Page 99 of Reign

“Your absence has been noticed,” I said, my pulse still hammering.

Then the howl of Dog echoed through the forest, as though my companion wondered where I’d gone.

“Yours, too,” Bash replied.

I lingered behind while he strode ahead, putting distance between us with every step.

Splintered.

To support Margaret’s strategy, Fitzroy had appointed me keeper and protector of the forge—a title he devised to allow me time alone in the smithy without raising Red’s suspicion. He even had his knights erect a small bedstead in the corner so I could work late into the night, hexing the weapons and armor I’d tirelessly forged by day.

Seeing my struggle to keep up with the workload, Bash offered to help, and I eagerly accepted the extra set of hands. This evening in the smithy was the first time we’d been alone since the kiss. Neither of us had mentioned it. I felt relieved Bash behaved as usual; otherwise, I would’ve convinced myself he regretted our moment of intimacy. Yet as time passed without either of us acknowledging it, I began to wonder if my desperate need to feel his lips on mine meant I’d imagined it.

“Ugh,” Bash groaned from the anvil as he struggled to sharpen the weapons.

His assistance gave me a moment to rest my blistered hands and focus on the protection incantation Margaret had provided to strengthen the swords.

“Pæer pa neil beatan thee ne meaht niman. Thee scealt bugan ac naefre braecan. Strengra ponna iren, heardra ponna stiele. Fram eall spaerc, thee scealt halen.” There is no blow you cannot take. You shall bend but never break. Stronger than iron, tougher than steel. From every splinter, you shall heal,” I murmured.

I’d lost count of how many times I’d recited that spell, but the numbness of my tongue told me it must’ve been hundreds.

“Am I doing this right?” Bash asked from the anvil.

Peering across the smithy, I noticed he had let the whetstone dry out.

I sighed softly. “No,” I said, moving closer to assist him. “Wet it first, then stroke it slowly.” I took the stone over to the trough and dunked it in the water before passing it back to him.

Bash smirked as he resumed rubbing it against the blade. “I hope you haven’t been instructing all the blacksmiths to stroke slowly.”

I playfully thumped his shoulder. “Get back to work,” I demanded.

“Or what?” he challenged.

“I’ll beat you,” I teased, holding up my clenched fist in a mock threat, though I was hardly intimidating to a man of Bash’s stature.

“Fast or slow?” he quipped, unable to keep a straight face.

“Till you are blue,” I shot back.

With a coy grin, Bash raised his hands in surrender and returned his focus to the whetstone. Yet despite my advice, he continued grinding the blade at the wrong angles, making my fingers itch to take over and complete the task properly.

I gave him a gentle pat on the head. “Not bad,” I offered politely. “But let me finish it, or we’ll be here all night.”

He didn’t protest; instead, he stepped aside, and I swooped in to claim his still-warm seat.

As I hunched over the workstation, heavy-headed with fatigue, my hair fell across my face. I flicked it back, irritation bubbling as the strands refused to stay put. The long hours and lack of sleep had made me short-tempered, and if one more lock floated into my vision, I was ready to hack the whole lot off.

Bash chuckled, amusement lighting his eyes as he watched me. “Let me help you,” he offered, sweeping stray hair from my face. His fingers grazed my scalp as he gathered the strands at the back of my head, sending a prickle across my skin that made it impossible to concentrate. “You should grow it out,” he said, tickling the nape of my neck with the ends of my hair. “It’d be easier to tie back when you’re working.”

I’d always known if anyone was going to divert me from my ironwork, it would be a man—but I never imagined the distraction would come in the form of gentle touches.

“If my hair was any longer, I’d be mistaken for a woman,” I muttered, recalling the night Mother had sliced away the lengths.

Bash chuckled again. “I hate to be the one to tell you this, but you already look like one.”

My face fell. I feared I’d grown too comfortable among the men at Cambas and let my Finn disguise slip.

“I’m only teasing,” Bash quickly added, concern etching lines between his brows. “You need to rest.”