Knight Awakened (Circle of Seven #1) Page 6

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

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

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

  Cristobal cursed. “Halál.”

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

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

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

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

  Jesu, he hoped not. “’Tis possible.”

  “We’ll be ready.”

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

  Hell, ’twas an understatement.

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

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

  “She is not to be touched.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  Why was Xavian always armed to the teeth?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  The memory slapped.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “What did you do to that boy?”

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

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

  His lips twitched. “Naught.”

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

  “He told you that?”

  “No, but a blind man could see—”

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

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

  “You’ve no wish to know.”

  Yes, she did. “Has he no family?”

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

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

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

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

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

  Well, that, and the nearest escape route.

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

  Willing.

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

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

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

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

  Her bottom lip trembled a little.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  He shrugged.

  “You haven’t changed it?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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