She didn’t feel dead.
Something told her she ought to, except...heaven should feel more, well, heavenly, without the terrible sting buzzing between her temples. The other problem? Everyone was supposed to get along in heaven, and a flock of engaged fowl seemed a bit disorderly, disrespectful of the goddess’s master plan.
Well, whatever the strategy, it wasn’t working. The argument had become a screaming match, driving the ache into the back of her skull. Mother Mary, why couldn’t they find another tree? Why couldn’t...Wait a moment. Trees?
Afina cracked her eyes open. Filtered through something, sunlight drilled her and agony clawed, leaving spots in the center of her vision. She tried again and saw a collection of blurry green blobs. Leaves. Which meant trees. Not something she had anywhere near her cottage. The beeches stood all the way across the clearing and—
The ground shifted beneath her. A sauntering roll, more gentle than jostling.
Still her stomach rebelled, clenching in protest as Afina looked to her left. Her vision wavered, moving from dark to light and back again. Concentrating hard, she squinted at a fuzzy outline. The black mane came into focus first, followed by pointed ears and the shape of a head. A horse? She blinked to clear the fog and tried again.
Uh-huh...definitely. A horse.
Afina frowned at it. Much as she’d always wanted to, she didn’t own a horse. So why was she on one? A dream come true or—
Oh, gods, her head hurt.
Letting her eyes slide closed, she settled against her warm cradle. Later. She’d figure it out later, when Sabine woke up to break her fast. For now, she would—
The stallion sidestepped. Her stomach went with it, pitching as the jarring movement sent her brain sloshing inside her skull. Afina gagged, fighting the burn while nausea fisted a hand around her windpipe.
A deep voice cursed. The warhorse settled, but it was too late. Bile churned, and she coughed, lost to the horrible spasm clogging the back of her throat.
“Breathe.” Warm hands rubbed circles on her back.
Afina shook her head. Breathing sounded like a good idea, but she couldn’t find any air. The pressure banding her chest squeezed, compressing her lungs until cramps took over, taking her along for the ride. Dry heaves hit and she doubled over, palms flat against her breastbone, eyes watering as she fought the convulsions.
“Jesu.” With gentle insistence, someone tugged at her, pulling her upright. The position helped, allowing her to take a shallow breath. “Good. In through your nose, out through your mouth.”
The tone drew her, held her up high, away from the pain. She drifted toward it, following the deep timbre without question, and took another breath, this one fuller than the last.
“That’s it, draga.”
Afina blinked away tears. Draga? Oh, that was nice. No one had ever called her “darling” before. And that voice. Incredibly deep, with a soothing cadence that reminded her of warm honey and sugary sweets. Her favorite, but...wait a moment. Something was wrong with that image. She shook her head, ignoring the pain as she tried to clear her mind.
“Take another.” Strong fingers stroked through her hair, massaged her nape, attacking the tension under her scalp. “’Twill help the unease pass.”
Her stomach twisted, trying to escape through her spine. “W-who?”
“Breathe first, love. Worry about me later.”
Worry about him? Should she?
He made it seem like a worthwhile idea, being so gentle...calling her love. That wasn’t right either. For all she yearned otherwise, there wasn’t a person she knew who loved her but Sabine. The thought jolted through her. Where was her daughter? Sabine was never out of her sight—never. But she wasn’t in her lap and that meant...
A chill nipped at her and Afina stilled, fighting a tremor and rising fear.
“Rahat, you’re pale.” A big hand ghosted over her, holding her steady as he pulled a thick blanket around her shoulders. Soft wool tucked beneath her chin, he cupped her face. “I’m sorry. I gave you too much.”
“P-poison?”
“A tonic.”
“S-Sabine.” Planting her palm against his chest, she pushed herself upright and forced her eyes open. The world spun, flipped once before righting itself. “Where is s-she?”
“Safe with Cristobal...still asleep.”
“Did you—”
He shook his head. “We didn’t give her any. She is napping ’tis all.”
His reply made sense. The sun hung high in the sky. ’Twas sometime after the noonday meal—prime naptime for Sabine. Still, how could she trust him? The answer? She couldn’t. The mental fog hampering her cleared, allowing her mind to gain speed. Memory rushed back with acuity, unscrambling the picture, laying out the puzzle, damning the man who held her.
Xavian.
His name whispered through her mind, scraping her raw as she remembered: his injury, her cottage, the promise of the gold coin, and the sweetness of goat’s milk. All lies. Nothing but a clever ruse designed to get him inside her home. The bastard.
Sitting sideways in his lap, she raised her gaze to meet his, hammering him with the silent accusation.
His hands went still on her nape as a wary light entered his eyes. “Careful, lass.”
His voice rolled over her like warm milk: soothing, coaxing...hateful. She detested the fact she liked the sound of him. It was treason, a betrayal of the senses—one that made anger burn and her stomach settle. Beast. Cad. Kidnapping dolt.
Afina shrugged his hands away from her throat. “Stop the horse and give me my daughter.”
Watching her like a predator does its prey, he said, “Not yet.”
The quick denial killed self-preservation and unleashed rage. With a quick jab, Afina elbowed him in the ribs, felt him tense, and swung around with her fist. She’d never hit anyone before—had never wanted to—but the bastard thought to stand between her and Sabine. He’d done it in her cottage. Afina wouldn’t allow him to do it again.
The white points of her knuckles came round, heading for his eye socket. Xavian countered and, with a quick hand, caught her fist midvolley. She launched the second, twisting against him, fighting for balance on the saddle front. He caught that one as easily as he had the first and held, imprisoning her knuckles against his palms.
Poised in front of him, both hands trapped, Afina’s eyes went wide. Goodness, he was fast and...she swallowed...warm. The heat in his palms sucked the body chill out through her fists. But the warmth didn’t reach his eyes. The pale blue was icy, direct in a way that made her shiver.
She clenched her teeth to stop them from chattering. Yes, he might be good at playing the wolf, but that didn’t mean she must play the rabbit. Fear. No fear. It didn’t matter. She refused to show it or give up and retreat.
Xavian raised a brow. “What now?”
“All I want is my daughter,” she whispered, berating herself as she gave ground and looked away.
“Ready to stop fighting?”
She nearly snarled at him, wanted to yell “no” so badly her teeth ached. She nodded instead, her pride no match for the quiet throb of fear. Sabine was so little—so innocent—and if promising to behave would see her daughter returned Afina would give her word. Keeping it, however, was another matter. As soon as the cretin handed her Sabine, she would direct her boot to the softest part of his anatomy.
“Look over my left shoulder.”
Her head swiveled so fast she wobbled in the saddle. Xavian steadied her and, with a gentle tug, pulled her off the saddle horn and back into his lap. Afina barely noticed. She was too busy searching for Sabine, scanning the riders behind them. Cristobal broke away, guiding his steed to the front of the pack. His dark gaze met hers a moment before he shifted the cloak-wrapped bundle in his arms.
Hardly able to breathe, she clutched Xavian’s shoulder and waited. He lifted a corner of the mantle, smoothing it away to show the mop of blond curls surrounding her cherub’s sleeping f
ace.
Afina exhaled in a rush. “Blessed be the goddess.”
“See?” Forgotten in the struggle, Xavian reached for the cloak pooled around her hips. Adjusting the wool, he drew it up until it lay snug against the nape of her neck. “Hale and whole.”
“Can I have her?” Meeting his gaze briefly, she pleaded with her eyes before returning her attention to Sabine.
“In a while.”
“But—”
“We cannot stop now, Afina,” he said, keeping his tone soft enough to soothe her but strong enough to hold the line. “’Tisn’t safe. At nightfall, when you are recovered and strong enough to carry her, I will give her back.”
Her bottom lip quivered. “Promise me he won’t hurt her.”
“My word,” he murmured, his throat tight. He swallowed past the knot, disliking her distress. It made him want to soothe her, to touch her until the pain left her eyes and she settled against him as she had during the night. Pain and pleasure—a sorry couple, but intertwined when it came to Afina. His reaction was telling...temptation and need wrapped into one.
Unable to resist either, he traced the edge of her eyebrow, using the caress to gain her attention. When her eyes met his, he brushed the bedraggled tresses away from her face. “I’ve no intention of hurting her...or you.”
“Too late.” Her brows drawn tight, she leaned away from his touch. “You took us against my will. Let us go if you wish to keep your word.”
“Nay, you stay with me.” Xavian winced but didn’t show it. Christ, he hadn’t meant to say that, to sound so possessive, as though he’d taken her for himself. Aye, he liked the look of her—had imagined bedding her a dozen different ways—but that meant naught in the scheme of things. He’d taken Afina for a purpose, one that didn’t include making her his own.
“What...why?” Anger and bafflement winged across her small face. Xavian took a shallow breath, trying not to be enchanted as he watched her teeter between the two emotions. Fury won out and she glared at him, eyes narrowed, expression militant. “I don’t have anything you want.”
“Not true.” He kept his expression neutral, unwilling to show his attraction. He’d not spent much time with women—most of the encounters had been brief, ending when he received his pleasure and gave some in return. But instinct warned if she guessed how much he desired her, it wouldn’t take long for the manipulation to begin. “I’m in need of a healer for my new home. Your skill is sufficient for my purpose.”
“And if I am unwilling?”
“Can you afford to be?”
She said naught, simply stared at him, the unspoken vulnerability in her silence difficult to bear. For some reason he disliked her uncertainty, the notion she preferred abject poverty to him. But this wasn’t about him. ’Twas about the lads in his care and the importance of his academy to their success. Afina could contribute, give the boys something they’d never had: softness, caring, a woman’s touch.
With the boys forefront in his mind, he pushed for an answer. “What did you have in that hovel...what are you leaving behind? Wealth? Stature? The—”
“Independence,” she said, cutting him off with an undeniable growl.
“What good is that, draga, when you cannot feed your own child?”
Intense pain flashed across her features a moment before she looked away. Xavian killed the urge to take the harsh statement back. It might hurt her pride, but she needed to hear the truth. Both she and Sabine were too thin. ’Twas obvious to anyone who cared to look they’d not had enough to eat for a while. The baffling bit—the thing he couldn’t understand—was the fact he cared enough to make her admit it.
“I was doing fine,” she said, her tone thick with emotion and something else. Stubbornness. He knew the flaw well, possessed it himself, but now was no time for her to become mired in illusion.
He raised a brow, challenging her statement with silence.
Her knuckles turned white in the black folds of the mantle. “I was.”
“Do not lie to me.” He leaned forward, bringing them nose-to-nose. As much as he admired her spirit, he wanted her to understand. He never tolerated dishonesty. He’d endured years of deceit, been suffocated by subterfuge and manipulated without mercy. ’Twas best she learned he valued the truth now. Otherwise naught but trouble lay ahead. “Be honest with me, Afina. In the end, ’twill get you most of what you want and all of what you need.”
“I don’t want anything from you.” Chin tilted in defiance, she planted her hand on his chest and shoved him away. “Honest enough?”
Her petulant tone drilled him. He clenched his teeth on a smile, enjoying her wit even as he wished it wasn’t so quick. “Better.”
She huffed, no doubt unsatisfied he refused to give ground. Amusement spread like a disease, infecting him with good humor. He shoved it away, rejecting the ease he shared with her. ’Twas too dangerous. It made him want to get closer, to ignore her purpose, his vow, and follow desire’s urging. But he couldn’t do it. Connection was something he’d never done well and didn’t want.
Shuffling sideways, Afina helped him gain control, putting as much distance between them as she could without falling off his horse. “You won’t let us go, will you? No matter that I wish it.”
“Nay, you belong to my circle now.” Shifting in the saddle, he gave Afina more room. He wanted her comfortable, well able to ride into the night. With the afternoon light waning, they had miles to go yet. The hunters wouldn’t rest, and as much as Xavian yearned to turn and fight he didn’t want his new healer anywhere near the battle. “Accept what you cannot change, Afina. ’Twill go easier...for everyone.”
Lips pursed, she clung to the saddle horn, refusing to look at him. Xavian stared at her profile, debating whether to say more. Nay, he’d said all he needed to. She understood his message, knew he would not let her or Sabine go. ’Twas enough for now. She would test him before long and run.
Good. Let her try.
The sooner she realized escape was futile, the sooner she would accept her new life. No matter how much she taxed his patience, he would see his responsibility through to the end. He’d made a promise to Bodgan to protect her from all comers. The Transylvanian lord wanted her for a reason. An important one. His objective concerning Afina might have changed, but he knew Vladimir’s wouldn’t. Now he must cultivate her trust to find the truth. Odd, but as he urged Mayhem into a gallop, his gaze on the obstinate set of her chin, Xavian found himself looking forward to the challenge.
CHAPTER FOUR
SIBIU, TRANSYLVANIA–CASTLE Raul
Vladimir Barbu took the stairs two at a time. He launched himself off the second-to-last step, avoiding a rotted tread to touch down on the upper landing. With a curse, he swerved around a pile of debris deposited by the decaying roof and turned right toward his solar. Strides long and pace steady, he slammed through the door and, with a flick of his wrist, closed it behind him. The hinges screeched, raking icy fingers down his spine. He glared at the metal brackets over his shoulder.
Hell and damnation, he would string Anton up by his balls when he found him. Lazy good-for-naught. He was to have fixed the door days ago. Vladimir scowled. His jack-of-all-trades needed another thrashing, but he would throw him in the stocks first. He wanted the incompetent arse sober when he delivered the reprimand. Otherwise the drunkard wouldn’t remember the beating, never mind the reason for it.
He rolled his shoulders and turned his attention to the chamber. The luxury reached out to stroke him. With a sigh, he allowed the collection of plush pillows, daybeds, and thick tapestries to draw the tension from his muscles. A veritable oasis, the round tower room was the only one finished in the rat hole he now called home, the only one he’d possessed enough coin to refurbish.
Now he had precious little left. Certainly not enough to replace the castle roof, any stair treads, or shore up the crumbling walls of the great hall. But he didn’t care. The large turret, with its square windows and generous proportions, was
his favorite place...the opulent sanctuary he deserved. ’Twas a right he claimed as acting ruler of Transylvania, the people’s protests be damned. He’d worked for years to take the title; brutalized, maimed, and killed to be next in line. And Afina wasn’t going to ruin it for him.
Damn the lass to hell.
Two years of searching. No matter who he sent after her, the result remained the same. She evaded him at every turn. And he was running out of time.
He needed the Amulet of Orm to wear the crown of Transylvania, for King Charles of Hungary to deliver a decree and make his title official. Until then, he was naught more than the interim lord, a circumstance subject to change.
If only Ylenia, former high priestess, had done as instructed. Had she lied and told the people the amulet had accepted him—glowed as it always did when handed to the true ruler of Transylvania—then she would still be alive...and he would already be king.
He curled his hands into fists. Stupid wench. She’d ruined everything.
Without the sacred talisman, he lacked the leverage to force King Charles’s hand. Superstitious to the point of obsession, the royal jackass refused to ignore ancient lore—the tradition of the amulet—and anoint him voivode. He must find the trinket and fake its glow. If he didn’t, he would never sit his arse on the throne and do what Wallachia had done a year ago: sever all ties with the Hungarian monarch and create a country and kingdom of his own.
Damnation, where in the hell was Afina?
He needed her...for more than just the power she would provide him. He wanted her under him, over him, in whatever position he could get her as long as it involved his bed. He would settle for Bianca, but ’twas Afina he craved. She wore the mark, the crown of the goddess stamped on her skin, the symbol marking the next High Priestess of Orm. Without her support, the king would never accept him. And without his blessing, the coffers, the treasures of Transylvania, remained out of reach.
His nostrils flared as he imagined what he would do to her—with her—when he found her. An eye for an eye. He suffered, and when he finally got his hands on her, she would too.
Knight Awakened (Circle of Seven #1) Page 3