[English] KNIGHT AWAKENED

Knight Awakened
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CHAPTER EIGHT

A virgin. Rahat. How could he have predicted that? She was a mother, for the love of Christ, which naturally made for certain assumptions. But then, naught about Afina rang true. Hell, she had enjoyed his touch, acted a wee bit surprised mayhap, but her kiss and sweet curves...

Xavian’s fingers curled. Such heat. The scorching intensity still blazed in his veins, under his skin, stoking his fire higher. He wanted to roar at the unfairness. Wanted to shake Afina until her teeth rattled. Wanted to lay her down and love her again.

He snorted. ’Twas rank stupi***y.

What the hell was the matter with him?

She had lied to him. Lied. This time about something so important it—

Her betrayal tore him wide open. Everything he thought he knew about her was tainted by deceit. The ugliness almost brought him to his knees, along with the double-edged sword of regret.

He’d taken her maidenhead—a gift that had not been his to claim. Now his vow lay shattered, the shards as deadly and sharp as the blades strapped to his back. With sure, even strokes, they stabbed at his conscience, bleeding him dry...reminding him of his reasons.

He hadn’t taken the oath without thought. Armed with the knowledge of his kind, he’d made it with single-minded purpose.

A good lass expected good things;, deserved the best of them. He couldn’t provide a woman of worth aught but brutality. He was an assassin, so dark inside his soul bled black. He’d tortured and killed in the name of Al Pacii. For Halál, until blood ran in rivulets, staining his hands, destroying any chance of absolution.

Secrets weren’t meant to be kept, least of all his.

Sooner or later, any woman he took as his own would learn the truth—about who and what he was. And sure rejection would follow. He refused to set himself up for that kind of fall, for the pain as he watched her recoil with disgust in her eyes. But now he was waist deep and sinking fast.

An honorable man would do the right thing, marry Afina, slay her dragons, and give her a solid home. The dragons he could handle, mayhap even the home, but he couldn’t make her his. His stamp of ownership didn’t belong anywhere near her lovely skin. She deserved better, more than he could give in a hundred lifetimes of trying.

The proof lay in his behavior after he’d loved her—in the hurt in her eyes and the look of horror on her beautiful face. He’d done that: put the shame in her expression, shoved it deep until he saw her choke on it. Jesu, he was a beast. A first-rate brute not fit to talk to her, never mind touch her. Or wish for permanency that would destroy them both in the end.

Nay, ’twould be whores for him from now on. Like before. No more assumptions. No more mistakes. And no more touching Afina.

’Twas the decent thing to do. Aye, the right decision, the only decision.

Why then did he feel hollow inside? As though something important had just slipped through his fingertips?

Xavian shook his head and put the thought away. He needed to stay sharp. Danger always lurked in the marketplace and anger blunted the senses. No matter how furious at Afina, he must mute its intensity for now. He’d promised to keep her safe, and with both her and Sabine an arm’s length behind him, he refused to place them at risk. They had a ways to go yet to reach the shop he sought.

Already the vendors lining the wide, rutted streets of Ismal eyed Afina more than he liked. Women were always of interest. A pretty one could start street brawls. But Afina? There was no doubt into which category she fell. Beautiful didn’t begin to describe her.

Xavian locked onto a particularly bold merchant. Dressed in a purple tunic, the bastard stood beneath a thatched overhang, watching from his place in the shadows. He played with the curled tip of his mustache, his potbelly protruding above spindly legs and knobby knees. But it was his eyes that drew Xavian tight. Bright with calculation, his gaze ran Afina’s length before shifting to assess Sabine.

A slaver. Though why the flesh peddler was so far from Constantinople was anyone’s guess. Had he delivered his goods already or were the men, women, and children the bastard considered merchandise chained somewhere nearby?

He clenched his teeth on a curse and schooled his features, refusing to allow even a flicker of emotion to crease his face.

’Twas a man like this who had taken his family.

He’d been so young, just seven years old. And Nadia? They’d celebrated her fifth birthday the day before. The thought unlocked the memories. Images and sounds swamped him, swimming like poison through his mind. The feel of rough hands wrenching him from his bed, the fear and confusion, his sister crying, his mother’s pleas then sobs while his father roared in agony. The smell of smoke and blood and sweat. The sight of his parents lying face down, crumbled like dolls on the cottage floor before men set torches to the roof. Bound and gagged, they’d made him watch, helpless as his parents’ bodies burned along with his home. Now he could barely remember them—couldn’t recall their faces or the color of his mother’s eyes.

A low growl—half-pain, half-rage—rolled up his throat. He wanted to kill the flesh monger, lay him low where he stood. For looking at Afina, for weighing her worth with coins in his eyes.

Just as that scum had done to Nadia.

Instead he leveled him with a look, using his gaze to effect, and slowed his pace, reeling Afina in. He wanted her close, a breath away so the slaver understood. She belonged to his circle and any who attempted to touch her would die...screaming.

A little slow on the uptake, Afina bumped into him. Her gasp of surprise brushed the exposed skin of his shoulder. Uncaring of the reason for her proximity, lust unfurled, speeding heat through his veins. He ignored the arousal she stirred with a touch and stood his ground, intent on the slaver and their surroundings.

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The bastard wasn’t alone. His kind never was.

Hired henchmen always circled, watching for the signal. The one that identified their master’s prey. Once received, the band of thugs would close the loop, blocking all avenues of escape to take their target. Xavian bared his teeth, hoping they made that mistake with him. He would slit every one of their throats.

One brow raised, he held the flesh monger’s gaze, daring him to set the attack in motion. The bastard blinked and, red-faced, glanced away, shoulders rounding as he slid further into the shadows and retreated.

Not so brave after all. But then, slavers weren’t stupid. A canny bunch, the majority stayed ahead of their enemies by out-thinking them. Add the fact that most only challenged those they outnumbered ten to one, and the life of a flesh peddler had the potential to be a long, prosperous one.

With a sigh, Xavian glanced over his shoulder. Two sets of eyes stared back, one beguiling hazel, the other, mismatched green and blue.

Sabine grinned around her thumb. “X.”

“What’s wrong?” Afina asked, voice soft, her question coming on top of the little one’s greeting.

Xavian tamped down an unexpected spike of admiration. He had to give her cre***. She didn’t miss much. Had read his body cues and taken them to mean danger. Smart lass. “Naught you need worry about. Stay close.”

He held her gaze, waiting for her to acknowledge his command. When she nodded, he unlocked his body’s protective shield and moved forward, leading them into the heart of the marketplace. Senses alive and searching, he wove a trail through the thickening crowd, around carts piled high with goods pulled by oxen. The beasts snorted and heaved, thick horns curled against their ears as though protesting the noisy chatter of vendors, the scrape of tanners’ blades, and the high-pitched clank of a blacksmith’s anvil.

The farther they walked the more the air thickened, and the smell of roasted nuts, warm apple cider, and oven-baked bread joined the sights and sounds of the Ring. An enormous circle at the market’s center, everything rippled out from it, the streets taking its shape and form. The less affluent vendors occupied the curved avenues banding the hub, while those who could afford to paid the higher rents to set up on the Ring’s edge.

Colorful awnings graced the fronts of most shops. The light fabric undulated in the early morning sun, a light breeze teasing their ample underbellies. One-half of the circle contained pens for livestock, the sounds of cattle, pigs, and goats joining the enthusiastic cries of the onlookers gathered at the other end. Heading in that direction, his gaze skipped over the multitude of street performers that delighted crowds on a daily basis.

Xavian’s mood lifted a little. He enjoyed the performers’ antics. And more often than not indulged in a bag of roasted nuts and a cup of cider whenever he ventured into Ismal. He skirted a group swaying on stilts, an admiring eye on the knives they juggled. Not for the first time, he wondered how sharp they kept the long, thin blades.

Caught up in the gleam and flash of metal, he paused to admire their skill, but got distracted by the soft body at his back. Xavian flinched. He’d told her to stay close, but...not so close she touched him at every turn. The sweet curves brushing him made him remember the wild rush when he’d had her beneath him. He inhaled hard and exhaled smooth, struggling to contain his reaction.

Refusing to retreat, he waited for her to step away. She didn’t. Xavian swallowed a curse. What was she trying to do, set him ablaze where he stood?

He glanced over his shoulder, intending to tell her to back the hell off. He didn’t get that far. Instead he got tangled up by the wonder in her expression. And hell, she wasn’t even looking at him. Flicking his gaze over wooden stalls and the assortment of jugglers, he found the source of her fascination.

Heedless to his body’s tension, his lips twitched. “Fire eaters.”

She blinked. “W-what?”

“Fire eaters.”

One arm curled around Sabine, her gaze jumped from their torches to the streams of flame blazing from their mouths then back again. “How are they doing that?”

“Turpentine.”

“They put it in their mouths?”

“Aye.”

“Isn’t that dangerous?”

“Very. Many scorch their lungs and suffocate before they master the trick.” Unable to look away, Xavian watched emotion play across the fine contours of her face. Astonishment, curiosity, and horror all made a pass. But the most prominent was bafflement, as though she struggled to understand why someone would risk himself in such a way. “’Tis a popular spectacle and earns them coin enough to live.”

She shook her head, her attention bouncing to the next performer. Her jaw dropped as she watched the man insert a long, thin sword down his throat.

“A metal tube,” he said, biting back a grin.

In a heartbeat, he killed the amusement, smoothing his expression. He didn’t want to laugh with her. ’Twas common ground he could ill afford if he held any chance of keeping his oath. Anger and indifference would serve him better. The first he possessed in abundance. The second? He was carrying the short end of the stick. But even as he acknowledged the weakness and told himself to ignore her, the urge to assuage her curiosity proved stronger. “He swallowed it.”

She threw him an incredulous look. “Like a scabbard in his throat?”

Xavian nodded. He didn’t trust himself to answer the question. Not without his mouth giving into a smile.

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“That’s insane.”

“Mayhap,” he said, unwilling to agree. ’Twas another point of camaraderie he couldn’t afford. If he allowed himself closeness of any kind, he would fail to keep his hands off her. “Stay on my heels in this crowd. We’re almost there.”

“Where is there?”

“You’ll know when we arrive,” he said, refusing to give her a clue.

He required an edge, the advantage of surprise. If he gave her any forewarning, he wouldn’t get what he needed to douse the slow burn. The blaze of lust. The clawing need. His obsession with Afina. A dangerous combination. One he needed to slay then bury six feet under. The only way to do that was to provoke her. Make her hate him enough to stay away.

And God forgive him, he could hardly wait for the fight.

The smell of warmed wool and peat moss drifted from the dark interior. The comforting blend tickled her nose, reminding Afina of home. She wanted to take solace in the scent. To dive into the past and remember the good times. She caught herself at the last moment. Before she made another mistake and let her guard slip. Now was not the time to lose focus.

Xavian was up to something.

She knew it deep down, in the same way she’d known that danger stood in front of them as they entered the marketplace. The tension holding his body taut had told her so then, just as it did now. Except his rigi***y here was different. Afina couldn’t put her finger on the reason, but something—the strange red mist mayhap—warned her to be wary.

Adjusting the sling around her shoulder, she tucked Sabine tighter against her side. Almost time for her morning nap, her cherub nestled in, the suck-suck-sucking sound of Sabine’s thumb soft comfort as Afina followed Xavian inside. He stopped in the middle of the room, and as her eyes adjusted she understood why the scent of wool had rolled out into the street.

Stacked from floor to timber-beamed ceiling, rolls of fabric sat piled, one on top of the other. The mounds were everywhere, taking every available space along the long wall opposite the door. Afina nibbled on her lower lip and turned to look behind her. Make that every wall, except the one the hearth called home.

A tailor’s shop?

Well, the man must have an army of seamstresses. Either that or a fixation for fabric. She’d never seen so many different kinds in one place. Even in the living quarters at the temple, where coin never lacked, their seamstresses had never been given so much choice. Here every color imaginable shimmered in the low light. Yellows and golds, vibrant reds and rich blues, purples, and so many different greens. Wool, linen, and silk together in a kaleidoscope of color that made Afina’s eyes round with wonder. Spools of thread, one to match each shade, sat lumped in shallow-sided wooden boxes, awaiting their turns in the needle.

She shook her head, her gaze bouncing, unable to stay in one place long enough to give each item the attention it deserved. The shop was a veritable treasure trove, a thick-spun oasis in the middle of the clamoring marketplace.

Afina frowned. The shop didn’t seem like one of Xavian’s usual haunts. Not that he wasn’t refined enough, it was just, well...the mill was a woman’s place. Not a man’s.

The thought brought her up short. Suspicion formed, slithering through her mind like a venomous snake. As it reared its ugly head, Afina chanced a quick peek in his direction.

Standing still as death, he watched her from his position by the door. Besides the fact he blocked her path to the exit, a few other things registered. His stance, for one, was all wrong. Arms crossed, chin angled down, he looked as if he anticipated an attack. But more damning than those telltale signs was his silence. He was too quiet. Far too quiet.

Intuition gave her a nudge. “Why are we here?”

“Why do you think?”

Afina’s eyes narrowed. Oblivious to her tension Sabine burrowed into her collarbone with a sleepy murmur. Rubbing her daughter’s back, she met Xavian’s gaze head-on. “Let’s pretend I’m a little slow this morrow and you tell me instead.”

He raised a brow and ran his eyes over her. The message was clear; he found her lacking. Every bit of her...along with her attire. And without him saying a word, she knew what he intended.

A thick ball of dread congealed in the pit of her stomach. She fought the nauseating lump and kept her chin level, unwilling to show him how much his opinion hurt. Yes, she’d lied to him, but did she truly deserve this? To be treated no better than a...like a...oh, goddess, no...a whore on sale to the highest bidder?

But the hard lines in his face said it all. He’d brought her here—to the most exquisite shop she’d ever seen—as payment for their intimacy. He would provide her with a new gown. Mayhap even a warm cloak to compensate her for the fact he’d taken her maidenhead. As if that would repair the damage—soothe her suffering over his rejection.

Afina curled her free hand into a fist and straightened until her spine cracked. Reaching deep, she dredged the bottom of her soul, looking for anger. Shame surfaced instead.

She wanted to be furious. She really did. But fury was a difficult animal. A disobedient wretch that never came when called. Pain, though—pain was a different story. Predictable, trustworthy, it always arrived without the barest whisper of warning. Now she throbbed with it, the pressure in her chest so heavy she struggled to draw a full breath.

She cleared her throat. “I don’t want anything from you.”

“The decision is not yours to make.”

“I won’t wear them.”

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“You will,” he said, his quiet tone so chilly goose bumps erupted on Afina’s skin. His eyes followed suit, freezing her in place until she swore frost gathered between her shoulder blades. “Or I will put them on you myself...and enjoy the doing.”

Afina clenched her teeth to keep them from chattering and looked away, unable to handle the directness of his gaze. Shelves stacked high with rolls of wool and folded linen, the ones she found so beautiful, blurred. She swallowed. Hadn’t she promised not to do this? Hadn’t she told herself he wasn’t worth her sorrow? Hah. Barely an hour later, and she was already breaking her word. Pitiful.

“Afina.”

The hard thread in his voice was as good as any threat. Like a knife wielded by an expert hand, it cut deep, warning if she didn’t obey he’d make her sorry. She understood the underlying message, but refused to listen, even though it meant getting sliced again. Yes, it might sting, but she’d live. If she looked at him now, something told her she wouldn’t survive. The cold was too intense. Her heart would suffer, freeze into a solid block inside her chest and stop beating.

He sighed, exasperation and more expelled on a single rush of air. “We head into the mountains on the morrow. Both you and Sabine will need the added warmth *****rvive the cool nights and bitter winds. The new gowns will provide that, along with a thick cloak and good boots.”

The wretch.

With the ease of a smooth-tongued swindler, he tossed Sabine into the mix. He hacked at her pride, scraping her raw with the fact she couldn’t provide her daughter the basic necessities. Afina’s stomach cramped, guilt rolling like thunder in her belly. How could she refute him? He was right. She was a terrible mother, unable to give what her baby needed to stay safe and warm.

“One gown each,” she said, agreeing under duress and a cartload of self-reproach. But pride wouldn’t let her leave it at that. “But I’ll pay you back.”

“With what?”

Heat hit her cheeks then washed up until the tips of her ears burned. “I-I’ll—”

“Forget I said that.” One hand clenched into a fist, he ran the other through his hair. “Consider it an advancement.”

“An advancement?” Shaking her head, Afina blinked away the threat of tears. “I d-don’t understand.”

“You are my healer, Afina,” he said. “There are many in my home that will require your skills. As your master, it is my duty to provide for you.”

Her master. Right.

She held no more importance to him beyond that. Naught more than an underling. A bit of rot to be scraped off the bottom of his boot and forgotten just as fast. Self-preservation told her to remember that fact. But pride wanted her to shout a denial. Afina settled for ignoring both and, cradling Sabine, moved closer to the fire. Mayhap if she got close enough, the frozen lump burning its way up her throat would melt and give her ease.

“My lord.”

The softly spoken address brought Afina’s head up. My lord?

Spinning on her heels, Afina turned toward the other side of the room. A woman stood in an open doorway, her focus on Xavian, warm welcome on her face. She stared, unable to help herself. Afina had never seen anything like her. Not only had the woman called Xavian my lord, but she was brown from head to toe. Brown eyes, brown hair, and the most beautiful dark brown skin Afina had ever seen.

But worse? She was beautiful, a vision in green silk.

“Sherene,” Xavian said, honey in his tone. His lips tipped up at the corners, his eyes traveled, moving over the woman with approval, and something more. Afina swallowed, recognizing the mix of emotion—admiration and affection. Unlike her, he respected Sherene. “’Tis good to see you.”

The dark beauty smiled and, in a quiet voice, asked, “How fare you, my lord?”

“Well enough. And Dharr?”

“A mischief maker. Always up to no good.” Sherene laughed, the tinkling sound a warm gift before her chin dipped and humor faded. A soft veil clouding her features, she bowed low. “Thank you once more, my lord, for his safe return.”

“You need not thank me, Sherene.”

“I must,” she said, disagreement in her wide, expressive eyes. “I do not know what I would have done if...if...”

“’Tis over, and he is safe.” Xavian shifted as though uncomfortable with the topic.

Afina’s instincts went on high alert.

What were they talking about? Something important...monumental, in fact, if Sherene’s anxious expression was anything to go on. Her gaze bounced between the two as Afina ran through the possibilities, formulating questions and building theories. Each of them came to the same conclusion. The woman was Xavian’s lover. She had to be. The subtle connection permeated the air like a fragrance, radiating around the chamber with such strength it knocked Afina off balance, and right into...

What exactly?

Confusion? Disappointment? Anger and disgust?

And all with herself.

She should have known. Should have been better prepared for the eventuality. Xavian wasn’t celibate. He was a man with needs. Her experience with him in the stable had shown her that, so why was she surprised? Why did she feel the overwhelming urge to place herself in front of him and stake her claim?

Lunacy. Pure, unadulterated witlessness.

She held no claim on him. His reaction in the aftermath, once the pleasure had faded, told her all she needed to know. He didn’t want her beyond the pleasure her body could give him. Beyond the one tryst they’d shared. But that didn’t stop the craving, the soul-deep ache that wanted the affection he so easily gave to Sherene for herself.

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“What brings you to my shop, my lord?”

The sultry hum in the exotic beauty’s voice rubbed Afina raw, making her want to root through her healing satchel in search of her salve. Instead she stood stock-still, hoping the floor would open up and swallow her whole.

“I am in need of your talents.”

Afina snorted. Hah. No doubt. Too bad she was standing between him and his lover. Otherwise she was certain he would have tossed Sherene onto the nearest table and—

Xavian cleared his throat. He raised a brow, throwing her a strange look. She glanced away, unable to look him in the eye. If she did, he might see the yearning she kept buried in her heart and believe he was the reason.

CHAPTER NINE

“I am glad he brought you to me.”

Busy watching Xavian’s retreat, the softly spoken comment threw Afina. The door closed with a thunk, leaving her inside with his lover and him out of bashing range. She glared at the wooden planks, resisting the urge to stomp her feet like a child, and tossed Sherene a look that said she was insane. Unhinged. Totally deranged. What other explanation could there be? The welcome she extended must be contrived. No woman worth her salt would accept a rival with so much warmth.

Sherene raised both hands, flipping them palms up. “Truly.”

Afina’s eyes narrowed.

“And before you ask,” she said, lips twitching, a gleam in her dark eyes. “No, we are not.”

“Not what?” Afina asked, hurling another imaginary fireball at the door. Too bad she couldn’t conjure a real one. Maybe if she could, the flames would eat through the wood and singe the dolt no doubt standing guard on the other side.

“Lovers.”

The admission whipped Afina’s head around. She stared at Sherene, mouth wide open. “But you seemed so...Then he was, well...You’re not...really?”

“Yes, really.” Picking up a measuring tape from inside a metal tin, Sherene fiddled with the leather end, winding the strip around her index finger. “Although there was a time I would not have said no to Xavian, I am grateful he pushed me in Ivan’s direction instead.”

“Who?”

“My husband.” Sherene’s mouth curved up at the corners. “For almost a year now.”

“Oh. I...Forgive me,” Afina said, combating the heat in her face.

“It is nothing.” Sherene waved her hand, brushing the apology along with her awkwardness aside. “It is good you feel as you do. Your possessiveness shows you have spirit. A necessary thing when dealing with bullheaded men. No?”

Spirit...as in courage? No, not really.

Bianca had been the one with cartloads of courage, leading the way, making all the difficult decisions. A little like Sherene in some ways. Afina chewed the inside of her lip, wishing she’d inherited some of those traits. Then again, boldness had never been an option with her mother, and dreaming didn’t make things so.

“Truthfully,” she said, feeling as much a toadstool next to Sherene as she had with her sister, “I haven’t the first idea about men or how to deal with them.”

“You will learn, as I did.” Her head tilted, the seamstress stopped in front of Afina. A soft expression on her face, she reached out and brushed golden strands from Sabine’s brow. Afina’s daughter sighed and put her thumb back to work, and Sherene smiled. “She is beautiful, your little one.”

With a murmured “thank you,” Afina kissed the top of her cherub’s head. Silence stretched and time expanded as she stood with Sherene. Unmoving. Content in the moment to watch her daughter fall into slumber as the fire cracked and a plan formed. A good one, and with Xavian gone? Out of sight. Out of earshot. Out of mind.

Now presented the best chance for escape.

Nodding to the seamstress, Afina skirted a pile of linen and headed for the nearest shelf. Implements of all kinds lay scattered on the wooden surface: wood and metal, round and straight, short and long, sharp and dull. There seemed an unending supply, but what held her attention most were thin strips of trim on the shelf below them. If she could manage to—

“Mistress?”

Afina glanced over her shoulder, half turning toward the door. A dark-haired girl stood on the threshold, a wooden platter in her hands. The scent of honeyed biscuits and apples drifted into the chamber, pulling her gaze to the pitcher and two glasses sitting on the tray. Sweet cider. Thank the goddess. It was just want she needed, even better than what she’d planned.

“Ah, Basima. Good,” Sherene said, waving the girl into the chamber, toward the work surface in the center of the room. “You may place our refreshment on the table and go. I will not require your aid with Lady Afina.”

Lady?

Afina almost sighed. The title sounded so good with her name. A little taste of respect and home; one that had been denied her for two very long years. But she couldn’t allow the assumption to go uncontested. Part of her disguise required she pass as a commoner. Having everyone believe she held no importance above her healing skills kept Vladimir from picking up her scent. But Xavian knew. Somehow he knew the swine hunted her—his demand that she tell him why while they had argued in the dell made that all too clear.

She frowned at the coiled measuring tapes. How did he know the bastard was after her? Had Vladimir’s frustration boiled over, causing him to make her disappearance public knowledge?

She examined the possibility then discarded the idea. News traveled fast, and the fact Transylvania’s new high priestess was not where she needed to be would have started the gossip hounds howling and a widespread search. With merchants and laymen moving from village to village, word would have reached her by now...forewarned her of the increased threat.

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No such warning had come.

Not a murmur from her enemy, even though Afina knew he still searched for her. The swine would never give up. He couldn’t claim the throne or the Transylvanian coffers without her.

So the bigger question became...what was Xavian’s objective?

Afina played with a thimble, scraping her nail against its stippled edge as she examined all the facts. The puzzle pieces slowly came together, and with a curse, she tossed the trinket onto the shelf. Xavian knew because he was involved. Had somehow gained inside information. The kind that could only come from Vladimir.

By the goddess, she was an imbecile. How could she have missed that?

Distraction was no excuse, exhaustion less so. No matter how tired of running, she should never have stayed so long in Severin. Foolish and weak, and a whole host of other—

“My lady?”

“Do not call me that, Sherene,” she said, her voice so low she barely recognized it. On a slow spin, Afina turned into the room, determined to throw the woman off her trail. “I am no lady.”

“You are.” Sherene’s gaze narrowed while speculation played across her face. “I am accustomed to dealing with the wealthy and titled. Though you may not look it, I know you belong in that circle. It is in the way you hold yourself...in your manner and speech.”

“You are mistaken. I but mimic my betters, no more.”

“You will need to do better than that if you wish to fool me—or Xavian, for that matter.” The seamstress shook her head, her voice even as though she instructed a child. “He does not tolerate lies. But I suspect you are already aware of his fondness for honesty.”

Right. Honesty. Afina curled her hand into a fist. Xavian...the dishonest cheat. And he had the gall to call her a liar? “He lies as much as any.”

“Now you are the one mistaken, fetita. I know him,” Sherene said, her quiet tone undercut with steel and just as sharp as she called Afina little girl. “Like my Ivan, he has endured much for very little in return. Too many lies, too much death. Truth is the only thing his kind trusts. Give him that, and his loyalty has no end. If you do not? He will cut you to the quick and leave you where you lie.”

His kind. What did that mean? And why did she care?

She shouldn’t, but Afina wanted to ask anyway. To delve into why Sherene spoke as though her husband and Xavian were a breed apart, a dangerous one. But anger stopped her. She didn’t want to know any more about him or his kind. She knew all she needed to. The lying, two-faced jackal was in league with her enemy. He held her life in the balance, playing cat to her mouse.

And goddess keep her. She’d slept with him. Made love to him while the entire time he intended to do her harm. Her stomach rolled, wanting to heave. She swallowed the burn and turned her attention back to Sherene. The sooner they finished, the sooner she could flee. Time wasn’t on her side. Xavian wouldn’t stay outside long, and she refused to be anywhere near Sherene and her shop when he came to collect her.

“Do you need to measure me?”

“Only for length.” Sherene’s dark eyes narrowed on her face.

Afina wiped her expression clean, refusing to give away her plan. Or the advantage. No matter how nice, Sherene wasn’t her ally. The moment the seamstress guessed her intent, she’d run straight to Xavian.

Loosening the strap at her shoulder, Afina asked, “Where may I put Sabine?”

“There.” A frown puckering her brow, Sherene searched Afina’s face as she pointed to a pile of linen beside the hearth. “She will be safe enough while I see to your fitting. I have ones ready made that should suit.”

Afina nodded, grateful for Sherene’s efficiency and, flipping the sling’s strap over her head, set Sabine down gently on the makeshift bed. As she arranged the dark wool around her daughter she tamped down her guilt. What she planned wasn’t wrong. Unkind, mayhap, but not wrong. Sherene didn’t deserve it, but Xavian did. He’d taken her against her will—scared her half to death in her own home—for the bastard who stalked her. No doubt for a wagonload of coin.

The fact she intended to take the warm clothes and run before he came back didn’t qualify as dishonest. It was simply fair play. Well earned, and not half of what he deserved.

Straightening away from Sabine, she moved toward the refreshments as Sherene flipped open the lid of a large trunk in the far corner of the chamber. As the seamstress rooted through the contents, Afina palmed a small vial from her healing satchel before lifting it over her head. She propped the leather bag against the table leg, sent a silent prayer heavenward, and asked, “May I pour you some cider, mistress?”

“Yes, please do.” Head half buried in the trunk, Sherene’s elbows bobbed as she dug, tossing fabric hither and yon. “We will partake before I fit you.”

Thank the goddess. Had Sherene refused she didn’t know what she would have...Well, it didn’t bear thinking about.

A slight tremor in her hands, Afina poured two cups of sweet cider and threw a quick glance in Sherene’s direction. Still elbow deep in the trunk, the seamstress mumbled, eliminating one gown after another, giving Afina time to wiggle the vial’s stopper free. Her conscience reared its ugly head. She shoved it back down. The seriousness of the circumstance dictated the path. Sabine needed her to be strong. Bianca, bless her soul, was counting on her, along with the Transylvanian people.

’Twas life or death, more than just hers.

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With a “dear goddess, forgive me,” she flicked her wrist and upended the entire contents into Sherene’s cup. The clear elixir made a plunking sound. Afina froze, waiting for Sherene to catch on, accuse her, and call for Xavian. When nothing but muttering came from that side of the chamber, she released a slow breath and swirled the amber liquid in the mug. The cider circled, playing at the rim while a whirlpool sucked at its center. After a few rotations, when she was sure the stirring masked the tonic’s taste, she put the tainted cup down to pick up her own.

“Ah-ha. This one will do well with your coloring.” Sherene nodded as though satisfied, tossing a butter yellow chemise over one arm followed by a dark amber gown. Over the other, she carried a smaller set, both the deepest hue of indigo. “And these we will put on your little one. They should fit without any altering.”

Drawn to the sensual color Sherene had chosen for her, Afina's fingers curled, wanting to touch the fabric and see if it was as soft as it looked. Bolder than anything she’d ever worn, the weave simmered in the low light, as though gold threads had been woven into the wool. She bit the inside of her cheek. It wasn’t fair. She planned to drug and leave the woman senseless, and what was Sherene’s most pressing concern? That the gown’s color complemented Afina.

Guilt hit her like a closed fist. She fidgeted, detesting the feeling as the woman hauled out two sets of boots with matching mantles. Both fur-lined. For pity’s sake, how much worse could it get? Not that she didn’t want the boots. The added warmth would serve them well over the coming months; protect them against the snow and bitter cold. But how could she do what needed to be done in the face of Sherene’s generosity?

Afina almost changed her mind, feigned clumsiness, and tipped the drugged cider over. She wanted to, but in the end, self-preservation forced her to toast the seamstress’s choice.

“It is a beautiful color. Thank you.”

A pleased gleam in her eyes, Sherene accepted the cider. As custom held, she clinked her cup to Afina’s then drank. Relief mingled with regret, and Afina berated herself as she drained her own mug. When both cups stood empty, she unlaced the frayed ties of her gown, inviting Sherene without words to begin the fitting. The faster she got into the new gown, the better. With the tonic flowing through her veins, it wouldn’t take long for Sherene to feel sleepy and then succumb to the drug altogether.

The soft chemise and amber gown settled against her like a caress, reminding her once more of home and the family that no longer lived there. Her mother, sister, and brother were all gone. Dead and buried, each one taken from her too early by unjust cause. Now all the memories lay tarnished along with her integrity.

As Afina laced up the fur-lined boots, Sherene swayed, forcing her to face how very low she had sunk. Reduced to drugging an innocent woman. She wanted to cry, to scream at the heavens, chasten the Gods for the unfairness of it all.

Instead she cupped Sherene’s shoulders and, with a kind touch, coaxed her into the cushioned armchair near the hearth. Her chest tight, she brushed the dark hair from the exotic beauty’s face and whispered, “I am sorry. Someday I pray you’ll find it in your heart to forgive me.”

Her brows furrowed, Sherene murmured. Her eyelashes flickered once and then a second time before she succumbed and sank deep into the world of dreams.

Turning away, Afina gathered the small bundle meant for Sabine. With quick hands, she dressed her sleeping child, making certain not to disturb her slumber, then buckled on the new fur-lined mantle. The sling with Sabine settled on her shoulders, she crossed the chamber. Her heart heavy, Afina slipped through the door opposite the one she knew Xavian guarded.

All without a backward glance.

In the alley between Sherene’s and a kilim shop, where shadows grew thickest, Xavian settled in to wait. His twin blades scraped uneven stone as he shifted, rechecking his sight lines. From his vantage point, he had an unobstructed view of both doors, the ones through which Afina would attempt to escape.

She was an easy read, her anger an excellent impetus. Right now she possessed enough to burn Ismal to the ground. But then, he did too. ’Twas a volatile mixture, his fury combined with hers. An unsafe one, and he needed to calm himself before dealing with her again.

If he didn’t, she wouldn’t like the outcome. And neither would he.

Taking a cleansing breath, Xavian filled his lungs to capacity. He counted to seven before releasing the air slowly on a measured exhalation. Hidden away in his niche, he repeated the process again and again, willing his muscles and mind to ease.

Just as he evened into some semblance of peace, he caught movement out of the corner of his eye.

Afina.

He shook his head, unable to stop his lips from curving. Such a bold lass; courageous with spirit to spare. Fortunately for him—and, however, unfortunate for her—that boldness came with a healthy dose of predictability.

Perched in the doorway’s deep alcove, she paused to check both ends of the alley, and his admiration spiked. Bold and smart. ’Twas a deadly enough combination. But add those traits to her beauty and the most fetching gown he’d ever seen, and well, a man could find himself in a serious amount of trouble. The trouble became painfully obvious when, oblivious to his will, his body reacted, hardening for the wild claiming it wanted to deliver. Xavian ignored the call and shifted when she did, moving from dense shadow into shades of grey as she skirted a pile of debris and made for the other end of the alleyway.

Attuned to her tension, he followed at a distance, making certain to stay out of sight. He still planned to let her run for a while. Mayhap as far as the market’s edge before he brought her back. No matter how hot his anger, he refused to let her go. His reasons remained the same. The fact he’d violated his oath and slept with her changed little. Vladimir was after her, and the mystery of why still stoked his interest. Add to that he needed a healer, and all the rationale he required fell neatly into place.

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Crouched behind the wooden slats of a lean-to, he paused when she rounded the corner of the building and stopped. Frozen in place, she stood stone still, and although he couldn’t see her face, he felt her fear.

What the hell? Had the busyness of the marketplace startled her?

No sooner had the question entered his mind than the fine hairs on the back of his neck lifted. He spotted the merchant a moment later. Dressed in the same purple tunic, the slaver backed her away from the street and into the alley.

Rahat. He should have finished the bastard when he’d had the chance.

Xavian unsheathed the blades on his back in twin arcs of movement. The steel cleared his scabbards, the scathing sound aggressive and sure. Just as the custom hilts settled like home in his hands, four men stepped into the mouth of the alley behind him. Two more stepped around the flesh peddler toward Afina.

A raw sound escaped her throat.

He secured his grip, preparing for the attack. “Afina. Get back to the shop.”

Wide-eyed, she swung his way and hesitated, uncertainty on her face. Xavian’s eyes narrowed. Jesu, that look. ’Twas as though she was as much afraid of him as the bastards slithering toward her. What had Sherene told her?

With no time to wonder, Xavian barked, “Afina, move.”

The harshness of his tone made her flinch and got her feet moving. But it was too late. The vermin closed ranks, grabbed hold, and shoved her in the direction of the slave merchant.

Cut off from her, Xavian drilled the slaver with a glare. “Take her, and you die.”

The warning drifted, held high by the promise of violence. The flesh peddler stilled. His hand hovered a breath away from Afina. The merchant eyed him, measuring his skill before he smirked, reached out, and grabbed her upper arm.

Teeth bared, she rounded on the slaver. Shielding Sabine with her body, Afina fisted her hand and swung at his head. Bigger and stronger, the merchant shackled her wrist.

“Xavian!”

Her terror ringing in his ears, Xavian snarled at the six circling him. Rage bled through his pores, lathering his skin as the slaver dragged Afina from his sight and the safety he provided.

With a howl, he unleashed violence and consummate skill. Blades flashing, he painted the alleyway with their blood, fear for Afina in each arc and slice of steel. If the slaver hurt one hair on her head...left so much as a mark on her soft skin...

Damn the bastard to hell.

He would carve the swine’s heart out with a spoon. Pop his eyes from their sockets. Make the bastard scream for touching her...for daring to take what belonged to him.

The lad sat on a crate beside the stable doors, a curved blade in his hands. The motion he used to sharpen it was natural and smooth, but the knife didn’t belong to him. The telltale steel of the Al Pacii dagger was too long for his hands, the hilt too thick. Were he a betting man, Henrik would wager Ram’s initials sat near the base of the blade, carved with care by Henrik’s own hand.

The dagger had been the first—and last—gift he’d ever given.

He’d thought Ram worthy of it at the time. Hell, mayhap he still was, but none of that mattered anymore.

Crouched in shadow across from the stable, he watched the dark-skinned boy, trying to decide. Was the lad worth the trouble? How much had Ram told him? Very little, no doubt. ’Twas safer that way. Ignorance made him less of a target.

Ram knew it, and so did Henrik. It was the way of their kind: keep the details hidden until no other choice existed but to share them. The lack of trust worked well—both insulating them from potential threat and protecting those around them.

Henrik slid from the shadows and turned to go. Questioning the boy would do naught but waste time. Something he couldn’t afford if he wanted to catch Ram. The realization—along with relief—settled deep. He didn’t like hurting children. ’Twas a flaw he couldn’t help. The one time he’d been forced to...

He swallowed. The memory of the lass’s face, of the pain in her eyes, burned like a hot iron in the back of his mind.

With a curse, Henrik swept the image aside. Naught but pain would come from revisiting the past, and today he didn’t need the distraction. Ismal seethed around him; a virulent cesspool of humanity.

Ignoring the noxious smell, he wove a trail around oxen and carts, vendors and fortunetelling Gypsies, darks eyes lined with kohl, lips with red paint. Women called to him, offering their bodies for free, and the men looked away, fearing his attention. ’Twas always this way: fear and attraction a tedious mix that left a bad taste in his mouth.

Henrik quickened his pace, wanting out of the crowded marketplace. He cursed Ram for bringing him here. What was he doing in Ismal? How the hell could his former friend stand it? The scent of human waste and garbage, the hard press of bodies and noise made Henrik’s head pound and his stomach turn.

Holding his breath, he passed in front of a tanner-cum-butcher’s shop and turned down a narrow alley. At its mouth, he pressed his back to the wooden wall, palm on his dagger, and scanned the open area. Circular in shape, the Ring boasted the more expensive shops on its edge and an auction for livestock in its center. At one end, street performers dazzled a thinning crowd as daylight faded into dusk.

Excellent. Enough of a crowd left to point him in the right direction with few people sober enough to remember his presence.

A few well-placed questions led him to a tailor’s shop. He studied the bright blue door from across the square then crossed the Ring toward the yellow awning perched atop it. A light breeze ruffled its tasseled edge as he passed beneath, continuing on to the alleyway. With a quick glance over his shoulder, he slid across into the narrow opening. Shadows closed in, the damp darkness a welcome reprieve from the toss and swell of the marketplace.

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An instant later, he was through the side entrance, twin daggers drawn, feet soundless on the flagstone floor. He heard a man talking, tone soft with a hint of worry. Henrik followed the voice. Was Ram still here? Was he that foolish? Had the woman caused his comrade to make a mistake?

His heart picked up a beat then another, eager anticipation in each thump. He came through the doorway with seamless aggression, mind and body ready to strike. Bent over a chair by the hearth, a man murmured, hands stroking a woman’s hair as though trying to rouse her.

“What the hell, Ivan?” The tips of his knives dipped as Henrik dropped his guard.

Jet black eyes lifted away from the woman. Ivan scowled at him. “Henrik.”

“Where is he?”

With skilled precision, Ivan shifted to protect the unconscious woman, placing himself in front of her. “Not here.”

“You lie.”

“Mayhap,” Ivan said as he shrugged, beefy hands at the ready. “Care to test it?”

Henrik sheathed both blades. “****.”

The curse was all the warning he gave Ivan. His former comrade didn’t need much more. With stunning speed, he blocked Henrik’s first thrust then parried, slamming his fist into his gut. The blow lifted Henrik an inch off the floor. Years of training took hold and he countered, launching an assault that cracked Ivan’s ribs. Next he blooded his comrade’s nose, loosening a few of his teeth in the process.

Spitting blood, Ivan spun low, making one last attempt to bring him down. Aggression and a lifetime of fury let loose, and Henrik hammered him in the temple. Ivan reeled. Without mercy, Henrik circled in behind and delivered a blow to the small of his comrade’s back. The instant Ivan hit his knees, he locked him in a chokehold. Henrik twisted, the need to snap the assassin’s neck almost too difficult to resist.

“Where?”

“**** you.”

Henrik tightened his hold, cutting off Ivan’s air supply a little at a time.

A moment before he snapped his neck, Ivan rasped, “Don’t hurt her.”

Henrik closed his eyes. Christ, he was about to die and all Ivan could think about was the dark-haired woman in the chair? What the hell was wrong with him? Such selfless loyalty didn’t belong in an assassin. ’Twas a weakness that would make Halál rage and reach for his knives.

Ivan whispered the entreaty again.

Henrik’s grip loosened.

He couldn’t do it. After escaping the hell of Grey Keep, Ivan had found happiness, a rarity among their kind. He couldn’t take it from him on a whim. Goddamn, he held no quarrel with the man—connection to Ram aside—and Ivan didn’t deserve to die for that.

With a silent curse, he changed his hand position, adjusting the pressure on the side of Ivan’s neck. The big bastard went boneless, losing consciousness between one heartbeat and the next. Henrik shook his head. There was something wrong with him. A year ago he would have killed Ivan and not felt a thing. Now he couldn’t seem to stop feeling. The excess emotion bothered the hell out of him. He should be able to control it, bend it to his will, but—

Glass shattered, spilling across the floor from the open doorway.

He shifted, positioning Ivan’s body between him and the door then glared at the intruder from beneath his brows. A lass stood frozen on the threshold, a tray and broken crockery at her feet, dark eyes so round they nearly swallowed her small face. She twitched, feet shuffling on flagstone, ready to flee like a doe that had just scented a wolf.

“Don’t run.” He lowered Ivan to the floor. “You will not enjoy my reaction.”

A tremor racked her slight frame, working its way up until her bottom lip quivered.

He took pity. “My quarrel is not with you, lass.”

Her gaze slid to Ivan.

Henrik stepped over him, blocking the sprawl of his comrade’s body, and moved toward the girl. Her shaking became so violent he heard her teeth chatter as he stopped in front of her. She shrank from him, trying to make herself small. With a fingertip, he tipped her chin up, conveying his intent with a gentle touch.

“Answer my questions and I will leave you in peace,” he said, making sure to keep his voice soft. “I have no wish to harm you.”

She took a stuttered breath, chin wobbling against his hand, and nodded.

“What is your name?”

“B-basim-ma,” she said, the name barely audible.

“Ivan is not dead, Basima. Give him time, and he will rouse.” Air puffed between her lips, and her tension eased, though not enough to bring her any true comfort. He dropped his hand from her face. “Xavian Ramir...he was here, aye?”

“He followed the woman into the alley.”

Henrik raised a brow.

“The dark-haired one.” She bit her bottom lip, no doubt uncertain she should continue.

“’Tis all right.” He shifted, creating more distance between them. He didn’t need to threaten her with his size any longer. She’d submitted; now was the time to reassure. ’Twas the only way he’d get the information he sought without breaking his word...without hurting her. “You can tell me, lass.”

“She went out the side door...away from...my lord X-Xavian,” she said, then paused.

My lord. So the rumors were true. Lucky bastard. Ram owned land and had a new home. “And?”

“The others came...the ones that work for the man in purple. A slaver, some say.” She met his eyes then shied, shuffling sideways. “T-there was a fight and...they took her.”

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“The slave merchant?”

Basima nodded, the movement jerky. “Lord Xavian, he...he k-killed them all. The ones who tried to s-stop him and...w-went after her.”

“Ivan cleaned it up?”

“He h-hid the bodies.”

“Many thanks, Basima,” he said and turned to leave.

Something stopped him halfway down the narrow corridor. He glanced over his shoulder. She stood statue-still, no doubt afraid to move...afraid the slightest noise would bring him back. Vise-like pressure banded around his chest. Without thinking, he reached into the pouch at his waist. Coming away with a coin, he flipped the gold in her direction and was out the door before it hit the floor between her feet.

CHAPTER TEN

It was getting cold. So very cold. And no matter how fast Afina rubbed her arms and back, Sabine continued to shiver. Wrapped in the fur-lined mantle, she cuddled her daughter closer, lending as much body heat as she could, and peered through the metal bars. The setting sun bobbed, its rhythm following the jump and sway of the wagon that held them captive.

Or rather, the lion’s cage.

That’s what the man in purple had called it. He’d laughed, calling her his new lioness as he’d shoved her through the jaws of wood and iron and slammed the door shut behind her. The hinges had screeched, the high-pitched scream almost as bad as the click of the padlock. Afina shivered, her gaze on the forest and the deepening shadows on either side of the road.

They would stop to make camp soon. The men were talking. She could hear the creak of leather as they shifted in their saddles, complaining of stiff limbs and sore arses.

So much for escape. True to form, her attempt had only made things worse.

Even Xavian and his plan to hand her over to Vladimir was better than this. At least with him, she held some hope of surviving. The swine needed her alive, after all. These men, the ones surrounding her like a steel trap, didn’t care whether she lived to see Constantinople. It was a long journey; a boring one filled with an endless supply of women to replace her if she didn’t live long enough to stand on the auction block.

Slavers. She understood that now.

Twenty strong, they were nothing but a bunch of thugs. A band ruled by the bastard who’d dragged her out of the alleyway. Away from Xavian.

Afina tightened her arms around Sabine. Was he dead? Lying in the dirt with his throat slashed or a sword through his belly? The thought made her stomach roll. No matter his intensions, she didn’t want...couldn’t imagine...

He couldn’t be dead. He was too vibrant a man—too strong—to be cut down.

Her knuckles went white against the brown edges of her cloak. If he’d been killed, it was her fault. Had she stayed with Sherene...had she just—

By the goddess. No matter how much she wanted to she couldn’t go back. It was done. Over. And regret was now starting to elbow shock out of the way. It sank deep, like thorny barbs, razor-sharp tips tearing at her.

Afina closed her eyes and pictured Xavian. Twin swords raised, muscled arms flexing, he stood strong, eyes flashing. Yes, she would remember him like that. Hold onto that image like a candle in the dark. She needed it, to soothe her heart as the guilt ate her alive.

The wagon rocked from side to side, bumping over a deep rut in the road. She opened her eyes. Unwelcome ones trapped her own, the leer as much a threat as the daggers Xavian carried. She recoiled, hugging Sabine closer. The thug smiled, yellow teeth flashing from where he rode alongside her prison. Her stomach revolted, but Afina swallowed the burn. The moment she showed fear, he won.

Tucking her lips inside the folds of her clock to hide her chin wobble, she met his gaze. One corner of his mouth curved up. His unkempt beard bristled as his gaze swept her, cruel intent sifting through his dark eyes.

“I’m going to make you scream.” He smirked then glanced at the darkening sky. “Soon, *****cat. Very soon.”

Afina swallowed, tasting bile, and watched him spur his mount to the front of the procession.

“They’ll each take a turn, you know.”

The raspy voice brought Afina’s head around. Her attention landed on the other captive. The one she’d been trying to talk to since the cage door slammed shut behind her. Little more than a scruffy ball in the back corner, the woman rocked—back and forth—one bruised shoulder peeking between the broken threads of her dirty gown.

Afina longed for her healing satchel. She had salve that would soothe the girl’s wounds and tonic that would ease her pain. The agony was no doubt the reason she rocked, trying to comfort herself the only way she knew how. But her bag was gone, taken by the thugs who would rape them both the instant they stopped for the night.

Her mind shied away from the thought, but her body understood and her muscles tightened, preparing for flight. But escape wasn’t an option. Not while locked inside the cage. Even if she managed to break free, she couldn’t run without her satchel. No matter how much she hated it, she couldn’t leave the amulet behind. The stupid thing was her birthright, the only leverage she held to keep herself and the people of Transylvania safe.

As though in answer, the amulet pulsed like a heartbeat. The throb slid across the nape of her neck: searching, stroking, soothing. Afina stilled and stared at the wooden wall at the front of the wagon. She knew the amulet lay just beyond, probably nestled under the bench seat beneath the driver. But how did she know that? She’d never felt it before—not even when she’d touched the dratted thing.

So what was happening? Was she so distressed her brain played tricks on her, imagining things that couldn’t be real?