He growled. Where the devil was Henrik?
He’d ridden all the way from the marketplace to meet the bastard. If he wasn’t—
A soft sound caught his attention.
Scanning the chamber again, Vladimir caught a flash of movement in his periphery. Bare-chested, a man came through from the alcove, silhouette haloed by the sun flooding through the high windows. Another outline followed, shapely, much smaller than the first. The pair paused, heads aligned and close together.
Vladimir sighed and pivoted. His back to them, he crossed to the other side of the room, his progress muted by the thick Turkish rug underfoot. Grabbing a bejeweled cup from the exquisitely carved sideboard, he tipped the matching pitcher, pouring a tumbler full of red wine. Goblet in hand, he turned to lean on the lip of the cabinet.
Legs crossed at the ankles, he sipped the wine and watched them. A cloud passed overhead and the sunlight faded, giving him a clear view of the man’s face.
Hazel-gold eyes trained on Vladimir, Henrik fastened the ties on his trews then bent to kiss the curve of the wench’s bare shoulder. “My thanks, sweet.”
Vladimir raised the goblet in silent salute. Christ, the warrior had no shame, didn’t care that he’d been caught tupping a servant by the lord who employed him.
A rosy hue in her cheeks, she peeked at Henrik from beneath her lashes. “Tonight?”
Vladimir’s hand tightened around the tankard, jealousy rolling like wildfire through his veins. If only Afina had looked at him that way. If only she’d wanted him with the same intensity, the crown would be his, and so would she.
His mind on how best to punish her, he observed Henrik with the wench and almost snorted. The warrior’s patience was laughable. He’d already tupped her, for Christ’s sake. Why be so gentle? But then, he guessed the man wasn’t renowned for his skill with the lasses for naught. Vladimir shook his head. Gentleness. Such an abysmal waste of time.
With a nudge, Henrik pushed her toward the exit. “Off you go, lass.”
Eyes bright, the maid scurried toward the exit, her fingers busy lacing the front of her gown. She paused on the threshold, gave the warrior one last lingering look, and disappeared over the threshold.
The latch fell with a click, and Vladimir asked, “What have you learned?”
“Not much.” His gaze fixed on him, Henrik palmed a tankard from the marble mantelpiece. Something cold moved in the warrior’s eyes as he swirled the wine then raised the cup to take a sip.
Vladimir clenched his teeth, disliking the blatant show of disrespect. The urge to draw his sword—and Henrik’s blood—almost overwhelmed him. Self-preservation prevailed, however, stilling his hand. The man standing before him was no lightweight. A full-blooded assassin trained by the old man, Henrik could no doubt kill him with naught more than his little finger.
“Then why the hell are you here? Couldn’t find someone else’s servants to screw?”
“You’re selection is good, Vladimir,” he said, his bored tone somehow laced with enmity. “But not so fine I’d travel cross-country to bed one.”
The crass bastard. How dare he come here empty-handed then disregard his authority as though his position held no importance? His hand tightened on his cup. “Then I’ll ask again...why are you here?”
“Rumor has it you’ve hired Xavian Ramir.”
“What of it?”
“I like to know when I have competition.” Interest interwoven with menace sparked in Henrik’s strange golden eyes. “Hedging your bets?”
The hostility embedded in the assassin’s voice swirled in the space between them, and the muscle roping Vladimir’s abdomen twisted, tying his stomach into knots. He forced himself to relax and, affecting a manner of unconcern, swirled the wine in his goblet. “I want her found...two working on the problem is better than one.”
Henrik prowled toward him, his movements predatory, his feet soundless as he skirted a plush daybed. Trailing a finger along the top of a silk pillow, he stopped a few feet away and flicked the gold fringe on the tasseled cushion. “Is it?”
Vladimir shifted against the sideboard, aware he clung to his perch by a fingertip. He must tread carefully. Henrik was unpredictable at best, violent at worst. If he showed weakness, the animal in the assassin would sense his disquiet and go for his throat. Icy fingers brushing the nape of his neck, he waved the comment aside, feigning a confidence he didn’t feel. “What do you care?”
“He is a comrade, of sorts.”
Of sorts? What the hell did that mean? Had Ramir been trained by the Halál as well? Vladimir knew so little about the man, had heard about him through a string of associates. ’Twas said the warrior-assassin single-handedly won the Battle of Posada for Basarab, the new ruler of Wallachia. If rumor held true, Ramir massacred half of the Hungarian army and sent the other half fleeing for their lives.
Vladimir raised a brow. “Is he as good as I’ve heard?”
“Better.”
With a soundlessness that unnerved him, Henrik ghosted around an armchair, drifting within striking distance. Alert to the possibility of attack, Vladimir held his breath then let it out when the assassin moved away, toward the blaze roaring in the fireplace.
“Better than you?”
Henrik’s mouth quirked at the corners, but he said naught.
The subtle evasion bothered Vladimir. Why was Henrik so interested in Ramir? What did he know that he wasn’t telling? Whatever the cause, it signaled trouble, the kind he didn’t like. Who he hired was no one’s business, least of all Henrik’s. But assassins were a strange bunch. He’d learned that truth the hard way, had yet to recover from his folly...from forcing the encounter and Ramir’s subsequent attack. Hell and damnation, his knee still ached and the meeting had taken place well over a month ago.
He breathed deep, trying to calm himself. Ramir was the rarest sort of savage. Skilled precision coupled with a cunning Vladimir admired but seldom saw. He clenched his teeth. If only Ramir had taken the coin. He’d wanted to give him half to start and half when he delivered Afina, but the bastard hadn’t bitten. His distrust had been palpable. He’d neither refused nor accepted, merely evaded, too intelligent to commit to the mission either way. The hesitation made Vladimir think Ramir was no longer an asset but a liability, one that needed to be dropped off the nearest cliff.
Curious about Henrik’s association with the famed assassin, he tested the waters. “Can you find him?”
“Who?” Grabbing a sleeveless tunic from the chair in front of the fire, Henrik pulled the black leather over his head and attacked the side laces. “Ram?”
“Aye.” Vladimir took another sip and lounged against the sideboard, trying to appear as though the assassin’s reply didn’t matter. The truth? He hung on tether hooks, itched to know whether Henrik could track the bastard.
Henrik shrugged, as noncommittal as his blasted comrade.
Tension pulled at the muscles bracketing his spine. Should he? Shouldn’t he? ’Twas a toss-up considering Henrik’s violent streak, but...aye. It was worth the risk.
“There’s additional coin in it...if you can track him,” he said, tempting Henrik with the one thing he knew no one could resist. Ready coin.
A black brow raised, the assassin slid a knife into a sheath high on his chest. “How much?”
“Thirty pieces of silver.” Vladimir paused, sitting on the fence, not sure which way to hop. After a tense moment, he made the leap. “To take him out.”
“Eliminate the competition?” Henrik’s mouth curled at the corners. The smile never quite reaching his eyes, he strapped twin swords on his back and headed for the door. “I thought you’d never ask.”
She needed to make her move...soon. The Carpathians loomed, a silent predator waiting for them to come within easy reach. She’d never been so close before, had never wanted to be anywhere near them. People said the inhospitable mountains ate people whole, that strange things—unholy things—happened on the great peaks, and below, in
the deep valleys. A godless place filled with naught but inky darkness and bad intentions.
And Xavian was leading them straight into the belly of the beast.
Afina shivered, catching a glimpse of the jagged teeth through a break in the trees. The sharp angles and soaring cliffs snarled at the sky, piercing greyish-white clouds to taunt the heavens with a curled lip. She clung to the saddle horn and cuddled Sabine closer, her unease so strong the heat leached from her body. The chill sank bone-deep, turning muscle to ice, freezing her ability to form an adequate plan.
At least her brain was working well enough now to know she required one. Fast. Faster than fast...before the little-used trail they followed carried them into the mountains. Once they left the forest, her chances of escape went from slight to nil. She needed the thick shadow and dense foliage to shield her when she bolted. Finding cover on barren rock faces, sheer cliffs, and the narrow paths of the Carpathians would prove too difficult, especially with a chatty two-year-old in tow.
Time was running out.
Judging by their pace, she had two, mayhap three days at most. Nervous tension swirled in the pit of her stomach, wreaking havoc with her resolve. She drew a long breath and stroked Sabine’s hair, trying to steady herself. One slip, a moment of inattentiveness was all she needed. By the time her captors registered her absence, she’d be gone, so deep in the woods they’d find it difficult to track her.
The mossy turf would conceal her footprints, wouldn’t it? She could hide in the shadows, use the trees for cover, the streams to disguise their scent and trail, couldn’t she? Afina swallowed, praying she was right. So many factors to consider, too many chances to make a mistake. And yet she only had one to win her way free. Xavian wasn’t stupid. He no doubt expected her to run. It wouldn’t take a genius to figure out. She’d signaled her intent the instant she failed to fall in with his plans.
She shifted in the saddle, wanting to kick herself. Why hadn’t she played along? It would be much easier now if he believed she was a happy captive. Now he watched her like an alluring angel—a fallen one. Stupid. Idiotic. Completely witless. Why did she always think of these things too late?
Afina adjusted the sling around her shoulder. Lulled by the steady beat of horses’ hooves, Sabine swung in the well-worn fabric, struggling to keep her eyes open. Afina watched her silver eyelashes flicker and prayed for good fortune. She didn’t hold much hope. Luck had never been a friend of hers, unless, of course, the bad kind counted.
Afina stifled a snort. Abysmal luck, indeed. Poor decision making had landed her here, not fortune, but she refused to dwell on her failures. No matter how inept her skill, she needed to move forward. She held no sway over the past. It was over and done, but the future lay ahead, and feeling sorry for herself was never a good strategy.
She huffed. Forget good. She would settle for mediocre if it got her far enough away from her captors. It was like being in the middle of a male wolf pack. Silent, muscular ones who wore aggression like a scent.
Armed to the teeth, their sun-bronzed skin and serious eyes screamed of experience, a depth of skill she didn’t need to see to believe. World-weariness reflected in their faces, sad and startling in its intensity. Could that be why they wore nothing but black? The style of clothing differed, yes, but each wore ebony in one form or another. A strange preference, but one she guessed held importance for them. Instinct warned this group did nothing without reason. She wasn’t sure how she knew, but something told her when Xavian acted, the logic supporting his decision was well thought out in advance.
There was something unseemly about that. A methodical precision that made her feel safe even as it scared her to death. She felt the push-pull, the fear and attraction each time she looked at him. How could he heat her blood and frighten her at the same time? Was that what Bianca had felt for Bodgan? Had the emotional opposites pulled her sister into a passionate entanglement? Prompted her to meet with him in secret, risk all to have him in her life and rejoice when she found herself with child?
Afina chewed on her lower lip, weighing the probability. No matter the contradiction, it seemed a distinct possibility. One she disliked...immensely.
With a frown, she drilled the back of Xavian’s head with a look. She refused to let that happen to her. She wouldn’t permit him to lure her the way Bodgan had lured her sister. Bianca’s death stood as an excellent example. Nothing but pain came from becoming entangled with a man, and Afina intended to remember the important lesson.
“Look, Mama! Birdie.”
Yanked from her thoughts by Sabine’s excited chirp, Afina jumped. “Yes, love, I see it.”
“Pretty.” Pointing to a low-lying branch, her daughter bounced in the sling, swaying against Afina’s side before popping her thumb back in her mouth.
“It is, but hush,” she said, registering the ripple of masculine power around them. The disturbance, a slight ruffling of muscle, reminded her of how a wolf might react when startled—lip curled, fur standing on end until it found the source of disruption, declared it a non-threat, and smoothed its fine pelt back into order. “We must be quiet, cherub.”
Xavian glanced over his shoulder, sharp eyes settling on her. Afina bit her bottom lip, quelling a shiver. His gaze swept over her, pushing brittleness into her bones until she felt fragile, as though she might break into tiny pieces. Stiff in the saddle, she feigned confidence, unwilling to show weakness to a man who possessed none.
Without taking his attention from her, he spoke to Cristobal. The dark man nodded and urged his mount forward as Xavian drew his warhorse to the edge of the path. The huge beast tossed his head but stayed true, obeying his master’s command to wait. The moment she came alongside them, he nudged his steed into a walk.
He bumped her leg and her horse sidestepped, making room for him beside them on the trail. Muscled thigh a hair’s breadth from hers, his scent engulfed her, a subtle invasion of male spice and forest musk that soothed even as it unbalanced. Hmm, he smelled so good. She wanted to lean in and immerse herself in the pleasant complexities of his fragrance.
She swayed in the saddle and, without thought, let her senses lead. Drifting toward instead of away from him, she watched his eyes flame as he raised his hand. His heat reached her before his fingertips, moving across her skin in a warm ripple of sensation. She sighed as he traced the ridge of her cheekbone then moved lower to brush the corner of her mouth. He paused, his gaze roaming her features before he cupped her cheek and made another pass, stroking her bottom lip with the pad of his thumb.
Afina sank into the caress, parting her lips when he applied more pressure. His taste, salty-sweet, invaded her mouth and pleasure hummed, flooding her with delight. The unfamiliar sensation rocked her and awareness struck like a thunderbolt. She flinched. What on earth was she doing? Why was she welcoming his touch...encouraging his kiss? His kiss. She almost moaned, the idea of his mouth on hers sending her sideways into delight.
Oh, no. She was in trouble. The serious kind that made girls act like fools and men like lechers. She needed to get a hold of herself and away from him before she did something stupid. Like offered him her trust—along with her body—on a silver platter.
Heat pricking across her cheekbones, she turned her face from his hand. He made a sound of regret and leather creaked as he shifted in the saddle, putting distance between them.
Scrambling for a distraction, she blurted, “I’m sorry, she doesn’t mean—”
“Hi!” Mismatched eyes trained on Xavian, Sabine smiled at him around her thumb.
The twin swords strapped on his back bobbed as he dragged his gaze from her to Sabine. A crease between his bronzy-gold brows, she saw uncertainty flicker in his eyes an instant before he said, “Hello, Sabine.”
“Look, Mama.” Her voice a flutter of excitement, Sabine pointed to the man beside them. “X.”
“Yes, it is,” she said, stomping on the butterflies wreaking havoc in her belly.
Needing a distraction,
she took inventory of the warrior while his attention remained on her child. Stealth wasn’t exactly her forte, but she picked out small details, cataloguing the weapons he carried...well, at least the ones she could see.
Aside from the twin blades he wore on his back, two knives were strapped to each thigh, a pair made their home on his chest, one low, the other high, while yet another rested at the base of his spine. She spotted a few more buried in leather sheaths in his saddle. Good goddess, the man was a walking arsenal. How in Hades was she going to escape from that?
“How old is she?”
His deep voice stroked her, a warm caress that drew her gaze back to his. “Almost two. Her birthday falls in a month or so.”
He tilted his head, expression thoughtful. “Do all children suck their thumbs?”
Afina blinked, thrown by the simple question. Such a strange thing for a battle-honed warrior to wonder. What was he playing at? “I’m not sure. She’s the first one I’ve ever had.”
He nodded.
She stiffened as his focus left Sabine to settle on her. The horde of butterflies flapped their wings a little harder and sensation spiraled below her belly button. Afina glanced away and, not knowing what else to do, reissued her apology. “I’ll do my best to keep her quiet from now on.”
“’Tis all right.” He nudged her with his knee.
She shied away from the gentle bump, but got the message. He wanted her to look at him, and goddess help her, she needed to avoid that at all costs. He unsettled her, stirred her soul-deep with his quiet ways and inherent strength. Qualities she’d always thought she might like in a man.
She remembered the times she and Bianca had lain awake at night, whispering like pea-gooses. Cocooned, safe from the outside world, they’d shared secrets and dreamed of the men they would someday marry. She never imagined a few years later Bianca would be dead along with her dreams. The pain of that made it hard to breathe. Afina forced herself to anyway, but...
Goddess help her, she missed her sister. Every evening at sunset. Each morning at daybreak. Bianca was never far from her thoughts.
Knight Awakened (Circle of Seven #1) Page 4