Knight Awakened (Circle of Seven #1) (9 page)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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—”

“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.

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.

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.