[English] KNIGHT AWAKENED

Knight Awakened
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And wasn’t that just what she needed; another failure to add to the pile.

Pressure banded around Afina’s chest as dread linked with concern. Bianca’s words drifted through her mind. Stay focused. Determine the damage. Treat the infection then stay the course. Giving herself a mental nod, she followed her sister’s advice and, with a gentle touch, pressed her thumb and forefinger on either side of the cut. No seepage. A good sign. She bit the inside of her cheek and shuffled on her knees, changing her angle to check each stitch. Warmth slid across the nape of her neck. Intent on the wound, it took her a moment to realize the heat came from Xavian’s palm.

She stiffened, the unexpected touch forcing her retreat. His grip firmed, holding her in place. The blue flame of his eyes caught hers, and his hand moved, massaging the tension from her stiff muscles.

“’Twill be all right, lass.” His palm warm against her nape, he delved into her hair, the pleasing rub of his fingers difficult to resist. “I have had much worse and recovered without difficulty.”

“What happened in the past is not at issue.” With a long sigh, she leaned into the stroking, even as she chastened herself for allowing it. She shouldn’t welcome his touch, should tell him to leave her alone and move away. The problem? She enjoyed it too much to stop him. It was so nice to be touched without expectation...without worry of reprisal. In this moment, he meant nothing more than to soothe her. He was safe and, like it or not, she found that enthralling. “You were not in my care then.”

“Fair enough,” he said, his low tone alive with approval before he withdrew his hand.

A chill replaced his warmth at the base of her neck then washed out in a wave of goose bumps along her spine. She blinked, feeling lost for a moment, at sea with her lifeline drifting out of reach. Panic closed in, making her want to follow his retreat. Afina drew away instead, breaking the spell surrounding them.

Diving into her satchel, she pretended to dig, searching for the vial already in her hand. A buffer. She needed one, needed space between them before she did something stupid. Like lean in and thank him for his kindness with a kiss.

Her gaze drifted back to his lips. Good goddess. He was temptation and sin, male in a way that defied description. But she couldn’t do it. Couldn’t trade the hope of her future—and his life at the hands of her enemies—for a moment in his arms. She wasn’t foolish, or mayhap brave enough.

With a frown, she put the witch hazel and a linen square to work. Silence dripped from the tree limbs above while she cleaned the wound, the hush so complete the wind was still, giving the leaves a momentary reprieve from the constant push and pull.

As the stillness folded in around them, she found herself falling into his rhythm: the easy in and out of his breathing, the murmur of leather and the special blend of spice that made up Xavian. It was a little hypnotic, like the Order’s temple mass: the echo and incense and murmuring chant. String by taut string, Afina unwound and let herself drift into a place she used to know but hadn’t visited in years. It felt good, as though she were sinking into a cushion of clouds or—

“From where do you hail, Afina?”

The question jarred her and she jumped, even though his voice had been soft. He was digging, using their proximity to find the whys and wherefores of her circumstance before his interference. Drat. She was supposed to be doing that. But somehow the tables had turned, and now she found herself on the wrong side of the question. “Severin...where you found me.”

“Your accent is Transylvanian.”

“Is it?”

“Aye. What took you so far from your home?” He paused then leaned forward and settled his uninjured forearm on his knee. The movement brought his head even with her own, and his heat rolled into her shoulder. “Sabine’s sire, mayhap?”

Her hand paused in mid-dab.

A violent splash of memory washed in around her. Her chest went tight as the mental torrent picked her up and took her with it. As colorful as the paintings on the temple walls, pictures of Bianca surfaced and she remembered: the bright eyes and flushed cheeks, the lightness of spirit, her sister dancing across their tiny cottage each time Bianca returned from meeting her lover. Each time. Every time. The hope and happy glow that made Afina love her sister all the more for her courage, for her trust and generous heart.

“Or mayhap not for love at all. Mayhap you fled with naught but the clothes on your back...to keep yourself and Sabine safe.” He plucked at the sleeve of her gown, giving weight to his theory by scratching at a thread-barren patch in the wool. “Which is it, draga? Love or self-preservation?”

She swallowed. What did Xavian know? Had Vladimir finally crumbled, cast aside his pride, and sent messengers far and wide to ensure her capture? What crime had he accused her of? Was there a price on her head now? But the bigger question, the one that truly mattered...was the promise of Transylvanian gold enough to tempt Xavian?

Afina chewed on the inside of her lip. She should have listened to her instincts and changed her name, cut her hair...something. Anything.

Goddess. Another mistake. More to add to her ever-growing tally.

She was foolish. So stupid to not have played the game in full measure. Now her daughter’s life along with her own was in danger again. All because she’d clung to convention and the past.

But it was too late now. She could give up. Or give in. No surrender. She’d come too far, must hold the line and keep her secrets. “That is none of your—”

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“What does Vladimir want with you?”

Afina felt her core temperature drop, the chill inside her chest expanding by the moment. With a jerk, she yanked her arm from beneath Xavian’s fingers. Lightning quick, he turned his hand and shackled her wrist.

Trapped. Unable to retreat, she twisted her hand, fighting his grip. “Don’t!”

Xavian didn’t let go. Instead he leaned in, using his size as another form of intimidation. “What do you possess that has Barbu frothing at the mouth?”

That name sent shards of terror splintering like glass, ripping her apart. She’d never spoken it out loud, not since her mother’s death. Sure, she’d cursed him silently. Had railed against fate and the raging sea of circumstance she’d been tossed into, but she had never allowed the name into the light of day. A surname of shadows, brutality swirled in each syllable, without the possibility of mercy, and to hear Xavian...to hear him say...Oh, no. She wanted to press her hands to her ears and scream at the injustice, to admonish the goddess for leaving her so alone.

Not that she could. The deity she served wasn’t here to protect her. She must do that herself. “Nothing. I don’t even know who that is.”

“I grow impatient with your lies.”

“I am not lying.”

“Nay?”

“No,” she said, throwing the conviction she didn’t feel into her denial. Giving him a pointed look, she tugged at her wrist. Her strategy was simple. Waylay his suspicions by discounting each and every one.

Xavian was a bloodhound with the truth. He took his cues from her body as much as her words, weighing her responses, tracking her tension. To divert him she needed to relax and feign indifference. And so she did, letting her mouth curve, pulling away a little at a time, asking without words to be released.

His eyes narrowed.

She widened hers, the picture of innocence. Please, oh, please, let him be fooled.

“A word to the wise, love...” he trailed off, tone full of warning.

She pulled on her arm again. His grip loosened. Her heart in her throat, she turned her wrist, twisting away from his hand.

As her skin slid from beneath his, he murmured, “Be honest with me.”

“Honest?” Really. Sir Skirts-the-Truth wanted her to be honest with him? Afina gave him a pointed look then turned her attention back to his injury and dumped more witch hazel onto the linen. Jamming the stopper on the vial, she flipped it into her satchel and went at his arm. He grunted. She lessened the pressure, gentling her touch, hoping to distract him. “I am your captive, Xavian, nothing more. There is no mystery to solve. No one is after me...and it isn’t any surprise, I’m sure, that I choose not to share my past with the man responsible for my kidnapping.”

“Liberation.”

Hah. Right. There he went again...twisting the truth.

If her “liberation” was to be freeing, why did she feel trapped, tense, in danger of doing something foolish? Like fall in with the thief and forget all about duty. Her pledge to Bianca—to the Order—meant something. A whole kingdom was counting on her, whether they knew it or not. The fact she was ready to toss it aside for safety in the guise of a handsome face and hard body was disgusting.

Afina dabbed at his stitches, making certain the witch hazel reached every bit of inflamed skin. And how absurd was that? He caused her pain, made her falter until her convictions ended in a messy pile at her feet. And yet she remained gentle, seeing to his injury as though he was beloved, of such value she offered all her meager skill to ensure his recovery.

She fumbled with the linen in her hand, twisting it to find a clean spot. The clumsy movement screamed of ineptitude, reminding her she was unfit for both her duty and her sister’s calling. Even so, she continued to rearrange the cloth, trying to deny that in this moment she valued him more than she did herself. But the proof lay in her actions: in the precision of her hands, the focus of her mind, and the heat in her heart.

“Afina,” he said, his tone just shy of a growl.

She swiped at the corner of her eye, wanting to growl back. But her voice didn’t come when called and she stayed silent, erecting barriers, shoring up defenses to cushion the blows from the battering ram he hammered against the brittle doors of her inner sanctum.

“Draga, I...” He cleared his throat, his attention trained on Kazim and Sabine across the clearing. “I cannot protect you if you will not let me.”

“Be quiet!” She tried to sound strong, but her voice wavered, giving her away. He opened his mouth. But she’d had enough, was stretched way too thin. And before he spoke, Afina pointed at him, put her index finger right in his face. “Unless you wish to tend this yourself...be quiet.”

Blue eyes narrowed on her, his mouth snapped shut.

An ache throbbed through her limbs, as though she’d been bruised from the inside out. Yet even as she suffered the pain Afina kept her gaze steady, her finger even with his nose to ensure he stayed silent. A muscle jumped along his jaw, and although he didn’t look away, he didn’t say another word.

Thank the goddess.

She didn’t want to talk anymore.

Tears pricking the corners of her eyes, Afina lowered her hand and glanced away. The coming winter be damned. She needed to get away from Xavian before her courage crumbled...before the urge to stay and accept his protection overcame good sense and death came to claim them all.

CHAPTER SIX

The elusive son of a bitch was good. The best, really...if he took himself out of the equation. Henrik couldn’t help but admire Ram’s efficiency. He’d gotten to her first. Had tracked and taken Vladimir’s prize, mayhap less than a day ago.

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Henrik’s gaze shifted from the scarred tabletop to the rickety stools then to the dirt floor. He followed the swirling pattern left by the fingers of a broom, the curling strokes as old as the ash in the hearth. One corner of his mouth turned up. Neat. Clean. Not a trace of the person who had occupied the sweet little hovel. He fingered one of the hooks nailed into the support beam. He’d even taken the hammock. His admiration widened into a smile.

Christ, he’d always liked Ram, even when they’d been trading fists.

With one last sweep of the one-room shack, Henrik slipped out the door and latched it behind him. His attention on the ground, he tracked east toward the large beech trees. Beneath fall’s splendor, faint grooves marked the earth, hidden by fallen leaves and windblown vegetation. He stopped beneath one of the canopies. Thick tree limbs swayed above his head, rustling in the gloom. A storm was coming, a violent one that thickened the air and blackened the sky as he crouched to study the impressions.

Someone had lain here. The woman?

He frowned. Had she struggled against capture? Henrik snorted, hoping she’d given Ram all the trouble the bastard deserved. He didn’t trust anything that came too easy. ’Twas the reason he wanted to kill that damned priest. Gutless, yellow-bellied arse.

With a soft growl, he pushed to his feet, fighting the urge to go back and give Father Marion his due. He was a priest, for Christ’s sake. Yet, one look from him and the good father had lost all faith and betrayed the lass—pointing him in her direction like a Transylvanian hunting hound. Goddamn, he hated cowards. Their kind made his belly turn, and the fact the milksop wet his robes on Henrik’s way out was only a small consolation.

He shook his head and snapped his fingers. The soft sound called Tabi to attention. The bay roan he favored lifted her head and, with a light step, followed him into the forest. He shifted through the shadows on the trail, careful not to step on the recent boot marks, Tabi moving quietly in his wake, until he reached a small clearing. A stream, mayhap five feet in width, skirted the edge of the small dell, meandering through twisted tree trunks and over rocks. Eager for a drink, his mount nudged him with the side of her head.

With a gentle hand, he stroked her soft muzzle. “’Tis safe enough. Go, Tabi...drink your fill.”

She snorted, the sound friendly, and bumped him again before heading to the water’s edge. Henrik watched her for a moment then turned his attention to the dark earth. Smaller boot impressions joined the larger ones surrounded by eight sets of distinct hoof prints. A sixth traveled with Ram and the famed four who followed him. Henrik grunted. A boy or an apprentice mayhap?

No matter. Their mistake would be his advantage.

A lad would be easier to track. Without an assassin’s skill, the boy would lack the ability to blend into the shadows and disappear in crowded places. As good as a red flag waved in front of a maddened bull. The woman’s presence would aid too. Not many missed a pretty face.

Afina Lazar.

He envied her the last name. Envied Ram too. How had he managed to keep his surname? In the shadowed halls of Al Pacii, no one had been permitted the right. Halál preferred the anonymous, enjoyed stripping every pupil of their identity until naught remained but a hollow husk...a fraction of what they’d been upon arrival at Grey Keep.

One session with Halál and all abandoned the name given them at birth. None withstood the bright light and sharp blades of the old man. None but Ram. He’d never surrendered his birthright, no matter how many times Halál had strapped him to that damned slab.

Images of his own initiation, wrists and ankles shackled, arms and legs spread wide on the blue stone, streamed into Henrik’s head. He still felt the chill and bite of the blade against his skin. Sometimes he woke from a dead sleep on a silent scream, scraping at his chest, feeling his blood run hot against cold steel. How the hell had Ram endured it time and again?

Tough bastard.

Truth? He respected the hell out of Ram, but that didn’t mean he wouldn’t track him. Fate turned, spinning full circle. There was a certain symmetry in the circumstances. The best hunter becoming the hunted. The wronged seeking the right. No matter their closeness in Al Pacii and Grey Keep, he would hold his former comrade accountable for his crimes. As in all things, Halál would have his due, the lass would be retrieved, and Ram would get what he deserved for his desertion.

Efficiency, precision, and a challenge. Henrik relished them all, and as he pushed to his feet and called Tabi from the stream, restless anticipation boiled in his gut. He could hardly wait to catch the traitor.

The bazaar at Ismal was a great ravening beast. All teeth and talon with the attitude to match. Thank Christ. ’Twas about time. Xavian required a distraction, one the busy marketplace would provide. The seething underbelly of humanity teemed with the unscrupulous. Thieves and well-armed merchants together in a swell of depravity where all looked out for themselves and tried to swindle each other.

’Twas perfect: the bread to his stew.

Drawing rein, Xavian absorbed the swill of aggression until it filled the void in his chest. He needed a fight, a vicious, bloody one. A knuckle-bruising, body-crunching brawl before he did the unthinkable.

Like force Afina to spill every detail. Force her to admit her time with Bodgan meant naught and that her heart remained untouched, ready to be given without reservation.

La dracu. He was a fool.

He wanted to spar with her again, if only to see her hazel eyes flash. Jesu, there was something wrong with him. He adored her temper. All that passion. The spark of her fury had lit the fuse on his arousal and made him hard, ready to take her, to dominate. He wanted to use his body to rock hers in*****bmission, to ease the anger with pleasure while he showed her how a man claimed his woman and tunneled into her soul.

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Everywhere he looked he saw a place to lay her down. Atop his horse, in the long field grass, in a hidden grove along the trail they’d ridden to reach the marketplace. He craved her warmth. The instant she’d stuck her finger in his face and told him to be quiet, the desire simmering beneath his surface had exploded. A raging wildfire that burned him from the inside out. Hell, his skin was practically steaming.

Had the ache been naught but physical, he could have ignored the twitch, buried it along with all the other have nots—all the things taken from him in his life. Con***ioned for pain, he excelled at denial, thrived on the challenge of self-imposed limitation. He determined the course, his body obeyed. But not with her. Her strength of spirit unhinged him, opening a great yawning hole in his breastbone.

And rahat, it hurt.

No one spoke to him like that. Not even Halál had dared. But she had, eyes full of heat, all those soft curves tense as she pressed for a fight. A wee scrapper. Aye, ’twas what she was, and what he needed—wanted—with a yearning that cut so deep he bled more than lust. He bled for connection: for closeness and affection and trust.

Trust.

Christ, he wanted hers. Wanted her to lay her life’s story open like a book and trust him to keep her safe. Wanted to slit Barbu’s throat and watch his essence drain until naught but emptiness reflected in the bastard’s eyes. But more than anything, he wanted to mark her with his possession until every man who saw her knew she belonged to him.

And wasn’t that the height of witlessness?

She was not his, and never would be, but that didn’t stop the images of her spread beneath him, of her stroking his body and murmuring softly in the aftermath.

“Rahat.” Easing his grip on the reins, Xavian settled his warhorse.

“Tight...you’re wound far too tight,” Cristobal murmured, bringing his big gelding alongside. One brow raised, his friend tossed him a look of inquiry. “Planning to kill someone here?”

“God willing.”

Cristobal snorted. “Falling short of the ex-assassin you claim to be, aren’t you?”

Xavian growled.

“Skip the fight...bed her instead.”

“Hell,” he muttered as temptation struck him with the force of an assailant’s fist.

Xavian almost buckled beneath the blow...almost gave in to the urge to look over his shoulder. Afina was there, behind Andrei, to the left. Like a witch’s fork tuned to water, he was drawn to her source. Be damned, he swore he could smell her, that light, diabolical fragrance that was all woman. His knees tightened on Mayhem’s sides. The warhorse protested, shying sideways until he bumped into Cristobal.

His friend’s smirk widened to a grin. “What has the devil to do with it?”

Shifting in the saddle, Xavian brought his mount under control while debating the merits of knocking the smug expression off Cristobal’s face. ’Twould feel good, and at the very least his comrade would give him a good fight, unlike some inept merchant or oily criminal.

He tossed a nasty look in Cristobal’s direction. “’Tis whose company you will be keeping if you do not stop pestering me.”

“She is no maiden,” his friend said, pushing the issue while taking one step closer to the fiery pit.

Feeling as though he already had one foot in the flames, Xavian broke into a cold sweat. He clenched his teeth, struggling to hide the fact Cristobal had hit his mark. His friend knew he never went anywhere near virgins. He was sullied, black deep inside, not fit to touch their snowy white innocence. Aye, Afina might not be a maiden, but...

Rahat. Was she any less pure?

His conscience stretched, awakening with a firm nay. The problem? Her lack of maidenhead blurred the line between right and wrong, putting her firmly in the field of possibility. Fair game for the likes of him.

Which, of course, roused the carnal side of his nature.

“Take her, Ram.” His expression serious, Cristobal urged him in the direction his body ached to go. “’Twill give you the ease you seek and save some fool from your fists.”

“I am permitted but one?” Xavian glared at his friend before nudging Mayhem toward the stable they stood alongside.

“Mayhap a dozen, but then our healer will be forced to see to your wounds, in which case you will end where you should have begun. At her tender mercy,” Cristobal said, his argument gaining ground by the moment. “’Tis a vicious circle, my friend. One that will only lead back to her.”

Xavian scowled and dismounted in front of the double-wide stable doors. Unseeing, he stared at the rough grey boards of the barn, wondering why the meddlesome arse he called friend always made good sense. ’Twas irritating to forever be on the receiving end of a well-launched argument. “Bugger off, Cristobal.”

Flipping his leg over the horn, Cristobal’s feet hit the dark earth beside him without making a sound. “Nay, ’tis what you should be doing...with our little healer.”

The comment pushed Xavian over the edge.

With a snarl, he clipped Cristobal on the shoulder, warning him to assume a fighting stance. Cristobal countered with a growl and, crouching low, spun to deliver a solid kick to his ribs. He absorbed the pain, welcomed the familiar and entered the ring: an assassin, a fighter, a taker of lives. These things he knew, could navigate without difficulty or defeat. The feelings Afina stirred were foreign, a force he didn’t know how to fight. ’Twas a weakness he couldn’t abide.

But here, trading fists with Cristobal felt right and good and as satisfying as hell.

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With a quick shift, he slammed his elbow into the side of his friend’s head. Cristobal hit one knee. A woman shouted in dismay. His men bellowed their encouragement. Xavian took no notice and, balling his fist, swung, catching Cristobal’s chin with a knuckle-crunching uppercut. As his comrade’s head snapped back, he planted his foot in the center of his chest and pushed, sending him sprawling in the dirt. Cristobal laughed, rolled, and, flipping to his feet, assumed the ready position.

“Stop,” a woman yelled, her voice close yet somehow far away. “Stop it!”

Focus absolute, power pounded through Xavian’s veins, pushing all but the here and now from his mind. He growled. As the satisfying sound bubbled up his throat, he bared his teeth and circled left, countering Cristobal.

Small hands with cold fingers grabbed his upper arm.

Xavian snarled, temper wild as he whirled to dislodge the intruder. She hung on, arms roped around him, chest pressed

flush to his right bicep. Hazel eyes wide with fear and confusion met his rage.

“Stop. Please, Xavian...stop.”

Afina.

Her name rang in his head as she repeated her appeal. The soft plea broke through, washed over him, and turned his aggression into another kind of heat. His growl ended on a groan. Burned raw by her touch—by the concern in her gaze—his control slipped, sliding into the inferno blazing inside his chest. Lost, beyond redemption, he sank into need, picked her up, and carried her through the stable doors and into shadow.

CHAPTER SEVEN

The desperate gleam in Xavian’s eyes scared her to death. The hard press of muscle locked around her and his pace didn’t help much either. Each long stride took Afina further from safety, into the cool shadows of the stable and closer to full-blown panic.

Had she overstepped her bounds? Was he angry with her for interfering?

She bit the inside of her cheek and looked up into his face.

He didn’t seem to be. Anger no longer lined his features. But then, nothing did. And his contained expression frightened her more than his fury would have. Something churned just before the surface, suppressed emotion she couldn’t see but knew was there.

“Xavian?” She kept her voice soft as she looped her arms around his neck. Startling him wasn’t a good idea. He was wound too tight, and she was too vulnerable...within striking distance. Not that she thought he would hurt her. But honestly? Better to be safe than sorry. “Please, stop.”

He slowed, the echo of his footfalls fading as he halted in the middle of the aisle. She held her breath, listening to the thump of his heart as he tightened his grip under her knees and turned his face into her hair. Each one of his breaths whispered over her temple, the hot rush sweet with a hint of mint.

Not knowing what else to do, her hand stole to the nape of his neck, seeking, stroking to ease his tension. He murmured, pressed closer, curling around her as though he needed her touch as much as he needed to breathe. A small pang echoed in the center of her chest. Something was terribly wrong. He was hurting. The strong, brave warrior was in pain, and she couldn’t stand it. Couldn’t let it continue. The healer in her wouldn’t allow it.

“Please, tell me what is wrong,” she whispered, fingers playing in his hair, sifting through the thickness. Good goddess, it was a wonder, the softness. She’d never imagined a man could have such beautiful hair. Not that she was noticing. No, not really. She touched to reassure, not to—

Drat. Now she was lying to herself.

She ordered her wayward hands to still. When neither listened, she returned her attention to Xavian. “Let me help you.”

A fine tremor racked his large frame.

She tightened her grip. “Put me down so I can help.”

“Nay,” he said, his voice half-growl, half-groan before he shuddered and moved forward, continuing into the interior of the stable. “You’re mine.”

Mine? Or rather, his? What the devil did that mean?

“Ah, Xavian, I think mayhap...” She trailed off, catching a glimpse of movement in her periphery. Three stable lads, pitchforks hanging from limp hands, gaped at them, mouths wide open. Wonderful. Now they had an audience. She glanced at Xavian, knowing he wouldn’t approve. He was having some sort of breakdown, and no man worth his weight would relish witnesses for that.

Afina hung on as he took a sharp right at the end of the aisle. Two strides later, and he’d walked them through a doorway and into the tack room beyond. Sacks of grain occupied one corner, fat companions to the array of bridles hanging on the chamber walls. The long leather strips hovered above saddle horses, some in use, some patiently awaiting the weight of their next charge. With little room to maneuver, Xavian stopped in the center of the room and, one arm still around her, dropped her feet to the floor.

As she found her balance, he murmured, “La dracu, you feel good...so warm.”

The whispered words tickled the side of her neck then rolled like a dark wave down her spine. His voice was decadent. The resonance one of perfect pitch; deep enough to tie her up, light enough to make her want to relax and trust and give. But two years of running—of Vladimir—had ruined any chance of that.

Her hands flat against his chest, she pushed, needing distance. He tightened his grip, shackling her against him while he inhaled, burrowing deep to press his lips to her pulse point.

The contact—mouth to neck, skin to skin—hit her like a thunderstorm, and heat gathered with an alarming rumble. “I, ah...Are you all right?”

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“I’m so cold inside...so cold.”

Cold? Afina frowned and rubbed his upper arms. Odd, he didn’t feel chilled. He radiated heat, a pleasant warmth that roped hard muscle and enlivened the surface of his skin. A fever mayhap? That would explain his strange behavior. She’d seen it many times. The crazed look in glazed-over eyes, the chill deep inside a person even though they burned with sickness. A terrible fear gripped her. Was Xavian’s infection out of hand? Was this the beginning of the blood disease that so frightened her?

If he suffered from the ailment, she needed to know...right now. Her healing satchel was woefully in need of restocking, and without the proper herbs he would suffer before the poison ran its course and his body fought it off or—

No, she refused to think like that. He was strong. She wouldn’t allow him to die...refused to fail him like she’d done her sister.

“Xavian, look at me,” she said, her tone tight.

One arm nestled against her back, he buried his free hand in her unbound hair, pulling her flush against him. Her fingers curled, and finding the edge of his sleeveless tunic, she shook him. He raised his head, blue eyes glowing with heat that had nothing to do with a fever. Afina froze. She felt her eyes widen and heard her lips part on a strangled gasp. Could he be...what...Good goddess, was he—

“Don’t be afraid. I won’t hurt you.” He cupped her cheek with a warrior-rough palm. Holding her there, his gaze half-searched, half-pleaded as he leaned in and kissed her, whisper-soft. “Please, draga. Warm me...make me forget the cold for a while.”

Afina’s breath got tangled up in the back of her throat. Wonder nipped at her, drowning out the little voice that whispered a warning. Somewhere deep inside she knew she should listen, heed the kernel of fear coiling low in her belly. But the fact he wanted her—the way a man did a woman—trumped good sense, spinning her into a world filled with new possibilities.

She wanted them all, craved the moment of freedom. Longed to let loose, and just once, do what she wanted instead of pleasing someone else.

And Xavian? His desire was the perfect foil.

Without shame or seduction, he asked, leaving the outcome up to her. But what to do...accept his touch or deny her yearning? Ignoring the lust-filled ache would be safer, but curiosity was a powerful thing. And as she stared into his eyes, blue as the Danube, warm as a hot spring, she remembered Bianca. Ever since her sister had danced across their small cottage, Afina had wondered about her secret meetings with Bodgan. Her enjoyment had been obvious, a curious splendor that had left Afina dissatisfied with her own life.

The restlessness hit her full force. It wasn’t fair that everyone knew joy except her. Life had dealt her a series of denials, but not today. Today was about her, about what she needed—what she wanted—and for once, she followed desire, titled her chin up and invited his kiss.

Xavian struggled to draw a full breath. Holy hell, Afina was going to let him. Allow him to lay her down and touch her soft skin, love her the way he wanted—needed—to. He could tell by the way she moved, that subtle shift in weight that brought her a wee bit closer, and the color...Jesu help him, the color. The sweet wave of crimson washed over her cheekbones, a hot rush of feminine arousal that almost leveled him where he stood.

Held fast by her physical response, he swallowed as her eyes dropped, shielding her thoughts behind her lashes. The downward sweep of her gaze branded him, the invisible caress making him squirm while her fingers played across his already too-hot skin.

He was going to come. Right now. In his leathers before he ever got the chance to touch her.

The decadent dreams that plagued his nights front and center in his mind, Xavian pictured her splayed beneath him, wrapped around him, spine arched, mouth open as she screamed in ecstasy. Rahat. He needed to pull himself together. If he didn’t, he’d never get to hear that scream. He’d be finished so fast he’d cut her pleasure short. And he craved her bliss as much as his own, yearned to give her every bit of what he’d imagined her capable of beneath him. Or atop him. Hell, he didn’t care. He’d give her whatever she asked, however she wanted, just as long as he ended up deep inside her.

Just the thought...of her...of him...

A wicked rush swept through him. Xavian groaned, his whole body straining against his fast-slipping control.

“Shh, ’tis all right,” she said, the husky tenor of her voice stringing him even tighter. “Here. Let me warm you.”

And just like that, the dam broke.

His control split wide open, leaving nothing but need in its wake. The rush rolled over him, and before he knew what hit him he was inside her mouth. Kissing her deep, his tongue stroked along her teeth and...Jesu. She tasted better than he’d imagined, a feast of delight without end. And he wanted more. Wanted to savor every bit of her until he glutted himself and left her weak with satiation.

Full of fire, the heat in his veins boiled over as his hands roamed. He explored every curve, caressing her in long, sweeping strokes, unable to decide what he liked best: her sweetly rounded ass, the nip at her waist, or the bounty of her breasts. Hell, he loved every part of her, but settled on the last, slipping his hand between their bodies to cup one of the pair. With a gasp, she twisted against him. He let go of her mouth, eager to watch her as he played with the tightly furled nipple.

She arched and, eyes closed, threw her head back. Unable to resist the invitation, Xavian lowered his head, kissing the curve of her neck as he cupped the lush curve of her behind. Her moan joined his groan, and walking her backward, he headed for the large grain sacks piled in the corner of the chamber. He couldn’t wait to lie her down, to get at her soft skin and the wet heat between her thighs.

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But not like this. Not while he was armed to the teeth and fully clothed.

With a flick, he undid the buckle securing his sword harness and slipped free of the twin blades. As they hit the floor beside the burlap sacks, he returned to her mouth, hungry for more as he attacked the side lacing of his tunic. The instant he was free, he raised his head. Afina whimpered, tightening her grip in his hair as if protesting his departure. He smiled a little, lighter of heart than he’d ever remembered being, then returned, nipping her softly before sliding his tongue between her lips. She sighed, the sound so arousing his shaft throbbed, impatient for the feel of her.

God, she wanted him. ’Twas a miracle, a precious gift that tugged at the tight knot always riding in the center of his chest. He felt himself unravel, slip from gentle to greedy in a heartbeat. Ferocious with need, he cupped her shoulders, released her mouth, and gave her a push. As she tumbled back against the bags of grain, he lifted the leather tunic over his head and tossed it aside.

Landing in a delicious sprawl, color high, hazel eyes wide, she stared up at him.

“Unlace for me, draga,” he said, aware his tone was more plea than command. “Give yourself to me.”

Surprise flared in her eyes. Afina blinked, and Xavian prayed she understood what he was asking. He needed to know she was certain, willing to take him all the way without regret or reprisal. Doubt held no place between them. If she harbored any second thoughts, he had to know now...while he was still able to walk away. Once he touched her, there would be no going back.

She hesitated, her attention straying to his bare chest. He held his breath, forcing himself to endure her scrutiny without moving. After what seemed an eternity, she brought her hands to the lacing running down the front of her gown. The tidy bow sitting atop her breasts gave way and his knees almost followed suit. He locked them to remain standing and watched as she drew the folds wide then toyed with the string holding her chemise closed. The corners of her mouth curved, her focus steady on him, she played, wrapping the tie around her fingertip and pulled...a wee bit, but not enough to expose what lay hidden beneath.

Xavian raised a brow, relishing the playful taunt. “Enjoy teasing, do you?”

“Mayhap...” Her tongue peeked out, leaving a moist trail on her bottom lip. “With you.”

He inhaled hard, loving her response. She understood both her power and appeal. And was prepared to torture him with both. The realization cranked him higher and, unable to hold back, he unlaced his trews and joined her on their makeshift bed. She sighed, burying her hand in his hair, arching against him, bringing him flush into her. As he groaned and settled against her, Xavian murmured to her, praising her welcome, her softness, her desire for him.

Afina hummed and tipped her chin, begging for his kiss. But as much as he wanted to taste her again, Xavian needed something else more. He wanted to see her, touch her, hold the soft, warm weight of her in his hands. So instead of kissing her, he did what she hadn’t and released the tie holding her chemise. His heart hammering like he’d run flat out for a mile, he pushed the linen wide.

Sweet Jesu. She was perfect.

The most beautiful thing he’d ever had the privilege to lay eyes upon.

“Afina,” he murmured, awe in his tone, hand sliding beneath the folds of linen.

Her breath caught as he cupped her, covering her pretty pink nipple with the heat of his palm. The bud furled tighter at the contact, and she twisted a little, as if shocked...as though unaccustomed to being touched. The reaction told him plainly she didn’t accept men with ease—or very often.

His heart went loose in his chest and a burning rush of tenderness lit him up from the inside out. Precious. She was precious. Someone to be cherished and cared for. Someone for his warrior soul to shield and protect. The depth of emotion startled him a bit, but he took no notice, his happiness that she had chosen him to please her too strong to deny.

Dipping his head, he set his mouth to the soft place between her breasts then turned to kiss the tight bud of her nipple. She started, twitching before arching beneath him, begging for more. He hummed, the sound one of satisfaction, and licked the pebbled peak. Her hands flexed in his hair, drawing him closer as he sucked, lightly. God, she was sensitive, exquisitely so. “Been a while, hasn’t it, draga?”

She whispered his name.

The husky entreaty unleashed him, washing every thought from his head. With a growl, he shoved her skirt up, pushed her legs wide, and settled between their spread. Hitching her knee around his hip, he caressed the inside of her thigh on a steady upward slide. The instant he found her heat, his shaft thumped in his trews.

God give him strength. She was so wet, so soft, so unbelievably hot. He couldn’t wait. She was ready, and his greed, out of control. He needed inside. Now.

Stroking the nub at the top of her ***, he waited until she caught his rhythm then set himself to her entrance and thrust, embedding himself to the hilt. She stiffened, a wild cry rippling from her throat. Xavian froze. What the hell? He’d hurt her. That terrible whimper was one of pain, not pleasure.

He reared, concern stilling his heart until the only noise he heard was the hitching sob of her breath. He cupped her face, smoothed the furrow between her brows with his thumb and tried to think. What had he done wrong? Desperate to soothe her, he brushed the hair away from her face and adjusted his position in hopes of easing her.

As she quieted, he replayed his entry. He shook his head. Nay, ’twas not possible. She...she was...she had a child, for Christ’s sake. But the physical evidence overrode what he believed to be true. He’d felt the membrane tear, the one that confirmed she was untouched.

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La dracu. A virgin.

Regret and a strange sense of pride battled, fighting for supremacy. Disappointment and the razor-sharp edge of betrayal won, hitting him gut level. He dropped his chin to his chest and, head low, fought the dull ache punching through to his heart. She’d lied to him...about everything.

Pain. She hadn’t expected so much pain. A sting, yes. A pinch, certainly. But not...Afina swallowed...this.

The burn broke from her body and entered her mind. Agony expanded, opening a door to somewhere else. She was fracturing, being torn apart inside by an outside force that had nothing to do with Xavian. Red mist seethed through the cracks, bubbling between the jagged seams to wash in behind her eyes. The haze grew, turning gold then white, an expansive sensation that unlocked a floodgate. Images flowed in a river of fire: great winged beasts and smoke, cauldrons and incense, the blood-red glow in the Chamber of Whispers.

Voices, a thousand strong, murmured inside her head...begging her to accept something she didn’t understand. What was happening? Apart from the pain, the pressure and heat—the vivid pictures in her mind—didn’t seem, well, normal. Was every woman’s first time like this, or was there something wrong with her?

Whatever the case—right, wrong, or somewhere in between—Afina knew that it was all her fault. It always was, but she couldn’t dwell on that now. She was in serious trouble, in way over her head with Xavian.

Inhaling hard, she shifted beneath him. The movement helped, and the fog in her mind receded, a slow retreat that dimmed the pain enough for her to open her eyes. Xavian’s face came into sharp focus. She lost the air she so desperately needed. The chill in his expression sucked it right out of her lungs. Gasping, the ache still fierce enough to make her flinch, fear coalesced into a giant ball in the center of her chest. She wiggled, pushing against his shoulders while digging one heel into a grain sack, hoping he would let her go.

Eyes of ice blue drilled into her. One big hand clamped on her hip, he planted the other beside her head, locking her in place as a muscle jumped along his jaw. His throat worked before he unclenched his teeth and growled, “Do. Not. Move.”

Was he insane? Anger burned in his gaze and bled from his pores, and he wanted her to stay put? Not in this lifetime. Her will *****rvive was too strong for that.

“Y-you are h-hurting me.” Afina blinked back tears, hating the wispy stutter in her voice.

Xavian cursed and shifted, easing the pressure between her thighs, only to come back. She stiffened, a desperate sound exploding from her throat as he tilted her hips into his, widened her legs a little more. The angle pushed him deeper. The pinch intensified, shooting stinging barbs up her spine.

“P-please.” Her bottom lip trembled.

Good goddess. Now she was begging, something she’d experienced too often at her mother’s hand and in the temple. Weak. She was weak, so foolish to have given into the yearning and welcomed his possession. But she had wanted him with a fierceness that broke all the rules and, truth be told, still did. But not like this. Not with fury on his handsome face and in the hard lines of his body. The vulnerability that held her trapped beneath him was too much for her to handle.

“Please...I c-cannot breathe.”

“Draga, be easy.” His voice came to her on a soft exhale. Tears in her eyes, she watched the anger fade in his as he held her gaze. “The first time is always difficult, but the pain will go.”

“W-when?”

“Soon.”

Soon? How soon? Afina needed to know. She didn’t think she could take much more.

Closing her eyes, she tipped her head back, twisting a little beneath him. He answered her movement, coming down on his forearms to cup her head between his large palms. The caress eased the throb between her temples, and grateful for the reprieve, Afina turned her face into his hand.

With a low murmur, he kissed her collarbone and settled deeper between the spread of her thighs. The breath she’d managed to capture sped out in a rush.

“It still h-hurts. M-mayhap...mayhap you should let me go.”

He muttered something she didn’t quite catch. A moment later he nodded and, with a rough exhale, shifted to leave her. Something unnatural roared inside her head, sending denial pounding through her veins. On a gasp, against her will, she locked her calf around his hip and arched to keep him deep.

His hand flexed on her hip. “Rahat.”

What was wrong with her? She shouldn’t be resisting—wanted to release him—but something hungry and aggressive took over, refusing to let him go.

Panic welled inside her chest. “S-sorry, I cannot...I don’t mean to—”

“Jesu, do that again,” he rasped, his breath hot against the side of her throat. “God, you feel so good. So good, and I...Christ.”

The breathy quality of his voice caught her attention. He sounded like he was being tortured while loving the abuse. Afina’s lips parted in wonder as his spine arched and his head came up. Color rode the ridge of his high cheekbones, and she drew in a soft breath as something close to bliss winged across his features. Do what again? By the goddess, she’d do anything to see delight return to his beautiful face.

“Squeeze me tight...with your muscles deep inside,” he said, answering her silent query as though she’d spoken it out loud.

She did, and her eyes flew wide. What was that? She did it again, tightening around him. The contraction dragged a guttural groan from him and a startled gasp from her. The goddess preserve her...the pain was gone and the pleasure returning, pulled to the surface when Xavian circled his hips.

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“Oh. That’s...O-ooh!”

Sliding his hand between their bodies, his fingers found the top of her ***, just above where they were joined. He played with the nubbin, stroking her lightly. She bucked, the maelstrom of sensation tearing a low moan from her throat.

“Aye, like that, love.” Xavian pressed a little harder, caressing her with his body as well as his hand. “I’ll make it good for you. I’ll make it good.”

Bliss threw her head back and churned her hips, and in that moment, Afina didn’t doubt him. No matter how they’d started, this was unbelievably good. The feel of his hot skin beneath her hands and between her legs, the rocking of his hips and hardness deep inside was everything she’d imagined. Everything she’d dreamed of sitting beneath the summer moon, star gazing, hoping to someday find a man of her own. One who was gentle with her body and kind to her heart.

Xavian, with all his strength and quiet ways, fit. Mayhap she was wrong to leave him. Mayhap she should give him a chance, tell him all her troubles and let him help fight the battles instinct warned her were coming. He was a warrior: hard, capable, honorable. The kind of man she needed, wanted—yearned for.

The evidence was in his patience, in the way he moved and watched her from above, gauging her pleasure then adjusting to give her more. He was splendor in every form. Fashioned for her...only for her.

“Xavian!”

“Hmm, almost there, love. You’re almost there.” He hummed, the soft purr so full of satisfaction it catapulted Afina to a whole new level of awareness. To the place where ecstasy lived and oblivion ruled. “Come for me, Afina. Scream for me.”

He backed the command by lowering his head to her breast. His gaze trained on her face, he curled his tongue around her nipple then bathed her in the heat of his mouth and suckled...hard. The suction drew her up, arched her spine, sent her flying, and she did as he asked. She screamed his name, cresting on a wave so intense she knew she would never be the same.

Locked in a free fall, spiraling out into space, she felt him quicken, riding hard. The wild rhythm turned her inside out, and with a moan she wrapped her legs around his hips and rode with him into another round of oblivion.

Adrift on wonder, the red mist faded to the back of Afina’s mind. One hand buried in the soft curls at his nape, she left the other to play along Xavian’s spine. Umm, he was amazing, his body relaxed yet so solid at the same time. She loved his weight, the way he smelled, forest musk woven into the fabric of masculine scent that was as much a part of him as the width of his shoulders and the strength in his limbs.

He’d given her a gift. One of splendor and light.

The urge to hug him tight and kiss the cove behind his ear—to thank him—warred with the need to stay precisely as they were; tucked against one another, skin to hot skin, safe from the world and all its troubles. It was silly, the need to stay hidden, and she sighed when he shifted, hating to lose his warmth when he withdrew and pushed to his feet.

Too sated to move, she lay supine, legs curled, gown unlaced and soft against her thighs. She watched him set his trews to rights and felt a momentary twinge of regret. Next time. He would undress for her next time, and she for him. Her heart thumped a little faster at the thought, but as he turned to pick up his leather tunic, Afina frowned. He was being awfully quiet. Why? Was there something wrong or was this how all couplings ended? Without cuddles or kisses, without aid from the other as each of them dressed?

She pushed onto one elbow. “Xavian?”

His head turned, showing her his profile. The small muscle—the one that liked to jump along his jaw—twitched. Afina swallowed. He was back to being angry. It showed in the set of his shoulders and in the tight, straight line of his spine. Each movement controlled, he slipped the leather tunic over his head, tied the side laces, and reached for his swords.

Afina drew the sides of her gown closed, covering her breasts behind wool worn by time and faded by use. She shivered, the chill in the small chamber unbearable as shame reared its ugly head.

Her voice a mere shadow of its former self, she asked, “Why are you angry?”

At last he pivoted, the rasp of his boots sounding loud on the compact earth. Deadly serious, his eyes burned with a dangerous intensity that drilled a hole in her breastbone and took her breath away. “Has everything you told me been a lie?”

Afina shook her head, hurt sloshing around inside her. “I—”

“Have you been honest with me once? Do you even know how to tell the truth?”

She opened her mouth to answer.

He slashed his big hand through the air, the motion one of fury as he stepped toward her. “I warned you I value truth, yet you lie to me at every turn.”

“What are you accusing me of...what crime?”

“You are not Sabine’s mother,” he said, tone harsh, expression fierce.

“Yes, I am! I may not have birthed her,” she said, her voice as hard as his, “but she is mine in every way that truly matters.”

“Bull****.”

His harsh denial lit the fuse on a temper Afina hadn’t known she possessed. Dolt. What was his problem? True, she hadn’t warned him. Had bedded him knowing full well he expected her to be a woman of experience. Regardless, the lie paled in comparison to what she’d given him—her innocence. Most men would have been thrilled with her gift. Afina chewed on her bottom lip. Wouldn’t they?

Ice in his gaze, Xavian opened his mouth, no doubt to hurl some other unpleasantry in her direction.

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“You insufferable ass,” she said, cutting him off. “Lie or no, you lay with me and it is too late for regrets. You cannot take it back and...by the goddess, all this because I chose you...gifted you with my maidenhead.”

“’Twas not a gift, but a curse. Jesu, I...Rahat.” He shook his head and took a step back. Away from her. Away from what they had done together. Anger coupled with something intangible—something approaching pain—flashed across his face. With another expletive, he tunneled both hands through his hair and headed for the exit. Hammering the wooden lock free, he wrenched the door open and snarled over his shoulder, “Put yourself to rights and meet me outside. I have business to see to and no more time to waste.”

The door slammed closed, the sound as hollow as the hope dying in her heart. A curse. He’d called her innocence a curse. He abhorred what they’d shared. And hated her for not telling him...for her duplicity.

Yes, he valued honesty, but not her. Never her.

Betrayal.

He felt it, and now she did too. But more than that, she suffered from the shame in knowing the man she’d made love to didn’t consider it so. It had been naught more than a quick tumble for him. An unimportant event to slake his lust with the woman nearest to hand.

And she thought to stay with him, to trust him with all her secrets...with her life? When had she become such a fool?

The red mist returned and heat prickled, clouding her vision pink.

Afina covered her mouth with her hand to stifle a sob. She would not cry. She would not. Xavian was not worth her tears.

She repeated that over and over, forcing herself to believe it as she stood. Spotting a water bucket in the corner, she limped to the table and reached for the ladle. Her eyes burned, and her chest tightened until it hurt to breathe. She swiped at her cheek, told herself she wasn’t weeping, but another droplet fell, joining the first. A choking noise filled her ears, the sound raw as she picked up a thin piece of linen. As the cool cloth brushed flesh too tender to touch, she washed Xavian from her body, all the while wishing she could wash him from her mind. Mayhap then she’d feel whole again.

Vladimir fisted his hand, crushing the precious parchment. Christ, could the timing be any worse? He scowled at the vellum then tossed the wretched thing into the hearth. Flame flared, devouring it with ravenous teeth as he headed for the sideboard across the chamber.

He needed a drink. More than one, truth be told.

The white-robed, ruddy-cheeked bastard. What the hell was the Grand Master of the Teutonic Knights doing traveling so close to Castle Raul?

’Twas a mystery. One Vladimir didn’t want to unravel.

But what else could he do? The grand bastard had requested his escort, safe passage into the Carpathians. Something as acting voivode Vladimir couldn’t deny. News spread like piss on dry ground. Any slight to Grand Master Stein would reach King Charles. ****, word would travel so fast the corners of the missive would still be smoking as the royal arse cracked the seal.

“Damnation,” he muttered, pouring himself a goblet of wine. Raising his hand, he took a fortifying sip and pivoted to sit on the edge of the sideboard. He stared at the fire across the room, mind churning to form a plan.

He didn’t have time to pander to the self-important idiot. He was needed at home. Unrest swirled, infecting the common man like disease did a well-used whore. Some were even asking questions, challenging his authority, demanding to know why the High Priestess of Orm stayed cloistered behind the walls of the White Temple. Soon word of her disappearance would leak out and the people would rebel, turning to King Charles for help to displace him.

Vladimir tightened his grip on the mug. The little bitch could ruin everything.

A hesitant knock sounded on the door.

Turning his head, he glared at the well-oiled panels. “Come.”

The latch clicked, and Anton, his manservant, stumbled into the chamber. Red-eyed from too much drink, the imbecile swayed, blinking hard against the light coming through the high windows. His head swung left then right, passing over Vladimir without registering his presence.

“Over here, you idiot.”

Anton blinked again, the movement wide and rapid like a startled owl. “Oh, m’lord...didn’t see ye there.”

“Obviously.” He sighed, accustomed to Anton’s idiocy if not yet resigned to it. Honestly, the man was good for naught but shoveling horse ****.

“Yer horse is rigged out, m’lord,” he said, words slurred, leaning forward as if to impart some great pearl of wisdom.

Vladimir gritted his teeth. Even from across the room, he could smell the homemade whiskey. The rank odor wafted around Anton, a swirling trail of inebriation that for once Vladimir wished he could fall headlong into. But today was not the day. He had the grand bastard to coddle.

Grabbing his cloak, he swung it around his shoulders and strode toward the door. As Anton scurried out of the way, he vowed to use his time in the saddle well. A side trip was in order. Henrik hadn’t delivered. Ramir was a ghost. And instinct told him he couldn’t trust either one.

’Twas time to take measures into his own hands. He’d tried to avoid to it—his kingdom and the people in it needed constant supervision—but clearly paying another to do his dirty work wasn’t working. Unreliable bastards would no doubt double cross him.

If they hadn’t already.

He hit the stairs, taking them two at a time. Aye, ’twas time to do some hunting, and Drachaven was as good a place as any to start.