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She almost grinned, remembering Artem and his efforts on thinking up a gift for Breighly. “But you didn’t have to do that.”

“Close your eyes,” he instructed with a grin that she didn’t really trust, not when it caused her chest to ache.

“What?” she squawked. “You have gotten me a gift that involves me receiving it blind?”

He chuckled before backing to the door. He put out a hand, commanding her to stay where he had pinned her only moments ago. “Close your eyes,” he said again.

“I am not closing my eyes.” She widened them out of sheer defiance.

“Just do it.”

“Absolutely not.”

He stopped moving. “Do you trust me?” His brow smoothed, causing his sharp features to soften.

Did she?

With protecting her? Yes. With her life? Absolutely. With her heart? She swallowed, unable to answer that just yet. With a present? Absolutely not!

But with blind faith in him, she closed her eyes, fluttering them shut with a sigh. She could hear the footsteps towards the door, its opening, and him coming back in. Whatever he had gotten her must have just been right outside her door. The urge to open her eyes overwhelmed her senses as he could be heard coming closer. The warmth from his presence gave her stomach a dipping sensation.

“Put out your hands,” he commanded softly.

She did, not knowing exactly what to expect.

Oh Gods. A present from Torin Blacksteel? It could be anything.

Something heavy and cool was placed into her palms. She braced herself for her cheeks to bloom bright red as he said, “Open your eyes.”

She did.

In her palms was a silver and gold double-edged dagger. It was short, but the detail on it was captivating. The metals merged together in a design fit for a goddess of war. Embedded in its handle was a beautiful ruby begging her to touch it.

“Be careful,” he said. “It’s not as it seems. It has an unexpected side.” He smirked, flashing his teeth. “Like you.”

She looked up at him, his face unreadable as he drew back from her.

“Place your palm over the ruby and grip the weapon tight,” he instructed.

Holding the dagger out at arm’s length, she squeezed. Two poles shot out, elongating from its centre, stabbing out blades. It was now the size of a spear. It was magnificent.

“A spear.” She gaped at Torin.

“Do you like her?”

“Her?”

He closed the space between them and ran hand over the pole, directing her to engraved writing—The Agnes.

Callyn’s middle name.

A swelling in her heart caused her to choke.

“You did this for me?”

“She’s yours. Every woman should have her own weapon, right?”

How did he always find a reason for her breathing to stammer?