Knight Awakened (Circle of Seven #1)

by Coreene Callahan

  Her vision went blurry. Afina held the sorrow at bay, tucking the tears along with the precious memories away. She wanted to keep the good times for herself, not share them with the man who had taken her freedom—the autonomy Bianca had tried so hard to teach her. Anger burned the back of her throat. Who did he think he was? What gave him the right to decide her future?

  Setting her teeth on the question, she took strength from her sister’s memory and, raising her head, met his gaze head-on. Approval sparked in his eyes an instant before he reached out and flicked the underside of her chin.

  She jerked away from the playful tap and frowned at him.

  The corners of his mouth tipped up. “The lass can talk. We are in no danger here.”

  In other words? They were alone in a place where no one would hear them scream. Afina swallowed, righteous indignation dimmed by a healthy dose of wariness. Self-preservation took precedence over pride. She could be angry with him another time, after she knew for certain he wouldn’t lose his temper and hurt her.

  “Oh, good. That’s...ah, good.”

  “You’re spooked.” Head tilted, he considered her. “Why?”

  “Oh, I don’t know,” she said, her tone testy. “Being kidnapped has a way of unsettling a girl.”

  He snorted. “’Twas more a liberation than a kidnapping.”

  “In your opinion, not mine.” She pursed her lips, irritated by his attitude. “You cannot go about dragging people from their homes...no matter your opinion of their situation.”

  “Why not?”

  Why not? Surprise overriding mental agility, she grasped the first reason that came to mind. “It’s impolite.”

  He tossed her a look of disbelief. “Politesse. A waste of time. Why would you imagine I possess social graces...that I’ve been taught any?”

  “It is a universal truth, not something that needs learning.” Her hand tightened on the reins. She resisted the urge to wrap the dark straps around his neck and strangle him. “Everyone—even those without manners—knows supplanting another’s will is wrong.”

  “Even when the greater good is served?” Something sparked in his eyes: a gleam, one that told her he liked sparring with her. Warmed by the discovery, she almost smiled at him. She killed the urge, needing distance between them, not friendship. “Let us say, when a person is starving to death?”

  “We weren’t starving.”

  “Close to it, draga.”

  She bristled and, tired of the argument, changed the subject. “Where are you taking us?”

  “Have you a faulty memory, lass?” She glared at him. His lip twitched. When she didn’t respond to his teasing, he shrugged. “I told you...home.”

  “Forgive me for not knowing where that is.”

  “The Carpathians.” Lifting his large hand, he pointed to a break in the large trees flanking the path. Tree limbs swayed in the gentle breeze, rustling the leaves as she spotted the unholy beasts standing in the distance. Deep-seated pride laced his voice when he said, “My keep, Drachaven, is located there. Not far from the Jiu River.”

  “In the mountains?”

  “Aye.”

  She stifled a shiver. “I’ve no wish to go there.”

  “You’ve a day or two to become accustomed to the idea,” he said, tone soft with what she thought might be understanding. He raised a hand as though he wished to soothe her with his touch. She leaned away, a protective arm curled around her daughter. A muscle jumped along his jaw as he looked from her to the path ahead. “My home is now yours.”

  “Your interest in us makes no sense.”

  She shook her head, intuition igniting suspicion. Xavian wasn’t telling her the whole truth. He could have chosen from any number of healers in Severin, ones with good reputations. So the question, the one bothering her: What had made him come after her? From what she knew of him there must be a reason, above and beyond his injury. No random event had brought him to her door, Father Marion notwithstanding. The more she thought about it, the more she realized he’d used the priest’s name as a way into her cottage; a nonviolent tactic to achieve his goal.

  Narrow-eyed, she stared at him, sorting through the possibilities. “Tell me why you wish us to make our place with you. Do you even need a healer?”

  “I do.” He glanced at her sideways, assessing her from his periphery.

  What he was looking for, she didn’t know, but his silence unnerved her. He used it to effect, she realized, crushing his opponents with a well-placed pause. She refused to take the bait and be the first to break the hush. If he wanted a standoff, she was more than ready to give him one.

  After an intense moment, he sighed. “You are a thinker, Afina. That may prove to be a problem.”

  That nailed it. Sir Tell-the-Truth was withholding information. “For a man who demands honesty, you seem to have difficulty using it yourself.”

  He chuckled, the sound rusty with disuse. Surprise creased his face before he smoothed his expression. “Touché, but choosing not to inform you of something does not mean I am lying.”

  “A lie of omission, then.”

  He shook his head, the gleam of enjoyment returning to his eyes. “Patience, Afina.”

  Patience, her foot. “What if I don’t have any?”

  He bumped her with his knee again, the movement playful. One corner of his mouth tilted up, he put his heels to his steed’s flank and said over his shoulder, “Learn some.”

  Her lips pursed, she watched him ride away, wishing she held a sharper weapon than her tongue. How dare he lecture her about untruths then refuse to adhere to the same rules he demanded she follow? Irritating, domineering dolt. Her gaze centered on the back of his head, she racked her brain, trying to assess all the angles. What was he hiding?

  Whatever it was, she knew it must be important. Big. Huge in a way that scared her. Did it have something to do with Vladimir? Her heart stalled, refusing to beat as panic closed her airway. A little light-headed, she clung to the saddle horn and tightened her hold on Sabine.

  Her daughter squirmed, an irritated, sleepy wiggle. “Mama?”

  “It’s all right, cherub,” she whispered around the lump in her throat. Loosening her grip, she rubbed the center of Sabine’s back, soothing her with rhythmic circles. “Shh, go to sleep now. Everything is all right.”

  And it would be. She wasn’t lying. She would find a way out of the mess she’d made. Pry them out of Xavian’s talons to keep Sabine safe. She’d made a promise to her sister, and now her actions must support that vow.

  Escape was the only option. No matter how afraid, she must break free.

  Dread burning a hole in her stomach, Afina closed her eyes and prayed that luck, just this once, chose to befriend her.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Xavian clenched his teeth as the blade nicked his thumb. Turning the chunk of wood in his hand, he shifted on the moss-covered log and glanced down at his hand. Blood welled on his skin. The third cut in less than an hour. He frowned, disgusted by his lack of concentration. ’Twas a problem, one that rarely plagued him while he engaged in his favorite pastime.

  Normally carving kept him calm. Sane. Better able to sink inside himself and withdraw from the brutality life handed him, day in and day out. All without leaving his perch.

  The perfect escape for an imperfect man.

  And he was thankful. Thankful for the old assassin who’d taught him to whittle as a child. Thankful for the ability to disappear inside a world of his own making, far from Halál and the harshness of his former life with Al Pacii. But the real boon? Working with his hands helped him relax, providing an endless source of satisfaction. He loved taking a rough piece of wood and transforming it into something useful...something beautiful.

  But not today.

  The half-finished figurine did little to ease the tension. The well-worn handle of his carving knife felt awkward in his palm and distraction gave way to clumsiness.

  With a sigh, Xavian sucked the droplet from his
thumb then leaned forward to prop both forearms on his bent knees. Afina was driving him daft. Concentration seemed an impossible mission with her flitting about the campsite, nimble fingers stealing what she needed.

  He should stop her, but he wouldn’t. Not when he knew her aim. He’d been waiting for her to make her move for days. An hour ago, she had, slipping a pouch of dried meat into her healing satchel.

  Xavian stared at the wooden block, unable to keep his lips from twitching. His little troublemaker had been busy, gathering supplies in preparation for escape. Plucky lass. If naught else, he admired her tenacity. ’Twas mayhap what he liked best about her, aside from her beauty. The innate toughness allowed her to adjust under less than optimal circumstances. A rare trait in a woman and one that made him wish to give her what she wanted.

  But he refused to let her go.

  His newfound conscience squawked, calling him selfish. He conceded the point, but the fact he enjoyed having Afina and the little one around changed naught. His logic was sound. He’d taken them for a purpose. He required a healer, and she, his protection.

  Vladimir was power hungry, a warlord with serious ambition. Promise to Bodgan aside, instinct told him the bastard would hurt Afina if he managed to capture her. Xavian’s hand tightened around the wooden block. Nay, he wouldn’t allow it. Drachaven was her home now, and he, her overlord. ’Twas his duty to ensure she thrived, and hers to serve him well.

  The trick would be in breaking her willfulness without damaging her spirit. He didn’t want her broken, just tamed a wee bit. Eyes narrowed, he flipped the knife into the air, watching it rotate end over end while he went over his plan. The old oak he sat beneath swayed above his head and a whisper of sound ghosted from his left.

  Without looking away from the arc of the blade, he asked, “Where is she?”

  “At the stream, bathing the little one.” The voice came from the opposite side of the tree.

  Catching the knife hilt midturn, Xavian fingered the grip’s worn leather. “Who’s trailing them?”

  “Razvan.”

  “Out of sight?”

  “Aye,” Cristobal said, rounding the enormous trunk. Standing between the oak’s gnarled feet, he propped a shoulder against the rough bark. “Afina has no idea we are tracking her movements. Razvan will let us know if she makes a break for it.”

  “Good.” Xavian tossed the weapon again, fighting an unpleasant sensation as it banded around his chest.

  Light from the setting sun flashed on the blade while he banished regret. She required a lesson. One he hated to deliver but knew was necessary. When she found the courage to run, he would follow...close enough to protect, far enough to make her believe she’d succeeded before he showed himself. He wanted her to understand she held no chance of escape. The only way to accomplish that was to hand her hope then take it away.

  He scowled, dreading the moment she realized she’d failed. He imagined her hazel eyes filled with anger, then hurt. ’Twas the hurt that almost changed his mind. Almost, but in the end logic tamed emotion, and he said, “Make sure she is watched at all times. I mean to give her some room to run, but not so much that I lose her.”

  Cristobal nodded, his expression pensive as he flicked an acorn with the toe of his boot. Xavian recognized the look. ’Twas one that always appeared before his friend called him on his behavior. Preparing for Cristobal’s rebuke, he wiped his carving blade on his trews and searched the tree line at the lip of the clearing. Afina had been gone too long. Had she given his man the slip? Was she already on the run?

  The thought barely registered when he heard Sabine giggle. Awareness flickered, and his body tightened, knowing wherever the little one went Afina followed. His focus fixed on a break in the shrubbery, he heard Afina’s voice, tone soft with coaxing. A moment later Sabine came charging out of the underbrush, a stick clutched in her wee fist. With a bellow to rival a knight on a battlefield, she raised the small branch and roared toward the other side of the clearing.

  Preparing their evening meal at fireside, Qabil ducked, avoiding decapitation as the little one sped past, her gaze fixed on Kazim. The warrior hit his knees, grabbed his own stick from beneath the fallen leaves, and met Sabine’s downswing. She shrieked with laughter when Kazim growled and parried another thrust, seemingly thrilled by his reaction.

  Xavian shook his head. Jesu, mock battle with a two-year-old. His lips curved, enjoying the melee and Sabine’s enthusiasm as she struck again. Amazed by his men and their willingness to not only protect but play with the girl-child, he flinched when she swung left and thumped Kazim on the shoulder.

  He glanced at Cristobal. “Bloodthirsty little thing.”

  Dark eyes agleam with good humor, his friend shrugged. “The healthy ones usually are.”

  Xavian snorted. How the hell did Cristobal know so much about children? ’Twas a mystery that intrigued him more than it should, but he refused to pry. His men deserved their privacy, had earned the right to their secrets. And so had he.

  “Sabine!” Afina’s voice rang across the clearing.

  Xavian watched emotion tumble across her face, bafflement combined with dismay. Hopping over a fallen tree trunk, she hustled toward the impromptu battlefield, all lithe curves and swaying hips. He swallowed, unable to keep himself from absorbing every detail—from the rippling length of her dark hair and flushed cheeks to the enticing curve of her breasts. His blood heated, nudging the traitor below his belt.

  He clenched his hand around the figurine, trying to douse the lust as Andrei intercepted her halfway across the clearing. Xavian stilled, aggression swimming in his veins, and waited. If his man touched her, a little too long or a little too much, he would enter the fray; something the Frenchman would regret afterward. Lucky for him, Andrei did naught but stand in her path and talk. The smooth sound of his French accent drifted, the soft cadence designed to soothe Afina’s fear for her child.

  After a moment, she backed away and glanced at him, a clear question in her eyes. His heart turned over. Hell, she looked to him for reassurance. The realization made him feel unaccountably good—proud that she trusted him to keep her daughter safe. Fighting the tightness in his throat, he nodded, letting her know ’twas naught but a game. No cause for alarm.

  The tension holding her shoulders square softened. She nodded in return then cringed when Sabine whooped and struck. And struck again, the crack of wood echoing as she brained Kazim with her makeshift sword.

  The warrior chuckled.

  The girl-child grinned, and Afina shook her head as she turned to join Qabil by the fire.

  Cristobal shifted, placing his back flat against the oak. Arms crossed over his chest, his gaze settled on their new healer. “How long will you let her run?”

  “A day, no more.”

  “She’ll exhaust herself,” his friend said, concern in his tone.

  Xavian glowered at the knife hilt, guilt infecting him like a disease. Why did he react to her this way? Jesu, ’twas baffling. He was a hard man, an intelligent one not given to flights of fancy. How was she able to tie him in knots when naught else did? The answer escaped him, but self-preservation warned he needed to get whatever ailed him under control...now, before he lost himself in hazel eyes flecked with green and gold.

  “Aye,” he said, shaking vulnerability off like a wet dog did water, “but the lesson will be learned and not easily forgotten.”

  “Tonight then...when all is quiet.” Cristobal rubbed against the rough bark, chasing an itch.

  “More likely on the morrow, at the bazaar.”

  “She knows we are stopping there before heading into the mountains?”

  “Aye.”

  Xavian had made sure of it. Had told Qabil to let their destination slip in an attempt to stall her escape and keep her out of the woods. He didn’t want her running through swamps, tangling with dense underbrush and the assortment of wildlife that called them home. Hell, he wanted to teach her caution, not kill her.

 
“So while you play shadow, we will gather what we need.”

  Straightened away from his knees, Xavian rolled his shoulders, stretching stiff muscles. “Take only what we require to get through the winter. And only from those who can afford to have their carts and purses lightened.”

  Cristobal snorted. “Assassins with a conscience.”

  “Ex-assassins,” he said, well aware of the inherent duplicity in his plan. He wanted a new life, one built on integrity, not theft. But with Afina in the fold, the promise of Vladimir’s coin dried up along with the ability to buy provisions for Drachaven. His newfound standards would have to wait. The lads in his care needed to eat this winter along with everyone else in his new keep.

  “Ex...past tense,” Cristobal murmured, the low rumble of his voice tinged with more than simple agreement.

  He glanced sideways at his friend, recognizing the emotion in his tone. Xavian felt it too. Gratefulness. A profound sense of gratitude mere words could never express.

  With a slow indrawn breath, Xavian tipped his head back, searching for solace in the give and take of the oak’s great canopy. Tree limbs swayed, their gentle murmur a cozy haven for the birds above. They chattered, talking to one another just as the silence engulfing him and Cristobal spoke, telling stories, reminding them both of what had been.

  After a time, the painful hush grew too great, and Xavian broke through the quiet. “’Twill be on the morrow. She’s quick and will use the crowded marketplace to cover her tracks.”

  “Mayhap.” Cristobal cleared his throat then raised a brow. “Care to wager?”

  “’Tisn’t a game, my friend,” he said, his voice soft with warning. His comrade’s gaze narrowed on him, no doubt wondering why he refused to take the bet. He and Cristobal always wagered. ’Twas their habit, one they both enjoyed, but Xavian didn’t want to play this time. It didn’t sit well with him. He disliked making sport of Afina, trivializing what would cause her pain. “She will suffer before she accepts us and her new life.”