“Gwen,” Rhys scrapes out as soon as we’re alone again. “Gwen.”

There’s a beetle on the cobblestone beside my boot. I watch it, watch those tiny black legs searching for purchase on the smooth stone, feeling that cold, sickly numbness spread through my insides.

Rhys curses somewhere overhead, then takes my elbow and starts steering me across the town square. He marches me like that along streets and down lanes. Past the river, still swollen against its banks, and all the way back to his forge, and the whole way the wind snatches at our clothes and the sky is bright white overhead. Too bright.

“We didn’t buy milk and eggs,” I mumble as he unlocks the front door, jaw set and face grim. A big hand presses against my shoulder blades, nudging me inside.

“It doesn’t matter.”

No, I guess not.

He’s leaving? “When?” I croak. “When are you leaving, Rhys Evans? And when were you going to tell me?” I’m so dazed.

The blacksmith curses softly and pulls out a chair at the kitchen table. He presses me down to sit, then crosses to fill the kettle. And god, this silence is the worst thing I’ve ever heard. There’s nothing but dead air and a ticking clock and the wind moaning outside, and if he doesn’t fill it soon, I will scream.

“Rhys Evans!”

A mug slams down on the kitchen counter. He whirls to face me, and lord, I’ve never seen the man so animated. His eyes could throw off sparks. Every muscle in his face is tensed, his lip drawn back from his teeth.

For the first time since I met him, Rhys seems like a dangerous man. Strong and wild and full of feeling.

“We talked about it, Gwen. You suggested yourself that I might need to leave.”

“‘Might need to’ and ‘planning to’ are two different things! You know what I think? I think you just didn’t want the awkward conversation. You didn’t want to tell me no.” I’m gripping the edge of the kitchen table so hard my knuckles are white, the bones pressing against the skin. “Well I can take it, mister. I’m not a child. And I thought you respected me, thought you liked me enough to be honest with me at least.”

“I am honest with you.” The blacksmith sounds broken. He’s slumped against the counter, already looking as exhausted by all this as I feel. “But it’s like you told your father. You’re choosing your own life now, and I don’t want to get in the way of that or pressure you one way or another. But Gwen,” Rhys pushes upright, “you always have a place at my side if you want it. Always. I thought you knew that.”

Oh.

The clock ticks nearby, the sound echoing off the flagstones. We’re close enough to hear the rush of the river further down the bank.

“I’m…”

…I’m an idiot. A paranoid, easily hurt idiot. I’m so used to being rejected that apparently I’ll leap ahead and do the job myself, then blame Rhys for nonsense conjured up in my head.