Empathy stole into her heart, and all of a sudden, she wanted to make him feel safe. Absurd—completely laughable—considering she doubted anything made the hard-faced warrior afraid. Add that to the fact he scared her witless and the notion made her think she’d lost her mind. But if she was to tend his wound, she needed him to trust her.
Squeezing his hand, Afina deployed a technique that had served her well in the past. She put them on familiar terms. “What is your name?”
He gave her a strange look and let her pull him past the doorframe. “Xavian.”
“I am Afina,” she said, infusing her tone with warmth she didn’t feel. “And that wee cherub is Sabine, my daughter.”
Forever friendly, Sabine gave him a toothy grin, rapped the spoon against the edge of the bowl, and chirped, “Hello!”
Afina dropped his hand and gestured to a stool before turning to retrieve her healer’s satchel. “Sit. I will gather my things and tend you at the table.”
Again he hesitated, but in the end obeyed and took a seat, as far from Sabine as he could manage. Afina hid her smile. A grown man afraid of a wee lass. ’Twas inconceivable, but true. She’d seen it many times. Observed men hardened by battle and hurt by war fairly run in the other direction when faced with a child. When she encountered someone like that, she knew they’d forgotten joy, had no idea how to handle an energetic bundle filled with nothing but merriment.
Curbing the inappropriate burst of amusement, she grabbed her bag and the large bowl from the shelf above it. Hands full, she turned and nearly jumped out of her skin. Another man, dark to Xavian’s light, stood in the open doorway. Her breath stalled as his black gaze swept her then the tiny confines of her cottage. The door swung closed behind him with a click, and her grip tightened on the satchel. Leather groaned in protest as alarm knocked around inside her head.
Xavian studied her expression then glanced over his shoulder. “Relax, mistress. ’Tis only Cristobal. He’s with me.”
“Oh,” she said, resisting the urge to pound on her chest to restart her heart. She took a shallow breath. No matter how much she disliked having two large men in her home, she must stay calm. Xavian required her skill, such as it was, and she needed the coin he offered to secure their future. She pushed past fear and set the bowl along with her bag on the tabletop.
Sabine greeted the newcomer in her usual fashion. “Hello!”
“Salutari, little one,” Cristobal said, a smile in his voice. Hooking a stool with his foot, he sat across the table from her daughter.
Sabine grinned.
He grinned back.
Afina blinked, amazed by the exchange. Fierce-looking men didn’t generally engage her two-year-old in conversation. Neither did they reach into the pouches at their waists and offer her toys. But as Cristobal rolled the dice across the table to Sabine, she forced herself to reconsider, to remember a lesson long forgotten. Never judge another by appearance alone.
“Cristobal enjoys children.”
Xavian’s deep voice stroked along her spine, leaving pinpricks of heat in its wake. Afina flinched and dragged her attention from the strange pair. She collided with his ice-blue gaze, wondering what that meant, exactly. Enjoy in the way a wolf does a lamb or a child his favorite playmate?
An image of razor-sharp teeth and lupine eyes flashed through her mind. She cleared her throat. “Towels. I will fetch them then begin.”
She forced herself to move at a steady pace and, with quiet efficiency, gathered the rest of her supplies. Xavian tracked her movement. She felt his focus keenly, registered his gaze as prickles exploded across the nape of her neck in a warm rush of sensation. The tingle of awareness frightened her, made her tense with the need to rush him out the door. Something about him wasn’t quite tame. She got the sense the only rules he followed were the ones he made for himself. And for a girl who needed the rules to feel safe, that wouldn’t do.
Afina set the small kettle she carried on the table. Iron bumped against wood. The uneven thump sounded loud in the stillness, an unanticipated announcement of her ineptitude. She paused, waiting for the accusation, any sign he understood the cryptic message. He said nothing and waited, patient in her moment of hesitation. In a flurry of movement, she placed the folded towels to one side then flapped one square open and spread it on the wooden planks. Without being told, Xavian placed his forearm on the linen and, with the flick of his fingertips, gestured for her to begin. She quelled the urge to run in the other direction, wanting to scoop Sabine up and head for the hills so badly the impulse made her mouth dry.
The rattle of dice and Sabine’s giggle rippled, joining the crackle of fire in the hearth. Grateful her daughter was occupied, she flipped her bag open and extracted a small vial of liquid. Lightning quick, Xavian encircled her wrist, his grip just short of bruising. Air rushed from her chest in a puff, and her gaze shot to his. The instant she made contact, he raised a brow, a clear question in his eyes.
She swallowed. “Distilled witch hazel. I must clean the wound before I stitch it. Otherwise you will suffer an infection.”
He held her captive a moment more then uncurled his fingers, releasing her from the calloused shackle. She drew a soft breath and, spreading the liquid on the linen, shifted closer. His heat reached out, wrapping her in warmth scented by male and something more. Rich and earthy, he smelled fresh and clean, like the forest after a summer storm. Afina inhaled and dabbed at the wound, sifting like a bloodhound through the complexities of his scent, wondering how he’d come by it. Did he use a special soap? What blend of herbs would create an aroma so full of woodsy delight? She leaned toward him, nose twitching, brain working to unravel the mystery ingredients.
He shifted, and she flinched as the backs of his fingers brushed the curve of her cheek. Unaccustomed to being touched, she stayed stone still, afraid to look at him while he pushed the hair that had fallen into her face over her shoulder. His hand hovered close, and hers stopped above his injury, a stunted breath tangled in her throat.
His tone soft and even, he murmured, “There, now you can see what you are doing.”
Afina nodded her thanks and straightened on a shaky breath. Her gaze averted, she reached into the satchel and pulled out a fine bone needle. “I’ll stitch it closed then apply salve and wrap it.”
His chin dipped, and he angled his arm to give her better access. Fighting queasiness, she imagined Bianca, pictured her steady hands, replayed every instruction her sister had given her, and set needle to flesh. Her stomach clenched, rolling in protest. She inhaled through her nose, ignoring the slight tremor in her hand and, with steady precision, closed the gash with tight, narrow stitches.
“You’ve a gentle touch,” Xavian said, his voice mild and full of approval. “You are very good at this.”
Afina almost snorted. Good at it? Was he soft in the head? The man obviously hadn’t been hurt very often. She wasn’t stupid enough, however, to correct him as she tied off the threads. If he wanted to believe she was an accomplished healer, so much the better. His ignorance walked her one step closer to the gold coin. Hmm, she could almost taste the goat’s milk.
“You’ll need to keep it dry,” she said. “No water or soap on the wound.”
Slathering thick ointment over the injury, Afina peeked at him from beneath her lashes, wanting to be sure he paid attention. The goddess preserve her, he was well put together, much too appealing for his own good. Good thing he frightened her. Otherwise she might be tempted to talk with him awhile, to make him stay a little longer.
She gave herself a mental slap. What was the matter with her? She didn’t have time for a man, never mind the inclination. No matter how compelling, Xavian needed to go...and go quickly.
Bandage in hand, she wrapped his forearm, tied a knot just below his elbow and, tone brusque, instructed, “Change the bandage every day. The stitches need to remain for ten days then you can cut them out one at time. Be very careful about it. You don’t want to reopen the wound.”
“Many thanks, Afina.”
Her name rolled off his tongue as though he were tasting it, a predator savoring his next meal. A shiver chased dread down her spine, causing a visceral chain reaction. She’d done as he asked and tended his wound, but the idea he wasn’t finished with her grabbed hold, clanged inside her head until instinct coiled, preparing her to flee. Muscles tense, she shifted, moving away from him and toward Sabine a fraction at a time.
“Ram?” Cristobal’s voice cut through the haze of fright, momentarily interrupting her tension. Something about his tone caused her to pause and take stock of the question embedded in the summons. The chill of Xavian’s eyes moved from her to his friend. Time slowed, altering perception as Afina watched Cristobal reach out and grasp Sabine’s small chin. With a gentle touch, he turned her daughter’s face toward Xavian and said, “The eyes.”
A muscle jumped along Xavian’s jaw as his hand curled into a fist on the planked tabletop. “Hell.”
“Aye,” Cristobal murmured, clearly understanding the meaning behind the expletive.
Her gaze swiveling between the two, Afina struggled to breathe. What did they want with Sabine? The question sank deep and panic rolled in. She exploded around the edge of the table. Something was wrong. Very, very wrong.
She needed to reach her child...now, this instant. “Sabine, come—”
Xavian struck, reaching out so fast she didn’t see him move. The heat of his hand shackled her wrist. A moment later, he hauled her up and back, away from Sabine. Her throat clogged and instinct surged, unleashing the ferocious need to protect her child. Xavian was talking, but she didn’t hear him, too focused on getting to Sabine as he continued to draw her toward the door. Using the momentum of his pull, she rounded on him, teeth bared, feet and fists flying. He cursed and yanked, spinning her until she landed, back to his front, shoulder blades pressed to his muscled chest.
Sabine whimpered.
Afina screamed and bucked his hold, heart breaking, tears pooling in her eyes. One hand wrapping both of her wrists, he cupped her throat, fingers searching.
“No,” she said, her voice weakening as he applied pressure to a sensitive spot on the side of her neck. “Let go...let me go!”
“Easy, Afina.”
“Please! P-please don’t hurt her...d-don’t hurt my baby.”
Tears streaming from the corners of her eyes, the black void of unconsciousness beckoned. Afina fought the pull, fear for Sabine anchoring her in the light. Xavian murmured, mouth close to her ear, his low tone reassuring, but she knew better. He was the angel of death, right hand to the devil.
CHAPTER THREE
Xavian swung Afina into his arms, all the while berating himself. He’d frightened her, made her believe he would hurt her child. Not the best move, all things considered.
Had he stuck to the plan she might have agreed. Now she would fight him every step of the way. And he couldn’t blame her. He didn’t deserve anything less. In his defense, though, the girl-child’s eyes had surprised him, making him move before he’d been ready.
Mismatched. One green, the other blue...Bodgan’s eyes.
Xavian had stared into a pair of identical eyes just days ago, watching their life force drain away. Did it matter that Bodgan had attacked first? That his intent had been to slit Xavian’s throat and carry his head like a trophy back to the old man? Nay. From the moment he recognized Sabine’s coloring, an awful ache sliced him wide open.
He closed his eyes and relived the desperation in his comrade’s voice. Watched his blood flow and listened to him beg, You owe me, Ram...find her near Severin...blond...healer...provide. Remember...the code. He’d rasped the last words, gasping on the certainty of death.
The code. Could he ever forget?
’Twas sacred among their kind, a gift given to the dying. One favor, a request made of the victor without the possibility of denial. He never imagined, however, his present mission and the vow made to Bodgan would collide. That the woman he hunted for Vladimir would prove to be the healer and the blond child, his former comrade’s daughter.
Jesu, a simple promise and now he stood neck deep, condemned with choice. The options slashed, opening old wounds until he bled, unable to stem the flow of regret. ’Twas new, the constant questioning, an affliction he’d not suffered before a year ago. He didn’t like it, mourned the simplicity of his life before he split from the group, Al Pacii. Tired of the folly and Halál’s indiscriminate killing, he’d left alone. He’d wanted a new start, a future far from his past and the innumerable sins for which God would never forgive him. Instead, the past followed along with the four, the men that now stood at his back.
He hadn’t asked for leadership. Didn’t want it. But somehow, responsibility found a home on his shoulders. Now his men looked to him. Had handed the power of their futures into his care, and Xavian refused to fail them. He must find a way through, give them all new purpose if they were to survive Halál’s wrath.
His fingers curled, flexing around soft flesh and lax muscle. He looked down at the woman he cradled like a babe in his arms. More responsibility. Two wee bundles he could ill afford. What the hell was he going to do with them?
His immediate impulse was to keep Sabine—satisfy his promise to Bodgan—but hand Afina to Vladimir, take the coin and forget about her. ’Twas a reckless reaction, one fueled by emotion. He recognized it for what it was...anger. Hell, he didn’t even know Afina, and he was angry with her for so many things: for welcoming Bodgan, for bearing his child, for giving his former friend the gift Xavian yearned for...acceptance. The notion stirred him, tossing up debris from the murky bottom of his soul.
No matter how hard he fought, the truth always came back to haunt him. Now was no different. The craving uncoiled like a wounded animal, howling for a woman to call his own—a special lass to love and be loved by in return. Xavian scowled. Love. ’Twas naught but a fool’s dream, a false hope he couldn’t encourage. He needed that kind of aggravation like a dagger between his shoulder blades.
Even so, the imagined loss stung as he crossed the clearing.
Andrei slid from the shadows and raised a brow.
Xavian unclenched his teeth long enough to snarl, “Cloak.”
The Frenchman’s chin dipped an instant before he unhooked his mantle and tossed it in Xavian’s direction. The heavy wool arced, moving on the wind, a black stain on the muted grey of the coming night. Shifting Afina, he caught the cape with one hand and swept beneath the curved canopy of the large beech tree. Sabine whimpered behind him, the only sound to indicate Cristobal ghosted in his wake.
Sensing the audience at his back, Xavian inhaled to steady the volatility rolling around inside his chest and glanced over his shoulder. His men stood in a semicircle, a question in their eyes. Arms curled around Afina, he protected her from their probing gazes and said, “Clean it up. Take what is useful. Leave no trace.”
His men nodded and moved toward the cottage, their feet silent, movements efficient as they obeyed his command. Cradling the girl-child, Cristobal headed in the opposite direction, toward Qabil and their horses. He heard his friend murmur, the cadence of his voice soothing as he stroked Sabine’s hair, reassuring her with both tone and touch. Xavian shook his head, amazed a hardened assassin, a man with blood on his hands—as much as his own—could be so good with a child.
It defied logic, and Xavian struggled to wrap his mind around the blatant contradiction as he spread the cloak on the ground. Afina would stir soon if he didn’t hurry. He wanted her senseless for a while...at least through the night. He wasn’t ready to face her yet, or the fury she would no doubt deliver. The reaction smacked of cowardice, but he didn’t care. He needed time: to adjust, to formulate a plan, to make a final decision.
Fallen leaves rustled as he came down on one knee and set Afina in the middle of the dark wool. The breeze stirred, pushing the branches above, and moonlight spilled, bathing her in light. He drew a deep breath and swept the hair from
her face while he palmed the small vial he always carried. The thick strands clung, and unable to help himself, he wove the locks between his fingers, enjoying the softness even as he admonished himself for the pleasure.
Tight pressure moved behind his breastbone. With a scowl, he shook free of her tresses and brushed the corner of her mouth. She shifted, turning her head to follow his touch. He flicked the stopper from the glass and caressed the full curve of her lower lip. As she sighed, his heart clenched, but that didn’t stop him from tipping the vial and dripping two droplets into her mouth.
Her eyelashes flickered. He cupped her cheek and murmured, using the soothing rhythm of his voice to keep her quiet until the drugging tonic took effect. She settled like a kitten, content with his tone and the heat of his body surrounding her. With an eye to her comfort, he shifted her a little then wrapped her in the warm mantle. He didn’t question his need to be gentle, simply accepted and let it go as he scooped her up and headed for the horses. He needed to move fast. Of a sudden, a half-day’s ride between him and the enemy didn’t seem nearly far enough. Not with Afina and Sabine now in the fold.
Unhappy birds argued somewhere overhead. The high-pitched chatter made Afina’s head hurt, and she shifted sideways. Away from sharp-edged pain, toward heat and a spicy scent she couldn’t place. Goddess, that was nice...rich with warmed leather and wood smoke. With a hum, Afina snuggled in, pressed her cheek to something solid, and swallowed the bitter taste in her mouth. The tang turned rancid, telling her stomach the smallest twitch would be treated like an enemy invasion.
Enemy.
The word echoed inside her head. Something was off. The “what,” though, was proving to be a problem. Her brain wasn’t working right. Everything was foggy. A fuzzy collection of barely there thoughts jumbled together with images that didn’t make sense.
Afina shivered, tried to catch the memory. The birds above yammered and the vague impression thinned, leaving her mind blank but for one thought.
Knight Awakened (Circle of Seven #1) Page 2