My Blacksmith Savior

Stories

### Chapter 1: Chapter 1

This is a short love story set in my fantasy world. I wanted to create something sweet and feel-good, the kind of story that leaves you smiling at the end. It isn’t a shifter novel, but there is a hook…

Although Sorsha Quinn has learned to accept her lot in life, she’s no pushover. Living under the weight of her no-good father and brother is hard enough—until the day she’s told she’s to be married off. A realist, and often a pessimist, Sorsha expects the worst… and waits for the bottom to drop out of her world.

Callum Sullivan has watched her pass his house for years, secretly in love. But a dangerous gene in his bloodline keeps him apart from others, always at arm’s length. When he overhears what Sorsha’s father intends for her, Callum makes the one choice he swore he never would: he marries her.

“Why did you marry me? I’m useless—I can’t even read,” Sorsha whispers, eyes misting over.

“Because…”

“Please tell me it’s not pity.”

“Not pity,” Callum forces out, though the words he longs to say remain trapped. Haunted by the silence of his father and the absence of his mother’s gentle touch, Callum struggles to voice the truth in his heart.

But some secrets can’t stay buried forever.

Complete Chapters 30

Rating 4.9 ( 102 reviews ) Age Rating mature

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Chapter 1

POV: Sorsha

The sun was just setting when Mabel bent a shoe.

Petting her neck affectionately, I knew I’d have to get that fixed, but the thought of coming home with no money scared me more.

My father and brother were not forgiving and expected me to expand the business, which was laughable. Mabel was a cart horse, and every day I waited in the market square for anyone who needed items delivered or moved.

The cart wasn’t in great shape either, and I feared one of the wheels would soon fall off. Even when I was approached to move items—like today, sacks of fertilizer—it took me a long time to load and unload, not enough time to do multiple loads.

In addition, I’d spent a penny on a fresh loaf of bread and devoured it throughout the day. I needed my strength for physical work, but neither my father nor my brother seemed to realize that.

The blacksmith came into view, and I hesitated, instead watching him hammer a piece of steel, sparks flying. Sully, his name was—just like his father before him.

It was rather delightful to watch him as I walked past every day. He never looked up, always focused on his work. He wore a leather apron that had black burn marks and was shiny in places, but it only made him look more manly.

You could see those biceps flexing when he pounded the steel, which always made my breathing hitch, but I wasn’t foolish and knew people like him didn’t like girls like me.

When he looked up, I stopped in surprise, only to realize I’d already stopped.

“Um, how much for a bent horseshoe?” I stammered quickly.

He blinked at me, uncomprehending for a few seconds, before hastily laying his tools aside and stepping closer.

He spotted the bent shoe immediately, but checked all of Mabel’s hooves.

“These horseshoes are so rusted, they all need replacing,” he said, petting Mabel’s neck and avoiding eye contact.

“How much would that cost?” I asked in trepidation.

Our eyes met, and for the first time, I saw his eyes were a blue-green color, making him even more handsome.

I’d seen the admiring looks he received when he strode through Bridgeford, but no one seemed to get close enough even to form a friendship, let alone something more intimate.

“Three pennies per shoe,” he said, and my face fell.

I’d made six pennies today and spent one. If I came home with only two pennies, my father would likely beat me to death.

“Could you maybe just make it more comfortable for Mabel?” I asked, a plea in my voice, stroking Mabel’s nose.

His gaze dropped to my wrist, the blue bruise encircling it clearly visible. I hastily lowered my arm and looked away, completely embarrassed.

Nodding, he walked to the forge and picked up a tool that looked like something to pull the horseshoe off. He bent down beside Mabel, one broad hand steadying her leg as he lifted her hoof with a practiced manner, gentle despite the strength behind them.

His sleeves were rolled to the elbows, revealing forearms roped with muscle, dusted with soot and fine hair.

As he crouched, I could see just how tall he truly was—when he stood straight, he’d easily have a head on most men in Bridgeford. With a sharp tug, he wrenched the bent horseshoe free, muscles flexing in his shoulders and back.

Grabbing hold of Mabel’s bridle, I soothed her as Sully laid the bent and rusty shoe into the fire.

I watched in fascination, and this was new material for my daydreams.

“Sorsha?” The shout had me whirling around in fright. “What the hell are you doing?” my brother Ryan yelled.

I moved closer to the forge and said defensively, “Mabel bent a shoe, and I can’t let her walk on that.”

“We don’t have money for that,” he said, striding towards me with narrowed eyes that were spitting fire.

No, we only had money for the bare necessities, and I mean bare. My dress had holes around the waist, which I stitched together, but the fabric was threadbare and kept splitting open.

He nodded toward Sully. “What are you doing?”

“Trying to straighten it,” Sully responded factually as he gripped the horseshoe with tongs and laid it on the anvil.

“Ryan,” I gritted through clenched teeth. “If we lose Mabel, then what?”

I hissed in pain as he gripped my bruised wrist and yanked me closer.

The clang of the hammer falling had me jerking in fright—but Ryan didn’t even flinch. He kept his grip tight on my wrist, his face twisted with fury.

“Let go,” I whispered, trying to pull back, but his fingers only dug in deeper.

Then Sully stepped forward. Not loudly. Not hurried. Just a calm, deliberate motion. He set the hammer down beside the anvil, wiped his hands on a rag, and came to stand between us.

“That’s enough,” he said quietly.

Ryan didn’t back away, but his grip loosened slightly. “This is my sister.”

Sully didn’t blink. “And this is my forge.” His tone hadn’t changed, but underneath was something dangerous that made Ryan pause. “You don’t lay hands on anyone here.”

For a moment, no one moved. Mabel snorted behind me, uneasy.

Then Ryan released me with a shove that made me stumble back a step. He turned on his heel and stalked off, muttering curses under his breath—then turned back and held out his hand.

I stared at the ground, heart hammering, my wrist throbbing.

I dug the five pennies out of the pocket in my dress and slapped them into his palm. Sully watched but didn’t speak. Once Ryan walked away, he just picked up the tongs again and returned to the anvil.

It didn’t take him long to straighten out the horseshoe, and he carefully fitted it. Mabel was almost as old as I, and without horseshoes to protect her hooves, they could become brittle.

“Thank you,” I said. “I’ll pay for this tomorrow or the next day.”

“Hmm,” he hummed, and I wasn’t quite sure what to make of that. Did he want the money or not?

“Bye,” I said so softly he probably couldn’t hear me, and led Mabel home, already dreading the evening.

The closer I got to home, the slower I walked. Home was no more than a ramshackle house in desperate need of repairs. But that wasn’t going to happen—not now, not ever.

My mother took regular beatings from my father, and one day she went to bed and never woke up. I knew, deep down, that he was responsible.

Soon enough, he started beating on me, and Ryan, instead of protecting me, followed his lead.

I dreamed of running away and leaving them behind, but Bridgeford—although not as large as a city—had a bridge toll, and you needed papers to enter and leave the town district.

The papers were hidden somewhere in the house, but unless both my father and Ryan were dead drunk, I had no occasion to look for them.

Once, I had an enquiry to move pottery to the next town, but my father immediately declined, saying it was too dangerous to leave the area on my own. I suspected he was scared I would never return, and I think that’s exactly what I would have done.

When I suggested Ryan accompany me, my brother shook his head, as though work was beneath him.

I inhaled sharply when I saw both sitting on the porch, waiting for me.

I knew what was coming—but first, I would take care of Mabel.

Something Ryan could have easily done. Instead, he watched from the sidelines. Once that chore was finished, I slowly walked to the porch, preparing myself for the onslaught.

“Five pennies?” my father asked derisively, stretching his feet out and crossing his ankles as though he was having a casual chat.

But I knew what he was capable of—he could move very fast.

“What the fuck am I supposed to do with that? How much did you give Sully?”

I sighed inwardly. I would never let him hear me sigh—because that was a surefire way to be backhanded.

“I only had one load of fertilizer, but it took me the whole day to load and unload,” I admitted, wishing that such an admission would make them feel a twinge of guilt.

“Ridiculous,” Ryan interjected loudly, grabbing the bottle from behind him and taking a swig.

The scent of alcohol wafted toward me, and I wrinkled my nose in disgust.

My father held out his hand, and Ryan passed him the bottle. He took a long draught. I didn’t know how they could stand the stuff, but they brewed it each week religiously from potatoes and scrap vegetables.

Every Friday, I was ordered to pick up scraps from eateries and guesthouses.

I was sure everyone in Bridgeford knew what my family situation was, but no one interfered.

It was not polite to interfere in family matters.

The man was the head of the household, and if he wanted to beat his wife to death, then he must have a reason.

“I’m tired,” I said, but while they blocked the front door, there was no way in.

“Hmm,” my father said, slapping my brother’s leg. “You hear that? She’s tired. TIRED… not hungry. That means she spent money buying food for herself.”

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### Chapter 2: Chapter 2

Taking a deep breath and gathering my courage—aided by the small fire that kindled constantly in the pit of my stomach—I narrowed my eyes in disdain.

“Yes, I bought food,” I admitted. “I work hard and need food, unlike you, who laze around all day and spend the night drinking.”

My voice rose in volume and outrage.

I knew I would be punished for these words, but I also knew he wouldn’t beat me up—because the last time he did, I was unable to work for a week, and they had to.

My father looked at Ryan and said, “I told you.”

“You did. Spot on as usual,” he grinned at my father before looking up at me. “Women have to be kept on a tight leash.”

With that, he reached back toward the window and pulled something from the sill. Slowly getting to his feet, he stood in front of me, slapping the whip into his other palm lightly.

One day, it was gone, and I thought my mother destroyed it—but apparently not. She must have hidden it.

I grabbed the whip from his unsuspecting hands and took a few steps backward.

“If you’re going to whip me, you better whip me to death—because I promise you, I will not work, even if you hit me once. Understood, brother?” I hissed.

Ryan lunged at me furiously, but I smacked the whip across his hands, and he howled like a baby.

This was just a short recourse.

I was no match for two grown men, and ultimately, they would make me submit and punish me.

Regardless, I had to make a stand—or lose all self-respect.

With a growl, my father jumped to his feet, and before I knew it, he had me by the throat, my feet dangling in the air.

Ryan grabbed the whip from my hands and lashed it across my face.

The pain and lack of air made me struggle even more, kicking out at Ryan. When his eyes went wide, I knew I’d landed a solid kick between his legs.

He dropped like a bucket of shit, and my father’s hands loosened as he let me go.

Following Ryan to the ground, my knees taking the brunt of the landing, I wrung for air, my throat achy and sore.

He’d done this before—and it had taken a day before I could swallow food without pain. The backhand came out of nowhere and took me by surprise.

“You can spend the night out here, ungrateful little bitch. Kicking your brother in the gonads is below the belt,” my father snarled as he helped Ryan up.

I couldn’t even hate them; it took too much effort. They were ignorant and lazy, depending on women who, to my mind, were the real backbone of families.

My cheek and nose were burning like fire, probably from the lash, but without a mirror, I couldn’t see.

I’d slept outside many times, sharing Mabel’s lean-to. The fresh straw I bought recently would make a comfortable bed, but first, I needed cold water.

Taking the path to the brook that passed the edge of our property, I slid down the short embankment and submerged my face, sipping water slowly. My throat rebelled with every swallowing action, but the cold water eased the burn on my cheek and nose.

I had slipped up tonight. I should have said I was tired and hungry, but I was glad I ate the whole loaf by myself.

Once back in the lean-to, I bunched up the hay and made a comfortable bed for myself, falling asleep to Mabel’s nickers.

The next day, I took my time, leading Mabel down the path so she could drink fresh water before filling a bucket for her trough. It was still early, and after checking that no one was in sight, I quickly took my dress off.

Unearthing the soap and small towel I’d hidden, I waded to the deepest part of the brook—just to my knees—sat down and washed. Then I lay flat and washed my hair as best I could.