as he stalks across his workspace.

“Does your foot still hurt?”

“My what?” I reply in confusion.

“Your foot, you were hurt yesterday, remember?” he says to me, his voice low and breathtaking.

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