[English] KNIGHT AWAKENED

Author : Coreene Callahan

TRANSYLVANIA–AD 1331
It was twilight when he made his move, the moment day folded into dusk, the space between light and shadow. He’d watched her all day, marked her progress through the marketplace between stalls and calling vendors, watched her and the little one go about their business never knowing he trailed like a phantom in their wake. A hunter tracking his prey. Now, concealed by the twisted limbs of large beech trees, he watched from across the clearing as she ushered the girl-child over the threshold and closed the planked door behind them.
His gaze centered on the tiny stone cottage. Xavian Ramir absorbed every detail—the thinning thatched roof, the crumbling chimney, the missing mortar between the stones, and the aging wheelbarrow beside the small garden—then scanned the shadowed forest beyond as he’d been trained to do. Study the angles. Flesh out the target. Define the variables. Old habits died hard. An unfortunate truth for the woman preparing to eat her evening meal.
He smelled the stew. Rabbit, most likely. The decadent aroma mingled with the grey curl of wood smoke as it escaped, twisting up to meet a darkening sky. His stomach growled. Xavian ignored the difort and distracted himself by picturing her. Raven hair spilling over the curve of her shoulder, she stirred the pot, hazel eyes intent on its thickening contents. Aye, he’d been close enough to see them, memorize their shape, the exotic up-tilted outer corners framed by dark brown lashes. He saw the supple curve of her cheek, the lushness of her lips, and imagined them wrapped around something other than the wooden spoon she no doubt used to taste the gravy.
The muscles roping his lower abdomen tightened. Aye, she was a tidy little bundle, but that didn’t explain why Vladimir Barbu, new lord to Transylvania,...

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CHAPTER ONE

TRANSYLVANIA–AD 1331

It was twilight when he made his move, the moment day folded into dusk, the space between light and shadow. He’d watched her all day, marked her progress through the marketplace between stalls and calling vendors, watched her and the little one go about their business never knowing he trailed like a phantom in their wake. A hunter tracking his prey. Now, concealed by the twisted limbs of large beech trees, he watched from across the clearing as she ushered the girl-child over the threshold and closed the planked door behind them.

His gaze centered on the tiny stone cottage. Xavian Ramir absorbed every detail—the thinning thatched roof, the crumbling chimney, the missing mortar between the stones, and the aging wheelbarrow beside the small garden—then scanned the shadowed forest beyond as he’d been trained to do. Study the angles. Flesh out the target. Define the variables. Old habits died hard. An unfortunate truth for the woman preparing to eat her evening meal.

He smelled the stew. Rabbit, most likely. The decadent aroma mingled with the grey curl of wood smoke as it escaped, twisting up to meet a darkening sky. His stomach growled. Xavian ignored the discomfort and distracted himself by picturing her. Raven hair spilling over the curve of her shoulder, she stirred the pot, hazel eyes intent on its thickening contents. Aye, he’d been close enough to see them, memorize their shape, the exotic up-tilted outer corners framed by dark brown lashes. He saw the supple curve of her cheek, the lushness of her lips, and imagined them wrapped around something other than the wooden spoon she no doubt used to taste the gravy.

The muscles roping his lower abdomen tightened. Aye, she was a tidy little bundle, but that didn’t explain why Vladimir Barbu, new lord to Transylvania, wanted her. Hunted her, had gone to extremes to find her. Not entirely, at least. The recently ascended voivode might want the lass in his bed, but Xavian guessed the reasons the warlord had hired him struck closer to the coffers than his heart. What did she have that Vladimir wanted?

’Twas a question that bothered him more than he liked. Curiosity was a luxury, one he couldn’t afford. For an assassin operating at the top of his game, the curse of conscience signaled trouble...the kind he wished he’d never met. But now that he’d been bitten, the bug—the need to know—burrowed beneath his skin, festering until he itched to solve the mystery. So now he must decide. What was more important? The coin he needed to see countless boys rescued and his fledging academy through the coming winter, or her life. He hated to choose. A mother. Jesu, he hadn’t expected that. He flexed his hand and felt the gash on his forearm throb with the movement. The injury was courtesy of a brother-in-arms, the latest in a long line of those sent to kill him.

“Ram?” the soft voice, vibrant with the fullness of youth, came from behind.

Qabil. His new apprentice, borrowed without permission. Hell, borrowed. ’Twas a matter of opinion, one the old man would dispute with his dying breath. Mayhap stolen was a better word. Xavian’s lips curved, finding satisfaction in the theft. But as much as he relished the blow to his former master, thankfulness took precedence. Qabil hadn’t been with the bastard long enough and still possessed the wonder of innocence, and despite himself Xavian was grateful the lad had been spared.

Xavian glanced over his shoulder, dipping his chin to acknowledge the call. With a flick, he undid the buckle in the center of his chest, slid the double harness from his shoulders, down his arms, and handed the twin swords he favored to Qabil.

The lad blinked, alarm darkening his eyes. “But—”

“Hold them,” he said, not wishing to explain he didn’t want to frighten the woman or her child. His presence—his size and strength—would do that well enough without being armed to the teeth. The fact he was rarely without the weapons made him itch to strap them back on. He felt exposed without the curved blades on his back, though it meant naught in the scheme of things. He needed her occupied, unsuspecting while he made his decision.

Wide-eyed, Qabil’s hands shook as he hugged the weapons to his chest. “What if the hunters track us here?”

“Quick in. Quick out,” he said, understanding the lad’s fears. Halál’s hunter assassins were naught to scoff at when they came in packs. Less than a full day’s ride wasn’t enough distance. Xavian knew it—so did Qabil—but he couldn’t leave the woman. Not now. “Keep the horses ready.”

Xavian waited until his apprentice lowered his gaze and nodded before he turned his attention back to the cottage. Tension coiling in the pit of his stomach, he listened to the boy’s footfalls fade, then said, “Cristobal, you’re with me. The rest of you spread out. If she runs, I want all escape routes blocked.”

Like the ghosts they’d learned to be, Cristobal and Razvan shifted out of shadow while Andrei and Kazim dropped from swaying tree limbs above. They landed on silent feet behind him, not a whisper of sound to indicate their presence. Faded beech leaves scattered across the turf as his men moved to flank him. Dressed in black from head to toe, their clothes were designed with precision in mind and mirrored his own. Each of them lived in the dark, thrived on silence and the spaces between, the ones devoid of emotion and lined with simplicity. None of them liked ambiguity and sure as hell didn’t accept hesitation in the role they’d been forced into playing.

Cristobal raised a brow. “Uneasy?”

“Nay.” Xavian shook his head. “Merely undecided.”

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“The plan?” Andrei asked, the richness of his French accent alight with purpose.

“Reconnaissance.” Pushed by a gentle breeze, the dark leaves of the beech murmured as he admitted, “I wish to know more.”

The least bloodthirsty of their group, Razvan nodded. “I don’t like the bastard...He lied.”

“Mayhap,” Xavian said, unconcerned for the moment about Vladimir and his motives. His focus was on the lass and the mystery of her circumstances. He couldn’t deny his curiosity, a novel prickling sensation he didn’t often experience. “Liar or nay, his coin is still good.”

Kazim snorted, amusement alive in his dark eyes.

Acknowledging the humor with a shrug, Xavian palmed the dagger he kept snug against the small of his back. The blade rasped against leather, the whisper sounding loud in the silence. A crease between his brows, he set the point to his forearm, to the wound left by the former comrade he’d sent to the devil but days ago. He fisted his hand, inhaled sharply, and with a flick, opened the gash. A red rivulet, heated by life’s essence, tracked south across the back of his hand as he left his men to move into position. Eyes on the cottage door, he strode toward the inevitable, blood dripping from his fingertips.

CHAPTER TWO

Her heart ached. It always did when she thought of Bianca. Sitting at the rickety wooden table spoon-feeding her sister’s daughter proved no exception. Sabine, with her golden hair and gentle soul, was like her mother in every way but one. The eyes. Bianca’s had been dark, carrying wisdom beyond her nineteen years. Sabine’s were mismatched, one green, the other blue. The fact her sister wasn’t here to see their beauty, the subtle shifts in color, was all her fault.

Afina Lazar’s throat tightened, the guilt so thick she found it difficult to swallow. She was failing...at everything. Motherhood, the healing, the promise she’d made to Bianca on her deathbed. A death Afina had failed to stop, been helpless to stall, to ease the pain as her sister slipped away. She stroked her little one’s hair, murmuring encouragement as she took another spoonful rich with rabbit meat.

They were lucky to have it. The summer game had proved more crafty than usual, avoiding her traps and homemade arrows with little difficulty. Sabine’s growling belly most nights spoke to the truth. She needed some luck to get them through. Was a little divine intervention too much to ask? Couldn’t the goddess of all things afford them their fair share? Afina hoped so. Otherwise the coming winter might not only turn harsh, but deadly as well.

What would she do if she couldn’t fill their winter stores in time? She couldn’t go home. Nothing but certain death lay in that direction, no matter how plentiful the food supply. At least here, she held some small chance of survival, of fulfilling her role as protector to the Amulet of Orm. As she spooned another mouthful into Sabine, her attention drifted to her satchel—the one that carried her healing supplies. The stupid amulet, bane of her existence, a curse upon the women of her line. She wanted to rip it from its hiding place beneath the leather lining and toss it into the nearest ***ch, but knew she never would. High priestess to the Order of Orm, her mother had died doing her duty, saving the wretched thing from Vladimir Barbu...the murdering swine.

Afina rubbed her aching temple, wanting to forget, wishing for another way. But none existed. Her mother had made a fatal mistake, and now Afina was left to pay the price. Vladimir needed her to complete the ancient rite—the ritual that would crown him Lord of Transylvania. She must stay hidden and out of his greedy grasp: to protect her people and her daughter and honor the goddess she served.

A promise made was a promise kept.

She needed her word to mean something, and her sister’s death to mean more. If she abandoned the cause now, after two years of running, she was as gutless as her mother had accused her of being.

The memory of harsh words lashed her.

Tears pricking the corners of her eyes, Afina turned her mind away and scraped the bottom of the wooden bowl, scooping up the hearty gravy for her child.

Sabine’s small fingers grasped hers, her tongue peeking out to touch her bottom lip. “I do it, Mama. I do it.”

Her little cherub. Afina smiled. The tightness banding her chest eased as she relinquished the spoon. “All right. Would you like a little more, love?”

Even knowing she needed to ration the rabbit stew over the next few days didn’t keep her from asking. She wanted to make sure Sabine was satisfied. It had been so long since they’d had any meat, and if that meant eating less so her babe got her fill Afina was happy to go without. Mayhap tomorrow, were they lucky, she would snare another.

Fortifying herself with hope, she left her stool and headed for the hearth. The heat from the fire wrapped her in a warm embrace as she reached for the ladle. A sharp rap sounded on wood. Afina flinched, her heart stalling as she spun toward the door, wooden spoon raised in defense. White knuckled, she stared at the wide grey planks, alarm fighting logic for supremacy.

It couldn’t be Vladimir...it couldn’t be. The swine wouldn’t knock. Kicking down the door was more his style. The thought calmed her a little, but not enough. She didn’t want to answer. It was late and intuition warned nothing but trouble waited outside. Silence hummed, the vibration loud, stretching her nerves tight.

“Go away,” she whispered, unable to take the echoing hush. She hoped voicing her wish aloud would make it come true, would chase the unwanted visitor into the coming night. “Go away.”

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“Door, Mama. Door!” Sabine bounced on her stool, eyes bright while she tapped the spoon against the side of the bowl.

Afina leapt the distance between them to grab her daughter’s hand. Placing her index finger against her lips, she mouthed, “Shh, love.”

She held her breath and counted to ten. Nothing. Not a whisper of sound from the other side of the door. Eleven, twelve, thirteen...A second knock followed the first. Oh, goddess. Whoever was standing on the threshold didn’t plan on going away. Afina swallowed and, ladle raised, moved toward the entrance, acutely aware it also served as the only exit.

“Mistress?” The voice, smooth and deep, rolled through the rough-hewn planks in a warm wave, sucking away her tension like sand in an undertow. Afina fought the pull and tightened her grip on the impromptu weapon.

“W-who...” Fingertips brushing the pitted wood of the door, she willed strength into her voice. “Who’s there?”

“The priest in the village told me to come, mistress,” he said, his tone full of gentle reassurance. “I’m in need of a healer...have come seeking your care.”

She closed her eyes and lowered the ladle. Father Marion, the parish priest, had sent him. Thank goodness. She might not be part of his flock, but the priest had always been kind. Could even be relied upon to send her ailing parishioners from time to time.

Afina lifted the bar, cracked the door, and came nose to sternum with a wide, very male chest. She blinked, startled by his size, and stared at the pitch-black leather jerkin. A moment passed before she allowed her gaze to climb over well-set shoulders, a strong neck, only to collide with ice-blue eyes set in the most incredible face she’d ever seen.

Handsome didn’t begin to describe him. Lethal appeal, strength tempered by charm. Cropped short, his hair was shot with gold threads, a bronzy color that matched the hammered coins she’d once taken for granted. A mistake she knew not to make with him. His intensity said it all. He was a warrior wrapped inside aristocratic features.

She tensed, guard up, instincts screaming for her to slam the door in his face. His unusual eyes holding hers, he slid his foot between the door and the jamb as though aware of her intention. “I will pay, mistress.”

Catching a flash from her periphery, Afina’s gaze strayed to the gold coin perched in his fingertips. By the goddess, it was more money than she’d seen in two years. Enough to secure their future, not only for the winter, but in the years to come. She bit her bottom lip, her mind compiling lists and tallying costs. She’d be able to buy a goat, warm clothing, the extra seeds for their garden, see to the repairs, and still have plenty left over. And the only thing standing in her way? Giving aid to a man who radiated aggression and gave new meaning to the word frightening.

Could she do it? What if she disappointed him? She wasn’t the best healer. In truth she was a terrible one. Everything she knew she’d learned from Bianca. The healer in their family, her sister had made sure Afina understood the basic principles before her death. On the run, their survival had depended on presenting a united front, but she’d only ever been a helper. And were she honest, not a very willing one. She didn’t possess the stomach for it, shying away from injuries she knew she couldn’t handle. But she couldn’t afford to do that any longer. Sabine needed her to be strong. Otherwise they would starve to death.

She met his gaze then shied, looking away. “Y-you’re hurt?”

He nodded, raised his arm, and held it out for her inspection. Blood dripped in a steady stream, leaving droplets on the edge of a wooden floorboard. Without thinking, she reached for his hand, cupping it with her own. He stiffened. Unease forgotten in the face of his pain, she ignored his reaction to her touch and admonished, “Why didn’t you tell me you were bleeding?”

Bumping the door aside, she tugged on his arm, wanting a better look at his injury. He hesitated, resisting the gentle pull as though uncertain he wanted to cross the threshold. She tugged again, her focus on the nasty gash bisecting the outside of his forearm. “Come into the light, sir. I cannot see the extent of the damage if you remain out there.”

He inhaled. The slow, deep breath alerted her to his tension, signaled nervousness of some kind. Afina knew the emotion well, fought to contain it with every breath she took. Day in and day out, she struggled with worry, an edginess she wore like a scent. He wore it too, though it smelled different. Lean and hungry with a touch of rebellion. Aye, under all the lovely bone structure was a man in need of repair and the soothing touch that went with it.

Empathy stole into her heart, and all of a sudden, she wanted to make him feel safe. Absurd—completely laughable—considering she doubted anything made the hard-faced warrior afraid. Add that to the fact he scared her witless and the notion made her think she’d lost her mind. But if she was to tend his wound, she needed him to trust her.

Squeezing his hand, Afina deployed a technique that had served her well in the past. She put them on familiar terms. “What is your name?”

He gave her a strange look and let her pull him past the doorframe. “Xavian.”

“I am Afina,” she said, infusing her tone with warmth she didn’t feel. “And that wee cherub is Sabine, my daughter.”

Forever friendly, Sabine gave him a toothy grin, rapped the spoon against the edge of the bowl, and chirped, “Hello!”

Afina dropped his hand and gestured to a stool before turning to retrieve her healer’s satchel. “Sit. I will gather my things and tend you at the table.”

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Again he hesitated, but in the end obeyed and took a seat, as far from Sabine as he could manage. Afina hid her smile. A grown man afraid of a wee lass. ’Twas inconceivable, but true. She’d seen it many times. Observed men hardened by battle and hurt by war fairly run in the other direction when faced with a child. When she encountered someone like that, she knew they’d forgotten joy, had no idea how to handle an energetic bundle filled with nothing but merriment.

Curbing the inappropriate burst of amusement, she grabbed her bag and the large bowl from the shelf above it. Hands full, she turned and nearly jumped out of her skin. Another man, dark to Xavian’s light, stood in the open doorway. Her breath stalled as his black gaze swept her then the tiny confines of her cottage. The door swung closed behind him with a click, and her grip tightened on the satchel. Leather groaned in protest as alarm knocked around inside her head.

Xavian studied her expression then glanced over his shoulder. “Relax, mistress. ’Tis only Cristobal. He’s with me.”

“Oh,” she said, resisting the urge to pound on her chest to restart her heart. She took a shallow breath. No matter how much she disliked having two large men in her home, she must stay calm. Xavian required her skill, such as it was, and she needed the coin he offered to secure their future. She pushed past fear and set the bowl along with her bag on the tabletop.

Sabine greeted the newcomer in her usual fashion. “Hello!”

“Salutari, little one,” Cristobal said, a smile in his voice. Hooking a stool with his foot, he sat across the table from her daughter.

Sabine grinned.

He grinned back.

Afina blinked, amazed by the exchange. Fierce-looking men didn’t generally engage her two-year-old in conversation. Neither did they reach into the pouches at their waists and offer her toys. But as Cristobal rolled the dice across the table to Sabine, she forced herself to reconsider, to remember a lesson long forgotten. Never judge another by appearance alone.

“Cristobal enjoys children.”

Xavian’s deep voice stroked along her spine, leaving pinpricks of heat in its wake. Afina flinched and dragged her attention from the strange pair. She collided with his ice-blue gaze, wondering what that meant, exactly. Enjoy in the way a wolf does a lamb or a child his favorite playmate?

An image of razor-sharp teeth and lupine eyes flashed through her mind. She cleared her throat. “Towels. I will fetch them then begin.”

She forced herself to move at a steady pace and, with quiet efficiency, gathered the rest of her supplies. Xavian tracked her movement. She felt his focus keenly, registered his gaze as prickles exploded across the nape of her neck in a warm rush of sensation. The tingle of awareness frightened her, made her tense with the need to rush him out the door. Something about him wasn’t quite tame. She got the sense the only rules he followed were the ones he made for himself. And for a girl who needed the rules to feel safe, that wouldn’t do.

Afina set the small kettle she carried on the table. Iron bumped against wood. The uneven thump sounded loud in the stillness, an unanticipated announcement of her ineptitude. She paused, waiting for the accusation, any sign he understood the cryptic message. He said nothing and waited, patient in her moment of hesitation. In a flurry of movement, she placed the folded towels to one side then flapped one square open and spread it on the wooden planks. Without being told, Xavian placed his forearm on the linen and, with the flick of his fingertips, gestured for her to begin. She quelled the urge to run in the other direction, wanting to scoop Sabine up and head for the hills so badly the impulse made her mouth dry.

The rattle of dice and Sabine’s giggle rippled, joining the crackle of fire in the hearth. Grateful her daughter was occupied, she flipped her bag open and extracted a small vial of liquid. Lightning quick, Xavian encircled her wrist, his grip just short of bruising. Air rushed from her chest in a puff, and her gaze shot to his. The instant she made contact, he raised a brow, a clear question in his eyes.

She swallowed. “Distilled witch hazel. I must clean the wound before I stitch it. Otherwise you will suffer an infection.”

He held her captive a moment more then uncurled his fingers, releasing her from the calloused shackle. She drew a soft breath and, spreading the liquid on the linen, shifted closer. His heat reached out, wrapping her in warmth scented by male and something more. Rich and earthy, he smelled fresh and clean, like the forest after a summer storm. Afina inhaled and dabbed at the wound, sifting like a bloodhound through the complexities of his scent, wondering how he’d come by it. Did he use a special soap? What blend of herbs would create an aroma so full of woodsy delight? She leaned toward him, nose twitching, brain working to unravel the mystery ingredients.

He shifted, and she flinched as the backs of his fingers brushed the curve of her cheek. Unaccustomed to being touched, she stayed stone still, afraid to look at him while he pushed the hair that had fallen into her face over her shoulder. His hand hovered close, and hers stopped above his injury, a stunted breath tangled in her throat.

His tone soft and even, he murmured, “There, now you can see what you are doing.”

Afina nodded her thanks and straightened on a shaky breath. Her gaze averted, she reached into the satchel and pulled out a fine bone needle. “I’ll stitch it closed then apply salve and wrap it.”

His chin dipped, and he angled his arm to give her better access. Fighting queasiness, she imagined Bianca, pictured her steady hands, replayed every instruction her sister had given her, and set needle to flesh. Her stomach clenched, rolling in protest. She inhaled through her nose, ignoring the slight tremor in her hand and, with steady precision, closed the gash with tight, narrow stitches.

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“You’ve a gentle touch,” Xavian said, his voice mild and full of approval. “You are very good at this.”

Afina almost snorted. Good at it? Was he soft in the head? The man obviously hadn’t been hurt very often. She wasn’t stupid enough, however, to correct him as she tied off the threads. If he wanted to believe she was an accomplished healer, so much the better. His ignorance walked her one step closer to the gold coin. Hmm, she could almost taste the goat’s milk.

“You’ll need to keep it dry,” she said. “No water or soap on the wound.”

Slathering thick ointment over the injury, Afina peeked at him from beneath her lashes, wanting to be sure he paid attention. The goddess preserve her, he was well put together, much too appealing for his own good. Good thing he frightened her. Otherwise she might be tempted to talk with him awhile, to make him stay a little longer.

She gave herself a mental slap. What was the matter with her? She didn’t have time for a man, never mind the inclination. No matter how compelling, Xavian needed to go...and go quickly.

Bandage in hand, she wrapped his forearm, tied a knot just below his elbow and, tone brusque, instructed, “Change the bandage every day. The stitches need to remain for ten days then you can cut them out one at time. Be very careful about it. You don’t want to reopen the wound.”

“Many thanks, Afina.”

Her name rolled off his tongue as though he were tasting it, a predator savoring his next meal. A shiver chased dread down her spine, causing a visceral chain reaction. She’d done as he asked and tended his wound, but the idea he wasn’t finished with her grabbed hold, clanged inside her head until instinct coiled, preparing her to flee. Muscles tense, she shifted, moving away from him and toward Sabine a fraction at a time.

“Ram?” Cristobal’s voice cut through the haze of fright, momentarily interrupting her tension. Something about his tone caused her to pause and take stock of the question embedded in the summons. The chill of Xavian’s eyes moved from her to his friend. Time slowed, altering perception as Afina watched Cristobal reach out and grasp Sabine’s small chin. With a gentle touch, he turned her daughter’s face toward Xavian and said, “The eyes.”

A muscle jumped along Xavian’s jaw as his hand curled into a fist on the planked tabletop. “Hell.”

“Aye,” Cristobal murmured, clearly understanding the meaning behind the expletive.

Her gaze swiveling between the two, Afina struggled to breathe. What did they want with Sabine? The question sank deep and panic rolled in. She exploded around the edge of the table. Something was wrong. Very, very wrong.

She needed to reach her child...now, this instant. “Sabine, come—”

Xavian struck, reaching out so fast she didn’t see him move. The heat of his hand shackled her wrist. A moment later, he hauled her up and back, away from Sabine. Her throat clogged and instinct surged, unleashing the ferocious need to protect her child. Xavian was talking, but she didn’t hear him, too focused on getting to Sabine as he continued to draw her toward the door. Using the momentum of his pull, she rounded on him, teeth bared, feet and fists flying. He cursed and yanked, spinning her until she landed, back to his front, shoulder blades pressed to his muscled chest.

Sabine whimpered.

Afina screamed and bucked his hold, heart breaking, tears pooling in her eyes. One hand wrapping both of her wrists, he cupped her throat, fingers searching.

“No,” she said, her voice weakening as he applied pressure to a sensitive spot on the side of her neck. “Let go...let me go!”

“Easy, Afina.”

“Please! P-please don’t hurt her...d-don’t hurt my baby.”

Tears streaming from the corners of her eyes, the black void of unconsciousness beckoned. Afina fought the pull, fear for Sabine anchoring her in the light. Xavian murmured, mouth close to her ear, his low tone reassuring, but she knew better. He was the angel of death, right hand to the devil.

CHAPTER THREE

Xavian swung Afina into his arms, all the while berating himself. He’d frightened her, made her believe he would hurt her child. Not the best move, all things considered.

Had he stuck to the plan she might have agreed. Now she would fight him every step of the way. And he couldn’t blame her. He didn’t deserve anything less. In his defense, though, the girl-child’s eyes had surprised him, making him move before he’d been ready.

Mismatched. One green, the other blue...Bodgan’s eyes.

Xavian had stared into a pair of identical eyes just days ago, watching their life force drain away. Did it matter that Bodgan had attacked first? That his intent had been to slit Xavian’s throat and carry his head like a trophy back to the old man? Nay. From the moment he recognized Sabine’s coloring, an awful ache sliced him wide open.

He closed his eyes and relived the desperation in his comrade’s voice. Watched his blood flow and listened to him beg, You owe me, Ram...find her near Severin...blond...healer...provide. Remember...the code. He’d rasped the last words, gasping on the certainty of death.

The code. Could he ever forget?

’Twas sacred among their kind, a gift given to the dying. One favor, a request made of the victor without the possibility of denial. He never imagined, however, his present mission and the vow made to Bodgan would collide. That the woman he hunted for Vladimir would prove to be the healer and the blond child, his former comrade’s daughter.

Jesu, a simple promise and now he stood neck deep, condemned with choice. The options slashed, opening old wounds until he bled, unable to stem the flow of regret. ’Twas new, the constant questioning, an affliction he’d not suffered before a year ago. He didn’t like it, mourned the simplicity of his life before he split from the group, Al Pacii. Tired of the folly and Halál’s indiscriminate killing, he’d left alone. He’d wanted a new start, a future far from his past and the innumerable sins for which God would never forgive him. Instead, the past followed along with the four, the men that now stood at his back.

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He hadn’t asked for leadership. Didn’t want it. But somehow, responsibility found a home on his shoulders. Now his men looked to him. Had handed the power of their futures into his care, and Xavian refused to fail them. He must find a way through, give them all new purpose if they were *****rvive Halál’s wrath.

His fingers curled, flexing around soft flesh and lax muscle. He looked down at the woman he cradled like a babe in his arms. More responsibility. Two wee bundles he could ill afford. What the hell was he going to do with them?

His immediate impulse was to keep Sabine—satisfy his promise to Bodgan—but hand Afina to Vladimir, take the coin and forget about her. ’Twas a reckless reaction, one fueled by emotion. He recognized it for what it was...anger. Hell, he didn’t even know Afina, and he was angry with her for so many things: for welcoming Bodgan, for bearing his child, for giving his former friend the gift Xavian yearned for...acceptance. The notion stirred him, tossing up debris from the murky bottom of his soul.

No matter how hard he fought, the truth always came back to haunt him. Now was no different. The craving uncoiled like a wounded animal, howling for a woman to call his own—a special lass to love and be loved by in return. Xavian scowled. Love. ’Twas naught but a fool’s dream, a false hope he couldn’t encourage. He needed that kind of aggravation like a dagger between his shoulder blades.

Even so, the imagined loss stung as he crossed the clearing.

Andrei slid from the shadows and raised a brow.

Xavian unclenched his teeth long enough to snarl, “Cloak.”

The Frenchman’s chin dipped an instant before he unhooked his mantle and tossed it in Xavian’s direction. The heavy wool arced, moving on the wind, a black stain on the muted grey of the coming night. Shifting Afina, he caught the cape with one hand and swept beneath the curved canopy of the large beech tree. Sabine whimpered behind him, the only sound to indicate Cristobal ghosted in his wake.

Sensing the audience at his back, Xavian inhaled to steady the volatility rolling around inside his chest and glanced over his shoulder. His men stood in a semicircle, a question in their eyes. Arms curled around Afina, he protected her from their probing gazes and said, “Clean it up. Take what is useful. Leave no trace.”

His men nodded and moved toward the cottage, their feet silent, movements efficient as they obeyed his command. Cradling the girl-child, Cristobal headed in the opposite direction, toward Qabil and their horses. He heard his friend murmur, the cadence of his voice soothing as he stroked Sabine’s hair, reassuring her with both tone and touch. Xavian shook his head, amazed a hardened assassin, a man with blood on his hands—as much as his own—could be so good with a child.

It defied logic, and Xavian struggled to wrap his mind around the blatant contradiction as he spread the cloak on the ground. Afina would stir soon if he didn’t hurry. He wanted her senseless for a while...at least through the night. He wasn’t ready to face her yet, or the fury she would no doubt deliver. The reaction smacked of cowardice, but he didn’t care. He needed time: to adjust, to formulate a plan, to make a final decision.

Fallen leaves rustled as he came down on one knee and set Afina in the middle of the dark wool. The breeze stirred, pushing the branches above, and moonlight spilled, bathing her in light. He drew a deep breath and swept the hair from her face while he palmed the small vial he always carried. The thick strands clung, and unable to help himself, he wove the locks between his fingers, enjoying the softness even as he admonished himself for the pleasure.

Tight pressure moved behind his breastbone. With a scowl, he shook free of her tresses and brushed the corner of her mouth. She shifted, turning her head to follow his touch. He flicked the stopper from the glass and caressed the full curve of her lower lip. As she sighed, his heart clenched, but that didn’t stop him from tipping the vial and dripping two droplets into her mouth.

Her eyelashes flickered. He cupped her cheek and murmured, using the soothing rhythm of his voice to keep her quiet until the drugging tonic took effect. She settled like a kitten, content with his tone and the heat of his body surrounding her. With an eye to her comfort, he shifted her a little then wrapped her in the warm mantle. He didn’t question his need to be gentle, simply accepted and let it go as he scooped her up and headed for the horses. He needed to move fast. Of a sudden, a half-day’s ride between him and the enemy didn’t seem nearly far enough. Not with Afina and Sabine now in the fold.

Unhappy birds argued somewhere overhead. The high-pitched chatter made Afina’s head hurt, and she shifted sideways. Away from sharp-edged pain, toward heat and a spicy scent she couldn’t place. Goddess, that was nice...rich with warmed leather and wood smoke. With a hum, Afina snuggled in, pressed her cheek to something solid, and swallowed the bitter taste in her mouth. The tang turned rancid, telling her stomach the smallest twitch would be treated like an enemy invasion.

Enemy.

The word echoed inside her head. Something was off. The “what,” though, was proving to be a problem. Her brain wasn’t working right. Everything was foggy. A fuzzy collection of barely there thoughts jumbled together with images that didn’t make sense.

Afina shivered, tried to catch the memory. The birds above yammered and the vague impression thinned, leaving her mind blank but for one thought.

She didn’t feel dead.

Something told her she ought to, except...heaven should feel more, well, heavenly, without the terrible sting buzzing between her temples. The other problem? Everyone was supposed to get along in heaven, and a flock of engaged fowl seemed a bit disorderly, disrespectful of the goddess’s master plan.

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Well, whatever the strategy, it wasn’t working. The argument had become a screaming match, driving the ache into the back of her skull. Mother Mary, why couldn’t they find another tree? Why couldn’t...Wait a moment. Trees?

Afina cracked her eyes open. Filtered through something, sunlight drilled her and agony clawed, leaving spots in the center of her vision. She tried again and saw a collection of blurry green blobs. Leaves. Which meant trees. Not something she had anywhere near her cottage. The beeches stood all the way across the clearing and—

The ground shifted beneath her. A sauntering roll, more gentle than jostling.

Still her stomach rebelled, clenching in protest as Afina looked to her left. Her vision wavered, moving from dark to light and back again. Concentrating hard, she squinted at a fuzzy outline. The black mane came into focus first, followed by pointed ears and the shape of a head. A horse? She blinked to clear the fog and tried again.

Uh-huh...definitely. A horse.

Afina frowned at it. Much as she’d always wanted to, she didn’t own a horse. So why was she on one? A dream come true or—

Oh, gods, her head hurt.

Letting her eyes slide closed, she settled against her warm cradle. Later. She’d figure it out later, when Sabine woke up to break her fast. For now, she would—

The stallion sidestepped. Her stomach went with it, pitching as the jarring movement sent her brain sloshing inside her skull. Afina gagged, fighting the burn while nausea fisted a hand around her windpipe.

A deep voice cursed. The warhorse settled, but it was too late. Bile churned, and she coughed, lost to the horrible spasm clogging the back of her throat.

“Breathe.” Warm hands rubbed circles on her back.

Afina shook her head. Breathing sounded like a good idea, but she couldn’t find any air. The pressure banding her chest squeezed, compressing her lungs until cramps took over, taking her along for the ride. Dry heaves hit and she doubled over, palms flat against her breastbone, eyes watering as she fought the convulsions.

“Jesu.” With gentle insistence, someone tugged at her, pulling her upright. The position helped, allowing her to take a shallow breath. “Good. In through your nose, out through your mouth.”

The tone drew her, held her up high, away from the pain. She drifted toward it, following the deep timbre without question, and took another breath, this one fuller than the last.

“That’s it, draga.”

Afina blinked away tears. Draga? Oh, that was nice. No one had ever called her “darling” before. And that voice. Incredibly deep, with a soothing cadence that reminded her of warm honey and sugary sweets. Her favorite, but...wait a moment. Something was wrong with that image. She shook her head, ignoring the pain as she tried to clear her mind.

“Take another.” Strong fingers stroked through her hair, massaged her nape, attacking the tension under her scalp. “’Twill help the unease pass.”

Her stomach twisted, trying to escape through her spine. “W-who?”

“Breathe first, love. Worry about me later.”

Worry about him? Should she?

He made it seem like a worthwhile idea, being so gentle...calling her love. That wasn’t right either. For all she yearned otherwise, there wasn’t a person she knew who loved her but Sabine. The thought jolted through her. Where was her daughter? Sabine was never out of her sight—never. But she wasn’t in her lap and that meant...

A chill nipped at her and Afina stilled, fighting a tremor and rising fear.

“Rahat, you’re pale.” A big hand ghosted over her, holding her steady as he pulled a thick blanket around her shoulders. Soft wool tucked beneath her chin, he cupped her face. “I’m sorry. I gave you too much.”

“P-poison?”

“A tonic.”

“S-Sabine.” Planting her palm against his chest, she pushed herself upright and forced her eyes open. The world spun, flipped once before righting itself. “Where is s-she?”

“Safe with Cristobal...still asleep.”

“Did you—”

He shook his head. “We didn’t give her any. She is napping ’tis all.”

His reply made sense. The sun hung high in the sky. ’Twas sometime after the noonday meal—prime naptime for Sabine. Still, how could she trust him? The answer? She couldn’t. The mental fog hampering her cleared, allowing her mind to gain speed. Memory rushed back with acuity, unscrambling the picture, laying out the puzzle, damning the man who held her.

Xavian.

His name whispered through her mind, scraping her raw as she remembered: his injury, her cottage, the promise of the gold coin, and the sweetness of goat’s milk. All lies. Nothing but a clever ruse designed to get him inside her home. The bastard.

Sitting sideways in his lap, she raised her gaze to meet his, hammering him with the silent accusation.

His hands went still on her nape as a wary light entered his eyes. “Careful, lass.”

His voice rolled over her like warm milk: soothing, coaxing...hateful. She detested the fact she liked the sound of him. It was treason, a betrayal of the senses—one that made anger burn and her stomach settle. Beast. Cad. Kidnapping dolt.

Afina shrugged his hands away from her throat. “Stop the horse and give me my daughter.”

Watching her like a predator does its prey, he said, “Not yet.”

The quick denial killed self-preservation and unleashed rage. With a quick jab, Afina elbowed him in the ribs, felt him tense, and swung around with her fist. She’d never hit anyone before—had never wanted to—but the bastard thought to stand between her and Sabine. He’d done it in her cottage. Afina wouldn’t allow him to do it again.

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The white points of her knuckles came round, heading for his eye socket. Xavian countered and, with a quick hand, caught her fist midvolley. She launched the second, twisting against him, fighting for balance on the saddle front. He caught that one as easily as he had the first and held, imprisoning her knuckles against his palms.

Poised in front of him, both hands trapped, Afina’s eyes went wide. Goodness, he was fast and...she swallowed...warm. The heat in his palms sucked the body chill out through her fists. But the warmth didn’t reach his eyes. The pale blue was icy, direct in a way that made her shiver.

She clenched her teeth to stop them from chattering. Yes, he might be good at playing the wolf, but that didn’t mean she must play the rabbit. Fear. No fear. It didn’t matter. She refused to show it or give up and retreat.

Xavian raised a brow. “What now?”

“All I want is my daughter,” she whispered, berating herself as she gave ground and looked away.

“Ready to stop fighting?”

She nearly snarled at him, wanted to yell “no” so badly her teeth ached. She nodded instead, her pride no match for the quiet throb of fear. Sabine was so little—so innocent—and if promising to behave would see her daughter returned Afina would give her word. Keeping it, however, was another matter. As soon as the cretin handed her Sabine, she would direct her boot to the softest part of his anatomy.

“Look over my left shoulder.”

Her head swiveled so fast she wobbled in the saddle. Xavian steadied her and, with a gentle tug, pulled her off the saddle horn and back into his lap. Afina barely noticed. She was too busy searching for Sabine, scanning the riders behind them. Cristobal broke away, guiding his steed to the front of the pack. His dark gaze met hers a moment before he shifted the cloak-wrapped bundle in his arms.

Hardly able to breathe, she clutched Xavian’s shoulder and waited. He lifted a corner of the mantle, smoothing it away to show the mop of blond curls surrounding her cherub’s sleeping face.

Afina exhaled in a rush. “Blessed be the goddess.”

“See?” Forgotten in the struggle, Xavian reached for the cloak pooled around her hips. Adjusting the wool, he drew it up until it lay snug against the nape of her neck. “Hale and whole.”

“Can I have her?” Meeting his gaze briefly, she pleaded with her eyes before returning her attention to Sabine.

“In a while.”

“But—”

“We cannot stop now, Afina,” he said, keeping his tone soft enough to soothe her but strong enough to hold the line. “’Tisn’t safe. At nightfall, when you are recovered and strong enough to carry her, I will give her back.”

Her bottom lip quivered. “Promise me he won’t hurt her.”

“My word,” he murmured, his throat tight. He swallowed past the knot, disliking her distress. It made him want to soothe her, to touch her until the pain left her eyes and she settled against him as she had during the night. Pain and pleasure—a sorry couple, but intertwined when it came to Afina. His reaction was telling...temptation and need wrapped into one.

Unable to resist either, he traced the edge of her eyebrow, using the caress to gain her attention. When her eyes met his, he brushed the bedraggled tresses away from her face. “I’ve no intention of hurting her...or you.”

“Too late.” Her brows drawn tight, she leaned away from his touch. “You took us against my will. Let us go if you wish to keep your word.”

“Nay, you stay with me.” Xavian winced but didn’t show it. Christ, he hadn’t meant to say that, to sound so possessive, as though he’d taken her for himself. Aye, he liked the look of her—had imagined bedding her a dozen different ways—but that meant naught in the scheme of things. He’d taken Afina for a purpose, one that didn’t include making her his own.

“What...why?” Anger and bafflement winged across her small face. Xavian took a shallow breath, trying not to be enchanted as he watched her teeter between the two emotions. Fury won out and she glared at him, eyes narrowed, expression militant. “I don’t have anything you want.”

“Not true.” He kept his expression neutral, unwilling to show his attraction. He’d not spent much time with women—most of the encounters had been brief, ending when he received his pleasure and gave some in return. But instinct warned if she guessed how much he desired her, it wouldn’t take long for the manipulation to begin. “I’m in need of a healer for my new home. Your skill is sufficient for my purpose.”

“And if I am unwilling?”

“Can you afford to be?”

She said naught, simply stared at him, the unspoken vulnerability in her silence difficult to bear. For some reason he disliked her uncertainty, the notion she preferred abject poverty to him. But this wasn’t about him. ’Twas about the lads in his care and the importance of his academy to their success. Afina could contribute, give the boys something they’d never had: softness, caring, a woman’s touch.

With the boys forefront in his mind, he pushed for an answer. “What did you have in that hovel...what are you leaving behind? Wealth? Stature? The—”

“Independence,” she said, cutting him off with an undeniable growl.

“What good is that, draga, when you cannot feed your own child?”

Intense pain flashed across her features a moment before she looked away. Xavian killed the urge to take the harsh statement back. It might hurt her pride, but she needed to hear the truth. Both she and Sabine were too thin. ’Twas obvious to anyone who cared to look they’d not had enough to eat for a while. The baffling bit—the thing he couldn’t understand—was the fact he cared enough to make her admit it.

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“I was doing fine,” she said, her tone thick with emotion and something else. Stubbornness. He knew the flaw well, possessed it himself, but now was no time for her to become mired in illusion.

He raised a brow, challenging her statement with silence.

Her knuckles turned white in the black folds of the mantle. “I was.”

“Do not lie to me.” He leaned forward, bringing them nose-to-nose. As much as he admired her spirit, he wanted her to understand. He never tolerated dishonesty. He’d endured years of deceit, been suffocated by subterfuge and manipulated without mercy. ’Twas best she learned he valued the truth now. Otherwise naught but trouble lay ahead. “Be honest with me, Afina. In the end, ’twill get you most of what you want and all of what you need.”

“I don’t want anything from you.” Chin tilted in defiance, she planted her hand on his chest and shoved him away. “Honest enough?”

Her petulant tone drilled him. He clenched his teeth on a smile, enjoying her wit even as he wished it wasn’t so quick. “Better.”

She huffed, no doubt unsatisfied he refused to give ground. Amusement spread like a disease, infecting him with good humor. He shoved it away, rejecting the ease he shared with her. ’Twas too dangerous. It made him want to get closer, to ignore her purpose, his vow, and follow desire’s urging. But he couldn’t do it. Connection was something he’d never done well and didn’t want.

Shuffling sideways, Afina helped him gain control, putting as much distance between them as she could without falling off his horse. “You won’t let us go, will you? No matter that I wish it.”

“Nay, you belong to my circle now.” Shifting in the saddle, he gave Afina more room. He wanted her comfortable, well able to ride into the night. With the afternoon light waning, they had miles to go yet. The hunters wouldn’t rest, and as much as Xavian yearned to turn and fight he didn’t want his new healer anywhere near the battle. “Accept what you cannot change, Afina. ’Twill go easier...for everyone.”

Lips pursed, she clung to the saddle horn, refusing to look at him. Xavian stared at her profile, debating whether to say more. Nay, he’d said all he needed to. She understood his message, knew he would not let her or Sabine go. ’Twas enough for now. She would test him before long and run.

Good. Let her try.

The sooner she realized escape was futile, the sooner she would accept her new life. No matter how much she taxed his patience, he would see his responsibility through to the end. He’d made a promise to Bodgan to protect her from all comers. The Transylvanian lord wanted her for a reason. An important one. His objective concerning Afina might have changed, but he knew Vladimir’s wouldn’t. Now he must cultivate her trust to find the truth. Odd, but as he urged Mayhem into a gallop, his gaze on the obstinate set of her chin, Xavian found himself looking forward to the challenge.

CHAPTER FOUR

SIBIU, TRANSYLVANIA–CASTLE Raul

Vladimir Barbu took the stairs two at a time. He launched himself off the second-to-last step, avoiding a rotted tread to touch down on the upper landing. With a curse, he swerved around a pile of debris deposited by the decaying roof and turned right toward his solar. Strides long and pace steady, he slammed through the door and, with a flick of his wrist, closed it behind him. The hinges screeched, raking icy fingers down his spine. He glared at the metal brackets over his shoulder.

Hell and damnation, he would string Anton up by his balls when he found him. Lazy good-for-naught. He was to have fixed the door days ago. Vladimir scowled. His jack-of-all-trades needed another thrashing, but he would throw him in the stocks first. He wanted the incompetent arse sober when he delivered the reprimand. Otherwise the drunkard wouldn’t remember the beating, never mind the reason for it.

He rolled his shoulders and turned his attention to the chamber. The luxury reached out to stroke him. With a sigh, he allowed the collection of plush pillows, daybeds, and thick tapestries to draw the tension from his muscles. A veritable oasis, the round tower room was the only one finished in the rat hole he now called home, the only one he’d possessed enough coin to refurbish.

Now he had precious little left. Certainly not enough to replace the castle roof, any stair treads, or shore up the crumbling walls of the great hall. But he didn’t care. The large turret, with its square windows and generous proportions, was his favorite place...the opulent sanctuary he deserved. ’Twas a right he claimed as acting ruler of Transylvania, the people’s protests be damned. He’d worked for years to take the title; brutalized, maimed, and killed to be next in line. And Afina wasn’t going to ruin it for him.

Damn the lass to hell.

Two years of searching. No matter who he sent after her, the result remained the same. She evaded him at every turn. And he was running out of time.

He needed the Amulet of Orm to wear the crown of Transylvania, for King Charles of Hungary to deliver a decree and make his title official. Until then, he was naught more than the interim lord, a circumstance subject to change.

If only Ylenia, former high priestess, had done as instructed. Had she lied and told the people the amulet had accepted him—glowed as it always did when handed to the true ruler of Transylvania—then she would still be alive...and he would already be king.

He curled his hands into fists. Stupid wench. She’d ruined everything.

Without the sacred talisman, he lacked the leverage to force King Charles’s hand. Superstitious to the point of obsession, the royal jackass refused to ignore ancient lore—the tra***ion of the amulet—and anoint him voivode. He must find the trinket and fake its glow. If he didn’t, he would never sit his arse on the throne and do what Wallachia had done a year ago: sever all ties with the Hungarian monarch and create a country and kingdom of his own.