[English] KNIGHT AWAKENED

Knight Awakened
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Damnation, where in the hell was Afina?

He needed her...for more than just the power she would provide him. He wanted her under him, over him, in whatever position he could get her as long as it involved his bed. He would settle for Bianca, but ’twas Afina he craved. She wore the mark, the crown of the goddess stamped on her skin, the symbol marking the next High Priestess of Orm. Without her support, the king would never accept him. And without his blessing, the coffers, the treasures of Transylvania, remained out of reach.

His nostrils flared as he imagined what he would do to her—with her—when he found her. An eye for an eye. He suffered, and when he finally got his hands on her, she would too.

He growled. Where the devil was Henrik?

He’d ridden all the way from the marketplace to meet the bastard. If he wasn’t—

A soft sound caught his attention.

Scanning the chamber again, Vladimir caught a flash of movement in his periphery. Bare-chested, a man came through from the alcove, silhouette haloed by the sun flooding through the high windows. Another outline followed, shapely, much smaller than the first. The pair paused, heads aligned and close together.

Vladimir sighed and pivoted. His back to them, he crossed to the other side of the room, his progress muted by the thick Turkish rug underfoot. Grabbing a bejeweled cup from the exquisitely carved sideboard, he tipped the matching pitcher, pouring a tumbler full of red wine. Goblet in hand, he turned to lean on the lip of the cabinet.

Legs crossed at the ankles, he sipped the wine and watched them. A cloud passed overhead and the sunlight faded, giving him a clear view of the man’s face.

Hazel-gold eyes trained on Vladimir, Henrik fastened the ties on his trews then bent to kiss the curve of the wench’s bare shoulder. “My thanks, sweet.”

Vladimir raised the goblet in silent salute. Christ, the warrior had no shame, didn’t care that he’d been caught tupping a servant by the lord who employed him.

A rosy hue in her cheeks, she peeked at Henrik from beneath her lashes. “Tonight?”

Vladimir’s hand tightened around the tankard, jealousy rolling like wildfire through his veins. If only Afina had looked at him that way. If only she’d wanted him with the same intensity, the crown would be his, and so would she.

His mind on how best to punish her, he observed Henrik with the wench and almost snorted. The warrior’s patience was laughable. He’d already tupped her, for Christ’s sake. Why be so gentle? But then, he guessed the man wasn’t renowned for his skill with the lasses for naught. Vladimir shook his head. Gentleness. Such an abysmal waste of time.

With a nudge, Henrik pushed her toward the exit. “Off you go, lass.”

Eyes bright, the maid scurried toward the exit, her fingers busy lacing the front of her gown. She paused on the threshold, gave the warrior one last lingering look, and disappeared over the threshold.

The latch fell with a click, and Vladimir asked, “What have you learned?”

“Not much.” His gaze fixed on him, Henrik palmed a tankard from the marble mantelpiece. Something cold moved in the warrior’s eyes as he swirled the wine then raised the cup to take a sip.

Vladimir clenched his teeth, disliking the blatant show of disrespect. The urge to draw his sword—and Henrik’s blood—almost overwhelmed him. Self-preservation prevailed, however, stilling his hand. The man standing before him was no lightweight. A full-blooded assassin trained by the old man, Henrik could no doubt kill him with naught more than his little finger.

“Then why the hell are you here? Couldn’t find someone else’s servants to screw?”

“You’re selection is good, Vladimir,” he said, his bored tone somehow laced with enmity. “But not so fine I’d travel cross-country to bed one.”

The crass bastard. How dare he come here empty-handed then disregard his authority as though his position held no importance? His hand tightened on his cup. “Then I’ll ask again...why are you here?”

“Rumor has it you’ve hired Xavian Ramir.”

“What of it?”

“I like to know when I have competition.” Interest interwoven with menace sparked in Henrik’s strange golden eyes. “Hedging your bets?”

The hostility embedded in the assassin’s voice swirled in the space between them, and the muscle roping Vladimir’s abdomen twisted, tying his stomach into knots. He forced himself to relax and, affecting a manner of unconcern, swirled the wine in his goblet. “I want her found...two working on the problem is better than one.”

Henrik prowled toward him, his movements predatory, his feet soundless as he skirted a plush daybed. Trailing a finger along the top of a silk pillow, he stopped a few feet away and flicked the gold fringe on the tasseled cushion. “Is it?”

Vladimir shifted against the sideboard, aware he clung to his perch by a fingertip. He must tread carefully. Henrik was unpredictable at best, violent at worst. If he showed weakness, the animal in the assassin would sense his disquiet and go for his throat. Icy fingers brushing the nape of his neck, he waved the comment aside, feigning a confidence he didn’t feel. “What do you care?”

“He is a comrade, of sorts.”

Of sorts? What the hell did that mean? Had Ramir been trained by the Halál as well? Vladimir knew so little about the man, had heard about him through a string of associates. ’Twas said the warrior-assassin single-handedly won the Battle of Posada for Basarab, the new ruler of Wallachia. If rumor held true, Ramir massacred half of the Hungarian army and sent the other half fleeing for their lives.

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Vladimir raised a brow. “Is he as good as I’ve heard?”

“Better.”

With a soundlessness that unnerved him, Henrik ghosted around an armchair, drifting within striking distance. Alert to the possibility of attack, Vladimir held his breath then let it out when the assassin moved away, toward the blaze roaring in the fireplace.

“Better than you?”

Henrik’s mouth quirked at the corners, but he said naught.

The subtle evasion bothered Vladimir. Why was Henrik so interested in Ramir? What did he know that he wasn’t telling? Whatever the cause, it signaled trouble, the kind he didn’t like. Who he hired was no one’s business, least of all Henrik’s. But assassins were a strange bunch. He’d learned that truth the hard way, had yet to recover from his folly...from forcing the encounter and Ramir’s subsequent attack. Hell and damnation, his knee still ached and the meeting had taken place well over a month ago.

He breathed deep, trying to calm himself. Ramir was the rarest sort of savage. Skilled precision coupled with a cunning Vladimir admired but seldom saw. He clenched his teeth. If only Ramir had taken the coin. He’d wanted to give him half to start and half when he delivered Afina, but the bastard hadn’t bitten. His distrust had been palpable. He’d neither refused nor accepted, merely evaded, too intelligent to commit to the mission either way. The hesitation made Vladimir think Ramir was no longer an asset but a liability, one that needed to be dropped off the nearest cliff.

Curious about Henrik’s association with the famed assassin, he tested the waters. “Can you find him?”

“Who?” Grabbing a sleeveless tunic from the chair in front of the fire, Henrik pulled the black leather over his head and attacked the side laces. “Ram?”

“Aye.” Vladimir took another sip and lounged against the sideboard, trying to appear as though the assassin’s reply didn’t matter. The truth? He hung on tether hooks, itched to know whether Henrik could track the bastard.

Henrik shrugged, as noncommittal as his blasted comrade.

Tension pulled at the muscles bracketing his spine. Should he? Shouldn’t he? ’Twas a toss-up considering Henrik’s violent streak, but...aye. It was worth the risk.

“There’s ad***ional coin in it...if you can track him,” he said, tempting Henrik with the one thing he knew no one could resist. Ready coin.

A black brow raised, the assassin slid a knife into a sheath high on his chest. “How much?”

“Thirty pieces of silver.” Vladimir paused, sitting on the fence, not sure which way to hop. After a tense moment, he made the leap. “To take him out.”

“Eliminate the competition?” Henrik’s mouth curled at the corners. The smile never quite reaching his eyes, he strapped twin swords on his back and headed for the door. “I thought you’d never ask.”

She needed to make her move...soon. The Carpathians loomed, a silent predator waiting for them to come within easy reach. She’d never been so close before, had never wanted to be anywhere near them. People said the inhospitable mountains ate people whole, that strange things—unholy things—happened on the great peaks, and below, in the deep valleys. A godless place filled with naught but inky darkness and bad intentions.

And Xavian was leading them straight into the belly of the beast.

Afina shivered, catching a glimpse of the jagged teeth through a break in the trees. The sharp angles and soaring cliffs snarled at the sky, piercing greyish-white clouds to taunt the heavens with a curled lip. She clung to the saddle horn and cuddled Sabine closer, her unease so strong the heat leached from her body. The chill sank bone-deep, turning muscle to ice, freezing her ability to form an adequate plan.

At least her brain was working well enough now to know she required one. Fast. Faster than fast...before the little-used trail they followed carried them into the mountains. Once they left the forest, her chances of escape went from slight to nil. She needed the thick shadow and dense foliage to shield her when she bolted. Finding cover on barren rock faces, sheer cliffs, and the narrow paths of the Carpathians would prove too difficult, especially with a chatty two-year-old in tow.

Time was running out.

Judging by their pace, she had two, mayhap three days at most. Nervous tension swirled in the pit of her stomach, wreaking havoc with her resolve. She drew a long breath and stroked Sabine’s hair, trying to steady herself. One slip, a moment of inattentiveness was all she needed. By the time her captors registered her absence, she’d be gone, so deep in the woods they’d find it difficult to track her.

The mossy turf would conceal her footprints, wouldn’t it? She could hide in the shadows, use the trees for cover, the streams to disguise their scent and trail, couldn’t she? Afina swallowed, praying she was right. So many factors to consider, too many chances to make a mistake. And yet she only had one to win her way free. Xavian wasn’t stupid. He no doubt expected her to run. It wouldn’t take a genius to figure out. She’d signaled her intent the instant she failed to fall in with his plans.

She shifted in the saddle, wanting to kick herself. Why hadn’t she played along? It would be much easier now if he believed she was a happy captive. Now he watched her like an alluring angel—a fallen one. Stupid. Idiotic. Completely witless. Why did she always think of these things too late?

Afina adjusted the sling around her shoulder. Lulled by the steady beat of horses’ hooves, Sabine swung in the well-worn fabric, struggling to keep her eyes open. Afina watched her silver eyelashes flicker and prayed for good fortune. She didn’t hold much hope. Luck had never been a friend of hers, unless, of course, the bad kind counted.

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Afina stifled a snort. Abysmal luck, indeed. Poor decision making had landed her here, not fortune, but she refused to dwell on her failures. No matter how inept her skill, she needed to move forward. She held no sway over the past. It was over and done, but the future lay ahead, and feeling sorry for herself was never a good strategy.

She huffed. Forget good. She would settle for mediocre if it got her far enough away from her captors. It was like being in the middle of a male wolf pack. Silent, muscular ones who wore aggression like a scent.

Armed to the teeth, their sun-bronzed skin and serious eyes screamed of experience, a depth of skill she didn’t need to see to believe. World-weariness reflected in their faces, sad and startling in its intensity. Could that be why they wore nothing but black? The style of clothing differed, yes, but each wore ebony in one form or another. A strange preference, but one she guessed held importance for them. Instinct warned this group did nothing without reason. She wasn’t sure how she knew, but something told her when Xavian acted, the logic supporting his decision was well thought out in advance.

There was something unseemly about that. A methodical precision that made her feel safe even as it scared her to death. She felt the push-pull, the fear and attraction each time she looked at him. How could he heat her blood and frighten her at the same time? Was that what Bianca had felt for Bodgan? Had the emotional opposites pulled her sister into a passionate entanglement? Prompted her to meet with him in secret, risk all to have him in her life and rejoice when she found herself with child?

Afina chewed on her lower lip, weighing the probability. No matter the contradiction, it seemed a distinct possibility. One she disliked...immensely.

With a frown, she drilled the back of Xavian’s head with a look. She refused to let that happen to her. She wouldn’t permit him to lure her the way Bodgan had lured her sister. Bianca’s death stood as an excellent example. Nothing but pain came from becoming entangled with a man, and Afina intended to remember the important lesson.

“Look, Mama! Birdie.”

Yanked from her thoughts by Sabine’s excited chirp, Afina jumped. “Yes, love, I see it.”

“Pretty.” Pointing to a low-lying branch, her daughter bounced in the sling, swaying against Afina’s side before popping her thumb back in her mouth.

“It is, but hush,” she said, registering the ripple of masculine power around them. The disturbance, a slight ruffling of muscle, reminded her of how a wolf might react when startled—lip curled, fur standing on end until it found the source of disruption, declared it a non-threat, and smoothed its fine pelt back into order. “We must be quiet, cherub.”

Xavian glanced over his shoulder, sharp eyes settling on her. Afina bit her bottom lip, quelling a shiver. His gaze swept over her, pushing brittleness into her bones until she felt fragile, as though she might break into tiny pieces. Stiff in the saddle, she feigned confidence, unwilling to show weakness to a man who possessed none.

Without taking his attention from her, he spoke to Cristobal. The dark man nodded and urged his mount forward as Xavian drew his warhorse to the edge of the path. The huge beast tossed his head but stayed true, obeying his master’s command to wait. The moment she came alongside them, he nudged his steed into a walk.

He bumped her leg and her horse sidestepped, making room for him beside them on the trail. Muscled thigh a hair’s breadth from hers, his scent engulfed her, a subtle invasion of male spice and forest musk that soothed even as it unbalanced. Hmm, he smelled so good. She wanted to lean in and immerse herself in the pleasant complexities of his fragrance.

She swayed in the saddle and, without thought, let her senses lead. Drifting toward instead of away from him, she watched his eyes flame as he raised his hand. His heat reached her before his fingertips, moving across her skin in a warm ripple of sensation. She sighed as he traced the ridge of her cheekbone then moved lower to brush the corner of her mouth. He paused, his gaze roaming her features before he cupped her cheek and made another pass, stroking her bottom lip with the pad of his thumb.

Afina sank into the caress, parting her lips when he applied more pressure. His taste, salty-sweet, invaded her mouth and pleasure hummed, flooding her with delight. The unfamiliar sensation rocked her and awareness struck like a thunderbolt. She flinched. What on earth was she doing? Why was she welcoming his touch...encouraging his kiss? His kiss. She almost moaned, the idea of his mouth on hers sending her sideways into delight.

Oh, no. She was in trouble. The serious kind that made girls act like fools and men like lechers. She needed to get a hold of herself and away from him before she did something stupid. Like offered him her trust—along with her body—on a silver platter.

Heat pricking across her cheekbones, she turned her face from his hand. He made a sound of regret and leather creaked as he shifted in the saddle, putting distance between them.

Scrambling for a distraction, she blurted, “I’m sorry, she doesn’t mean—”

“Hi!” Mismatched eyes trained on Xavian, Sabine smiled at him around her thumb.

The twin swords strapped on his back bobbed as he dragged his gaze from her to Sabine. A crease between his bronzy-gold brows, she saw uncertainty flicker in his eyes an instant before he said, “Hello, Sabine.”

“Look, Mama.” Her voice a flutter of excitement, Sabine pointed to the man beside them. “X.”

“Yes, it is,” she said, stomping on the butterflies wreaking havoc in her belly.

Needing a distraction, she took inventory of the warrior while his attention remained on her child. Stealth wasn’t exactly her forte, but she picked out small details, cataloguing the weapons he carried...well, at least the ones she could see.

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Aside from the twin blades he wore on his back, two knives were strapped to each thigh, a pair made their home on his chest, one low, the other high, while yet another rested at the base of his spine. She spotted a few more buried in leather sheaths in his saddle. Good goddess, the man was a walking arsenal. How in Hades was she going to escape from that?

“How old is she?”

His deep voice stroked her, a warm caress that drew her gaze back to his. “Almost two. Her birthday falls in a month or so.”

He tilted his head, expression thoughtful. “Do all children suck their thumbs?”

Afina blinked, thrown by the simple question. Such a strange thing for a battle-honed warrior to wonder. What was he playing at? “I’m not sure. She’s the first one I’ve ever had.”

He nodded.

She stiffened as his focus left Sabine to settle on her. The horde of butterflies flapped their wings a little harder and sensation spiraled below her belly button. Afina glanced away and, not knowing what else to do, reissued her apology. “I’ll do my best to keep her quiet from now on.”

“’Tis all right.” He nudged her with his knee.

She shied away from the gentle bump, but got the message. He wanted her to look at him, and goddess help her, she needed to avoid that at all costs. He unsettled her, stirred her soul-deep with his quiet ways and inherent strength. Qualities she’d always thought she might like in a man.

She remembered the times she and Bianca had lain awake at night, whispering like pea-gooses. Cocooned, safe from the outside world, they’d shared secrets and dreamed of the men they would someday marry. She never imagined a few years later Bianca would be dead along with her dreams. The pain of that made it hard to breathe. Afina forced herself to anyway, but...

Goddess help her, she missed her sister. Every evening at sunset. Each morning at daybreak. Bianca was never far from her thoughts.

Her vision went blurry. Afina held the sorrow at bay, tucking the tears along with the precious memories away. She wanted to keep the good times for herself, not share them with the man who had taken her freedom—the autonomy Bianca had tried so hard to teach her. Anger burned the back of her throat. Who did he think he was? What gave him the right to decide her future?

Setting her teeth on the question, she took strength from her sister’s memory and, raising her head, met his gaze head-on. Approval sparked in his eyes an instant before he reached out and flicked the underside of her chin.

She jerked away from the playful tap and frowned at him.

The corners of his mouth tipped up. “The lass can talk. We are in no danger here.”

In other words? They were alone in a place where no one would hear them scream. Afina swallowed, righteous indignation dimmed by a healthy dose of wariness. Self-preservation took precedence over pride. She could be angry with him another time, after she knew for certain he wouldn’t lose his temper and hurt her.

“Oh, good. That’s...ah, good.”

“You’re spooked.” Head tilted, he considered her. “Why?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” she said, her tone testy. “Being kidnapped has a way of unsettling a girl.”

He snorted. “’Twas more a liberation than a kidnapping.”

“In your opinion, not mine.” She pursed her lips, irritated by his attitude. “You cannot go about dragging people from their homes...no matter your opinion of their situation.”

“Why not?”

Why not? Surprise overriding mental agility, she grasped the first reason that came to mind. “It’s impolite.”

He tossed her a look of disbelief. “Politesse. A waste of time. Why would you imagine I possess social graces...that I’ve been taught any?”

“It is a universal truth, not something that needs learning.” Her hand tightened on the reins. She resisted the urge to wrap the dark straps around his neck and strangle him. “Everyone—even those without manners—knows supplanting another’s will is wrong.”

“Even when the greater good is served?” Something sparked in his eyes: a gleam, one that told her he liked sparring with her. Warmed by the discovery, she almost smiled at him. She killed the urge, needing distance between them, not friendship. “Let us say, when a person is starving to death?”

“We weren’t starving.”

“Close to it, draga.”

She bristled and, tired of the argument, changed the subject. “Where are you taking us?”

“Have you a faulty memory, lass?” She glared at him. His lip twitched. When she didn’t respond to his teasing, he shrugged. “I told you...home.”

“Forgive me for not knowing where that is.”

“The Carpathians.” Lifting his large hand, he pointed to a break in the large trees flanking the path. Tree limbs swayed in the gentle breeze, rustling the leaves as she spotted the unholy beasts standing in the distance. Deep-seated pride laced his voice when he said, “My keep, Drachaven, is located there. Not far from the Jiu River.”

“In the mountains?”

“Aye.”

She stifled a shiver. “I’ve no wish to go there.”

“You’ve a day or two to become accustomed to the idea,” he said, tone soft with what she thought might be understanding. He raised a hand as though he wished to soothe her with his touch. She leaned away, a protective arm curled around her daughter. A muscle jumped along his jaw as he looked from her to the path ahead. “My home is now yours.”

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“Your interest in us makes no sense.”

She shook her head, intuition igniting suspicion. Xavian wasn’t telling her the whole truth. He could have chosen from any number of healers in Severin, ones with good reputations. So the question, the one bothering her: What had made him come after her? From what she knew of him there must be a reason, above and beyond his injury. No random event had brought him to her door, Father Marion notwithstanding. The more she thought about it, the more she realized he’d used the priest’s name as a way into her cottage; a nonviolent tactic to achieve his goal.

Narrow-eyed, she stared at him, sorting through the possibilities. “Tell me why you wish us to make our place with you. Do you even need a healer?”

“I do.” He glanced at her sideways, assessing her from his periphery.

What he was looking for, she didn’t know, but his silence unnerved her. He used it to effect, she realized, crushing his opponents with a well-placed pause. She refused to take the bait and be the first to break the hush. If he wanted a standoff, she was more than ready to give him one.

After an intense moment, he sighed. “You are a thinker, Afina. That may prove to be a problem.”

That nailed it. Sir Tell-the-Truth was withholding information. “For a man who demands honesty, you seem to have difficulty using it yourself.”

He chuckled, the sound rusty with disuse. Surprise creased his face before he smoothed his expression. “Touché, but choosing not to inform you of something does not mean I am lying.”

“A lie of omission, then.”

He shook his head, the gleam of enjoyment returning to his eyes. “Patience, Afina.”

Patience, her foot. “What if I don’t have any?”

He bumped her with his knee again, the movement playful. One corner of his mouth tilted up, he put his heels to his steed’s flank and said over his shoulder, “Learn some.”

Her lips pursed, she watched him ride away, wishing she held a sharper weapon than her tongue. How dare he lecture her about untruths then refuse to adhere to the same rules he demanded she follow? Irritating, domineering dolt. Her gaze centered on the back of his head, she racked her brain, trying to assess all the angles. What was he hiding?

Whatever it was, she knew it must be important. Big. Huge in a way that scared her. Did it have something to do with Vladimir? Her heart stalled, refusing to beat as panic closed her airway. A little light-headed, she clung to the saddle horn and tightened her hold on Sabine.

Her daughter squirmed, an irritated, sleepy wiggle. “Mama?”

“It’s all right, cherub,” she whispered around the lump in her throat. Loosening her grip, she rubbed the center of Sabine’s back, soothing her with rhythmic circles. “Shh, go to sleep now. Everything is all right.”

And it would be. She wasn’t lying. She would find a way out of the mess she’d made. Pry them out of Xavian’s talons to keep Sabine safe. She’d made a promise to her sister, and now her actions must support that vow.

Escape was the only option. No matter how afraid, she must break free.

Dread burning a hole in her stomach, Afina closed her eyes and prayed that luck, just this once, chose to befriend her.

CHAPTER FIVE

Xavian clenched his teeth as the blade nicked his thumb. Turning the chunk of wood in his hand, he shifted on the moss-covered log and glanced down at his hand. Blood welled on his skin. The third cut in less than an hour. He frowned, disgusted by his lack of concentration. ’Twas a problem, one that rarely plagued him while he engaged in his favorite pastime.

Normally carving kept him calm. Sane. Better able to sink inside himself and withdraw from the brutality life handed him, day in and day out. All without leaving his perch.

The perfect escape for an imperfect man.

And he was thankful. Thankful for the old assassin who’d taught him to whittle as a child. Thankful for the ability to disappear inside a world of his own making, far from Halál and the harshness of his former life with Al Pacii. But the real boon? Working with his hands helped him relax, providing an endless source of satisfaction. He loved taking a rough piece of wood and transforming it into something useful...something beautiful.

But not today.

The half-finished figurine did little to ease the tension. The well-worn handle of his carving knife felt awkward in his palm and distraction gave way to clumsiness.

With a sigh, Xavian sucked the droplet from his thumb then leaned forward to prop both forearms on his bent knees. Afina was driving him daft. Concentration seemed an impossible mission with her flitting about the campsite, nimble fingers stealing what she needed.

He should stop her, but he wouldn’t. Not when he knew her aim. He’d been waiting for her to make her move for days. An hour ago, she had, slipping a pouch of dried meat into her healing satchel.

Xavian stared at the wooden block, unable to keep his lips from twitching. His little troublemaker had been busy, gathering supplies in preparation for escape. Plucky lass. If naught else, he admired her tenacity. ’Twas mayhap what he liked best about her, aside from her beauty. The innate toughness allowed her to adjust under less than optimal circumstances. A rare trait in a woman and one that made him wish to give her what she wanted.

But he refused to let her go.

His newfound conscience squawked, calling him selfish. He conceded the point, but the fact he enjoyed having Afina and the little one around changed naught. His logic was sound. He’d taken them for a purpose. He required a healer, and she, his protection.

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Vladimir was power hungry, a warlord with serious ambition. Promise to Bodgan aside, instinct told him the bastard would hurt Afina if he managed to capture her. Xavian’s hand tightened around the wooden block. Nay, he wouldn’t allow it. Drachaven was her home now, and he, her overlord. ’Twas his duty to ensure she thrived, and hers to serve him well.

The trick would be in breaking her willfulness without damaging her spirit. He didn’t want her broken, just tamed a wee bit. Eyes narrowed, he flipped the knife into the air, watching it rotate end over end while he went over his plan. The old oak he sat beneath swayed above his head and a whisper of sound ghosted from his left.

Without looking away from the arc of the blade, he asked, “Where is she?”

“At the stream, bathing the little one.” The voice came from the opposite side of the tree.

Catching the knife hilt midturn, Xavian fingered the grip’s worn leather. “Who’s trailing them?”

“Razvan.”

“Out of sight?”

“Aye,” Cristobal said, rounding the enormous trunk. Standing between the oak’s gnarled feet, he propped a shoulder against the rough bark. “Afina has no idea we are tracking her movements. Razvan will let us know if she makes a break for it.”

“Good.” Xavian tossed the weapon again, fighting an unpleasant sensation as it banded around his chest.

Light from the setting sun flashed on the blade while he banished regret. She required a lesson. One he hated to deliver but knew was necessary. When she found the courage to run, he would follow...close enough to protect, far enough to make her believe she’d succeeded before he showed himself. He wanted her to understand she held no chance of escape. The only way to accomplish that was to hand her hope then take it away.

He scowled, dreading the moment she realized she’d failed. He imagined her hazel eyes filled with anger, then hurt. ’Twas the hurt that almost changed his mind. Almost, but in the end logic tamed emotion, and he said, “Make sure she is watched at all times. I mean to give her some room to run, but not so much that I lose her.”

Cristobal nodded, his expression pensive as he flicked an acorn with the toe of his boot. Xavian recognized the look. ’Twas one that always appeared before his friend called him on his behavior. Preparing for Cristobal’s rebuke, he wiped his carving blade on his trews and searched the tree line at the lip of the clearing. Afina had been gone too long. Had she given his man the slip? Was she already on the run?

The thought barely registered when he heard Sabine giggle. Awareness flickered, and his body tightened, knowing wherever the little one went Afina followed. His focus fixed on a break in the shrubbery, he heard Afina’s voice, tone soft with coaxing. A moment later Sabine came charging out of the underbrush, a stick clutched in her wee fist. With a bellow to rival a knight on a battlefield, she raised the small branch and roared toward the other side of the clearing.

Preparing their evening meal at fireside, Qabil ducked, avoiding decapitation as the little one sped past, her gaze fixed on Kazim. The warrior hit his knees, grabbed his own stick from beneath the fallen leaves, and met Sabine’s downswing. She shrieked with laughter when Kazim growled and parried another thrust, seemingly thrilled by his reaction.

Xavian shook his head. Jesu, mock battle with a two-year-old. His lips curved, enjoying the melee and Sabine’s enthusiasm as she struck again. Amazed by his men and their willingness to not only protect but play with the girl-child, he flinched when she swung left and thumped Kazim on the shoulder.

He glanced at Cristobal. “Bloodthirsty little thing.”

Dark eyes agleam with good humor, his friend shrugged. “The healthy ones usually are.”

Xavian snorted. How the hell did Cristobal know so much about children? ’Twas a mystery that intrigued him more than it should, but he refused to pry. His men deserved their privacy, had earned the right to their secrets. And so had he.

“Sabine!” Afina’s voice rang across the clearing.

Xavian watched emotion tumble across her face, bafflement combined with dismay. Hopping over a fallen tree trunk, she hustled toward the impromptu battlefield, all lithe curves and swaying hips. He swallowed, unable to keep himself from absorbing every detail—from the rippling length of her dark hair and flushed cheeks to the enticing curve of her breasts. His blood heated, nudging the traitor below his belt.

He clenched his hand around the figurine, trying to douse the lust as Andrei intercepted her halfway across the clearing. Xavian stilled, aggression swimming in his veins, and waited. If his man touched her, a little too long or a little too much, he would enter the fray; something the Frenchman would regret afterward. Lucky for him, Andrei did naught but stand in her path and talk. The smooth sound of his French accent drifted, the soft cadence designed to soothe Afina’s fear for her child.

After a moment, she backed away and glanced at him, a clear question in her eyes. His heart turned over. Hell, she looked to him for reassurance. The realization made him feel unaccountably good—proud that she trusted him to keep her daughter safe. Fighting the tightness in his throat, he nodded, letting her know ’twas naught but a game. No cause for alarm.

The tension holding her shoulders square softened. She nodded in return then cringed when Sabine whooped and struck. And struck again, the crack of wood echoing as she brained Kazim with her makeshift sword.

The warrior chuckled.

The girl-child grinned, and Afina shook her head as she turned to join Qabil by the fire.

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Cristobal shifted, placing his back flat against the oak. Arms crossed over his chest, his gaze settled on their new healer. “How long will you let her run?”

“A day, no more.”

“She’ll exhaust herself,” his friend said, concern in his tone.

Xavian glowered at the knife hilt, guilt infecting him like a disease. Why did he react to her this way? Jesu, ’twas baffling. He was a hard man, an intelligent one not given to flights of fancy. How was she able to tie him in knots when naught else did? The answer escaped him, but self-preservation warned he needed to get whatever ailed him under control...now, before he lost himself in hazel eyes flecked with green and gold.

“Aye,” he said, shaking vulnerability off like a wet dog did water, “but the lesson will be learned and not easily forgotten.”

“Tonight then...when all is quiet.” Cristobal rubbed against the rough bark, chasing an itch.

“More likely on the morrow, at the bazaar.”

“She knows we are stopping there before heading into the mountains?”

“Aye.”

Xavian had made sure of it. Had told Qabil to let their destination slip in an attempt to stall her escape and keep her out of the woods. He didn’t want her running through swamps, tangling with dense underbrush and the assortment of wildlife that called them home. Hell, he wanted to teach her caution, not kill her.

“So while you play shadow, we will gather what we need.”

Straightened away from his knees, Xavian rolled his shoulders, stretching stiff muscles. “Take only what we require to get through the winter. And only from those who can afford to have their carts and purses lightened.”

Cristobal snorted. “Assassins with a conscience.”

“Ex-assassins,” he said, well aware of the inherent duplicity in his plan. He wanted a new life, one built on integrity, not theft. But with Afina in the fold, the promise of Vladimir’s coin dried up along with the ability to buy provisions for Drachaven. His newfound standards would have to wait. The lads in his care needed to eat this winter along with everyone else in his new keep.

“Ex...past tense,” Cristobal murmured, the low rumble of his voice tinged with more than simple agreement.

He glanced sideways at his friend, recognizing the emotion in his tone. Xavian felt it too. Gratefulness. A profound sense of gratitude mere words could never express.

With a slow indrawn breath, Xavian tipped his head back, searching for solace in the give and take of the oak’s great canopy. Tree limbs swayed, their gentle murmur a cozy haven for the birds above. They chattered, talking to one another just as the silence engulfing him and Cristobal spoke, telling stories, reminding them both of what had been.

After a time, the painful hush grew too great, and Xavian broke through the quiet. “’Twill be on the morrow. She’s quick and will use the crowded marketplace to cover her tracks.”

“Mayhap.” Cristobal cleared his throat then raised a brow. “Care to wager?”

“’Tisn’t a game, my friend,” he said, his voice soft with warning. His comrade’s gaze narrowed on him, no doubt wondering why he refused to take the bet. He and Cristobal always wagered. ’Twas their habit, one they both enjoyed, but Xavian didn’t want to play this time. It didn’t sit well with him. He disliked making sport of Afina, trivializing what would cause her pain. “She will suffer before she accepts us and her new life.”

Cristobal’s brow rose a fraction, his silence as deafening as the clash of wooden swords in front of them. Unease pricked Xavian’s spine, senses honed by years of stealth and death balking at the thorough examination. He understood the calculated hush well. His friend wanted an explanation—wished to know why he cared about Afina’s feelings. He stayed silent. How could he explain what he didn’t understand himself?

His friend straightened away from the oak. “I will inform everyone of the plan.”

“Cristobal.” He glanced away from the basswood block and met his friend’s gaze. “Stay sharp. The closer we come to Drachaven, the greater the danger.”

Cristobal cursed. “Halál.”

“Aye. He’s sent two, and failed twice.”

Frowning, Xavian turned the figurine over in his hand and cut the outline of a leg along its flank. A canny old goat, Halál had the instincts of a raptor—a bird of prey so vicious it took apart its prey while still alive. He refused to become his next meal, regardless of the power that sat behind the old man. The Teutonic Knights could go to hell, along with Al Pacii, the covert death squad they financed.

“The next will be more skilled and better prepared.”

“No doubt,” his friend said, sighing as he tipped his head back. “Henrik, mayhap?”

Jesu, he hoped not. “’Tis possible.”

“We’ll be ready.”

Xavian nodded but said naught, the idea of fighting Henrik riding him hard. Of equal skill, the fight would be difficult in more ways than one. His heart wouldn’t be in it.

Hell, ’twas an understatement.

He had no desire to kill a man he considered his brother. But reality came knocking. Halál wanted him dead for deserting Al Pacii. The old man hated the fact he hadn’t broken him, couldn’t control him. The defeat signaled weakness, something Halál never accepted. The bastard would send assassin after assassin until they accomplished their mission—took his head and those of his men.

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His brow furrowed, Cristobal crouched and picked up an acorn. Staring at the nut, he rolled it on the pads of his fingertips. “One other thing...’tis about the woman.”

“She is not to be touched.”

“Your interest has been noted. None of the men will bother her.” Balanced on the balls of his feet, a smile tugged the corners of his friend’s mouth. He lobbed the acorn over a shrub and into the forest. “The question then becomes...will you?”

The traitor in Xavian’s trews twitched, relishing the suggestion.

The tip of his knife stilled against wood and his attention strayed to Afina. Jesu, he would love to bother her, each morning and every night. He swallowed, an image of her under him, legs wrapped around his waist, spine bowed in supplication while he suckled her nipples ripped through his mind. A fine tremor rolled through him, his arousal so strong he ached to lay her down and love her into oblivion. Taking a deep breath, he tore his gaze from the beauty across the clearing and, reaching for self-mastery, drilled Cristobal with a glare.

“Why not, Ram?” he asked, his brow raised in challenge. “You deserve happiness.”

He shook his head. Nay, he didn’t. No one knew that better than Cristobal. They shared the same curse, the one that blotted the soul, leaving a stain so dark ’twas impenetrable. Too much blood had been spilled, and no amount of wishing would wash his hands clean. Afina deserved better than a man God would never forgive.

“Xavian,” Cristobal said, his quiet tone pushing for an answer.

“Happiness belongs to other men. ’Tis too late for that...for me.”

“Ma rahat. That’s yak ****, and you know it.” Dark eyes intent, Cristobal pushed to his feet, his attention on Afina. He watched her stir the pot perched over the fire, helping Qabil prepare their meal. “If you will not do it for yourself then consider this...take a woman of your own and the men will follow suit. Drachaven needs families, not assassin-monks if it is to become what you want. Lead by example, my friend, and the rest will follow.”

Xavian tensed as the comment struck. Jesu, a direct hit. He wanted Drachaven to be something different...something more. He longed for a home; a place where children played and laughed. Where they were safe, not brutalized by war, tortured by others, or forced to kill *****rvive.

He raked a hand through his hair, struggling to banish the memories. One by one, he forced taut muscles to unlock, vowing to make his dream a reality.

Cristobal was wrong. The men would do as he said, not as he did.

It wouldn’t be difficult to persuade them to take women of their own and raise their families at Drachaven. He could have what he wanted without visiting his sins on a lass and any child they created together. Leadership meant directing others, giving them a greater purpose, not abandoning what he knew to be right. He needed his convictions. They kept him strong, and he refused to relinquish his beliefs for a lass who stirred his blood. Now all he needed to do was hold firm to the plan and stay the hell out of Afina’s bed.

The knife in his hand stopped Afina cold. Her eyes on the wicked six-inch blade, she swallowed hard, trying to understand...

Why was Xavian always armed to the teeth?

It was unseemly. They were camped, for the goddess’s sake...in the middle of nowhere, far from anyone or anything, mean-looking men and a forest surrounding them. Did the man never rest? Let his guard down a bit?

No, of course not. That would make her approach too easy.

His strategy wasn’t subtle. It was outright obvious—bold in a way only Xavian could manage. He wanted her off balance. Comfortable enough to settle in, afraid enough to pull what little confidence she possessed from its moorings.

Afina smoothed out a frown. But worse than all that? His tactics were working, making doubt seep between the cracks of her resolve.

Using her eyelashes to shield her gaze, she studied him from her position fireside. Beautiful man. So unfair: his handsome looks, the soothing timbre of his voice, his decadent smell, and the alluring strength of his body. Too bad the lovely package hid a steely determination more deadly than the blades on his back.

Well, there was naught for it. The warm comfort he wove around her could go hang itself. She must hold tight to the plan.

Wiping her damp palms on her skirt, Afina gathered her healing satchel. She wished there was another choice. Some other way, but wishing for another path wouldn’t supply the answers she needed.

But, goddess help her. Getting anywhere near Xavian wasn’t a good idea. She didn’t want to touch him—or feel the flutter his proximity provoked—but tending his arm presented an opportunity. One she couldn’t forego. Besides, it was useless to fight her sister’s legacy. Bianca had done her job well, instilling her with a healing spirit. And now? The dratted thing wouldn’t let her leave alone. Not until she tended his wound and made sure Xavian healed without complication.

She squeezed Qabil’s shoulder and pushed to her feet. Wooden spoon in hand, he stopped stirring and turned big brown eyes on her. He raised both brows.

She patted him and raised her bag. “The healer calls.”

“Aye, my lady,” he said, his voice soft, his gaze flicking in Xavian’s direction. “My thanks for your help.”

Afina nodded, resisting the need to sweep the curl from his forehead. He was a sweet boy; a gentle soul on the cusp of manhood. But in his eyes she recognized the ravages of horror, a banked fear she felt herself and yearned to heal. Her brow puckered as she wondered about his wariness. Boys his age should be happy and carefree. Qabil, for all his gentleness, was neither of those things.

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After a moment she gave in to the urge, reached out, and smoothed his hair back. Color swept his high cheekbones, but he allowed her touch. Leaned in the way a cat would when scratched behind the ears, almost as though he craved the tender contact.

She swallowed the lump in her throat. “I’ll return in a bit.”

His chin dipped and, head low, the shyness he wore like a cloak returned. The submissive position knocked at her heart, and of a sudden she knew what had been done to him. He’d been beaten down...stripped of dignity and worth. Of all the things that made a person strong, told them who they were and what they would become.

Her hand clenched, working on the leather satchel as she watched him turn back to the stew. A deep sorrow filled the space between her ribs, circling her heart, before she slung the strap over her shoulder and headed toward the lip of the clearing.

Was Xavian responsible for the boy’s con***ion? She hoped not, couldn’t imagine him being cruel. He’d been so patient with her, had accepted her resistance with a gentleness that both startled and lured. So different from her mother, from the force and drag of her keen temper and vicious ways.

The memory slapped.

Afina flinched inside, fighting to hold the awfulness at bay. But like the rising sun, the blinding light came, reminding her of her time in the Order and the terrible expectations that had ground her into dust. She was not so different from Qabil, knew the cost of clawing her way back to the surface after being dragged under.

That her mother had been responsible for her drowning—the one person Afina should have been able to trust not to hurt her—was unbearable. Forcing one foot in front of the other, she crossed the dell, fighting through the ice coating her insides. She would never do that to Sabine, would never hold her in so little regard. A mother nurtured, protected, stood firm for her child. ’Twas another truth her sister had taught her. The lesson was deep and abiding, even though Afina knew she would never measure up.

She stood flawed, a poor imitation of Bianca: an abysmal substitute for Sabine, for their situation and for the man who believed she held a healer’s skills.

She should be here. Bianca, not me. Never me.

An ache took root at the base of her skull, the loss so heavy Afina struggled to carry it. She didn’t want to talk to anyone, least of all Xavian. He was too astute for her to hide her restless urges and wounded spirit. What would he do when he learned of her lie? How could she prevent him from discovering her secrets?

Answers escaped her as she came to the point of no return. She couldn’t turn tail and run now. Xavian had spotted her, and now that he had, pride wouldn’t let her retreat.

Black birds with red-tipped wings swooped overhead, flitting from branch to branch. Afina followed their progress, letting their cheerful song lead the way to the man seated on the moss-covered log.

Xavian’s gaze swept her face. “What troubles you, draga?”

Searing pain struck, arcing across her chest. The need to blurt the truth warred with common sense. She wanted to tell him so badly. But the words wouldn’t come. She couldn’t allow it and hope *****rvive. No soul baring would happen here. No communion of heart and mind. Instead she dropped her bag at his feet, and between one breath and the next? Turned the tide, easing into a stream of questions designed to unearth his motives. For her and Sabine. All the true reasons behind their kidnapping.

“What did you do to that boy?”

“Qabil?” His tone was quiet yet somehow deafening at the same time. It took up all the space inside her head and...Hmm, she loved his voice. The deep timbre never failed to warm her. If only...

Afina cut the thought off at the knees. “If onlys” weren’t permitted today—or any other day for that matter. Scrambling to control her reaction to him, she took refuge in irritation and glared at him.

His lips twitched. “Naught.”

“Am I the only one to be honest here?” she asked, plunking her hands on her hips. “He is afraid.”

“He told you that?”

“No, but a blind man could see—”

“’Twill take time for him to feel safe, Afina. He has been with me but weeks.” Holding her gaze, he studied her, something intangible—something gentle—thawing the ice chips in his eyes. ’Twas like being caressed; a nonphysical touch that stroked her in places she’d never been touched before.

“Oh, I...” She paused as the urge to touch him in return shimmered through her, sending a silent call. Her body rippled, begging her to answer, to curl into his warmth and let him melt the ice encasing her heart. “What happened to him?”

“You’ve no wish to know.”

Yes, she did. “Has he no family?”

“His family sold him to the highest bidder...into hell,” he said, his voice so low she barely heard him. But she didn’t need the words to see his anger. He gripped the hilt of his blade so tight, his knuckles turned white. “Calm your healer’s heart, Afina. He will recover.”

She stared at him. He seemed so certain. A desperate urge rolled through her. The heavy weight pressed down on her chest, suffocating her with the need to know. How would he heal? How did one recover from brutality? She wanted to know for Qabil. But most of all, she wanted to ask for herself. How did he know?

His expression sharpened, his eyes so pale they became almost colorless. Locked inside his intensity, her windpipe contracted and she couldn’t force the question past her throat. He held her there, time ticking, allowing her to wonder before he said, “Because I did, lass. That’s how.”

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A broken breath rushed from her lungs. The goddess be saved. Who had dared to hurt him?

The tightness banding her chest eased and empathy moved in, infecting her with the need to soothe him. Ridiculous as far as impulses went. He was too tough to ever need her compassion. Her soft heart was like a rampaging disease: painful, unwanted, debilitating. And she needed to find a cure before it killed her.

Well, that, and the nearest escape route.

She must get away from him. Now. Before all that crippling emotion took over and left her a willing captive.

Willing.

The word clanged inside her head. Blessed goddess give her strength. ’Twould be so easy to give in, to let him take care of her, protect her, give her a home. He was so strong in all the right ways. His strength of spirit drew her, planting ideas she couldn’t allow to flourish. Vladimir wanted her, enough to kill anyone standing between him and the throne. Enough to pay well and bring death to any who aided her.

With bone-deep certainty, Afina knew she was better off on her own. Alone. Insulated. Safe from all those who craved the coin and would betray her to gain it. No matter how much Drachaven’s thick walls appealed to her, she refused to bring that kind of trouble to Xavian’s gate. There were other boys involved...innocent ones. Qabil had told her so. The very reason they planned to stop at the bazaar, to gather supplies for the winter months.

Where would she be, Afina wondered, when the bitter cold and snow let loose? Snug and warm with a roof over her head or frozen in a barren field? Her heart dropped, the familiar worry churning her stomach until she felt sick.

Afina swallowed the burn, taking solace in her strategy. Blessed be, she hoped it worked, that Qabil’s slip of the tongue—and the sure knowledge it provided—would give her the advantage on the morrow. The marketplace at the base of the mountains was the perfect place to make her escape. With so many people thronging the vendors, the men would be occupied trading for goods and packing supplies. Their distraction would equal her freedom. A freedom that included distance from Xavian and all the safety he provided.

Her bottom lip trembled a little.

Xavian reached out. He caught her chin on the tips of his fingers. With a gentle nudge, he turned her face to his. “What?”

Afina swallowed past thump in her throat. “Nothing.”

“Liar,” he said, his thumb drifting over the curve of her jaw.

The soft stroke sent a wave of heat through her, soothing tense muscles and her sore heart. With a frown, she pulled away from his touch. She couldn’t accept his comfort. It was weakness come to life and the surest way to become snared in his net. “I am tired. That is all.”

He arched a brow, laying her deceit bare with a look.

Her eyes narrowed, she warned him with a look. The message was clear...leave me be. “How is your arm?”

He studied her for a moment longer, his gaze probing. Silence stretched as he fingered the knife hilt, turning it over in his hand. “Fine.”

Afina rolled her eyes. “Have you changed the dressing?”

He shrugged.

“You haven’t changed it?”

“You are the healer,” he said, something light and altogether untrustworthy in his tone. “’Tis your duty, not mine.”

Confounded man. His wound was no doubt infected, and he was teasing her. She grabbed her satchel. “It will not heal if you ignore it, Xavian.”

With a flick of his wrist, he sent the blade deep into the dirt between his feet and tilted his forearm for her inspection. She grumbled. He smiled, his mouth kicking up at the corners. The enticing display caused muscles low in her belly to flutter. Wretched stomach. She really must get a handle on that. Otherwise the unruly flock winging its way across her abdomen might fly her right into hot water.

For some reason, her imagination took flight, supplying a mental picture rife with possibilities. Bathtubs and scented oils...and Xavian. Heat prickled across her cheekbones and, clambering to cover her reaction, she knelt beside him, making certain to stay clear of his thigh. The last thing she needed was more contact. Desire already sped through her veins, kicking her heart into a gallop, and she’d barely touched him.

Keeping her face averted, she attacked the knot just below his elbow. Her hands brushed his skin. She suppressed a shiver laced with wonder. By the goddess, he was well-made. So powerful. All heat and hard muscle. She bit her bottom lip, tried not to notice, and forced her hands to move.

End over end, she unwound the thin strip until she reached his wrist. With a flick, she tossed the bandage aside. He caught it in midair. She flinched, startled by his speed, and watched him lay the linen over one of his thighs, transfixed by the long, graceful lines of his hands.

Beautifully masculine hands. Strong hands, capable of protecting, comforting...and pleasuring. Afina blinked. Pleasuring? All things goodness and light, what was the matter with her?

Xavian shifted, nudging her with the outside of his thigh. Her gaze leapt to his face. A crease between his brows, he frowned at his injury.

Releasing a breath in a slow rush, she turned her attention to the gash on his forearm. She scowled at him. “It’s inflamed.”

“Not badly.” He flexed his fist, stretching the stitches.

“Stop that,” she said, her tone snappish. “You will only make it worse.”

Both brows rose, but he obeyed and uncurled his fingers. “As you wish.”

Afina wasn’t fooled by his quick compliance. The dolt found her reaction amusing, but she couldn’t find anything to laugh about. He was fighting an infection. The sort of thing that could get out of hand quickly should she apply the wrong elixir or if the last batch of salve proved ineffective. What if she hadn’t made ******** strong enough and the poison seeped from the wound into his blood?