Knight Awakened (Circle of Seven #1) (10 page)

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 into submission, to ease
the anger with pleasure while he showed her how a man claimed his woman and tunneled into her soul.

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. Conditioned 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.

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.

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.”