Had the ache been naught but physical, he could have ignored the twitch, buried it along with all the other have nots—all the things taken from him in his life. Conditioned for pain, he excelled at denial, thrived on the challenge of self-imposed limitation. He determined the course, his body obeyed. But not with her. Her strength of spirit unhinged him, opening a great yawning hole in his breastbone.
And rahat, it hurt.
No one spoke to him like that. Not even Halál had dared. But she had, eyes full of heat, all those soft curves tense as she pressed for a fight. A wee scrapper. Aye, ’twas what she was, and what he needed—wanted—with a yearning that cut so deep he bled more than lust. He bled for connection: for closeness and affection and trust.
Trust.
Christ, he wanted hers. Wanted her to lay her life’s story open like a book and trust him to keep her safe. Wanted to slit Barbu’s throat and watch his essence drain until naught but emptiness reflected in the bastard’s eyes. But more than anything, he wanted to mark her with his possession until every man who saw her knew she belonged to him.
And wasn’t that the height of witlessness?
She was not his, and never would be, but that didn’t stop the images of her spread beneath him, of her stroking his body and murmuring softly in the aftermath.
“Rahat.” Easing his grip on the reins, Xavian settled his warhorse.
“Tight...you’re wound far too tight,” Cristobal murmured, bringing his big gelding alongside. One brow raised, his friend tossed him a look of inquiry. “Planning to kill someone here?”
“God willing.”
Cristobal snorted. “Falling short of the ex-assassin you claim to be, aren’t you?”
Xavian growled.
“Skip the fight...bed her instead.”
“Hell,” he muttered as temptation struck him with the force of an assailant’s fist.
Xavian almost buckled beneath the blow...almost gave in to the urge to look over his shoulder. Afina was there, behind Andrei, to the left. Like a witch’s fork tuned to water, he was drawn to her source. Be damned, he swore he could smell her, that light, diabolical fragrance that was all woman. His knees tightened on Mayhem’s sides. The warhorse protested, shying sideways until he bumped into Cristobal.
His friend’s smirk widened to a grin. “What has the devil to do with it?”
Shifting in the saddle, Xavian brought his mount under control while debating the merits of knocking the smug expression off Cristobal’s face. ’Twould feel good, and at the very least his comrade would give him a good fight, unlike some inept merchant or oily criminal.
He tossed a nasty look in Cristobal’s direction. “’Tis whose company you will be keeping if you do not stop pestering me.”
“She is no maiden,” his friend said, pushing the issue while taking one step closer to the fiery pit.
Feeling as though he already had one foot in the flames, Xavian broke into a cold sweat. He clenched his teeth, struggling to hide the fact Cristobal had hit his mark. His friend knew he never went anywhere near virgins. He was sullied, black deep inside, not fit to touch their snowy white innocence. Aye, Afina might not be a maiden, but...
Rahat. Was she any less pure?
His conscience stretched, awakening with a firm nay. The problem? Her lack of maidenhead blurred the line between right and wrong, putting her firmly in the field of possibility. Fair game for the likes of him.
Which, of course, roused the carnal side of his nature.
“Take her, Ram.” His expression serious, Cristobal urged him in the direction his body ached to go. “’Twill give you the ease you seek and save some fool from your fists.”
“I am permitted but one?” Xavian glared at his friend before nudging Mayhem toward the stable they stood alongside.
“Mayhap a dozen, but then our healer will be forced to see to your wounds, in which case you will end where you should have begun. At her tender mercy,” Cristobal said, his argument gaining ground by the moment. “’Tis a vicious circle, my friend. One that will only lead back to her.”
Xavian scowled and dismounted in front of the double-wide stable doors. Unseeing, he stared at the rough grey boards of the barn, wondering why the meddlesome arse he called friend always made good sense. ’Twas irritating to forever be on the receiving end of a well-launched argument. “Bugger off, Cristobal.”
Flipping his leg over the horn, Cristobal’s feet hit the dark earth beside him without making a sound. “Nay, ’tis what you should be doing...with our little healer.”
The comment pushed Xavian over the edge.
With a snarl, he clipped Cristobal on the shoulder, warning him to assume a fighting stance. Cristobal countered with a growl and, crouching low, spun to deliver a solid kick to his ribs. He absorbed the pain, welcomed the familiar and entered the ring: an assassin, a fighter, a taker of lives. These things he knew, could navigate without difficulty or defeat. The feelings Afina stirred were foreign, a force he didn’t know how to fight. ’Twas a weakness he couldn’t abide.
But here, trading fists with Cristobal felt right and good and as satisfying as hell.
With a quick shift, he slammed his elbow into the side of his friend’s head. Cristobal hit one knee. A woman shouted in dismay. His men bellowed their encouragement. Xavian took no notice and, balling his fist, swung, catching Cristobal’s chin with a knuckle-crunching uppercut. As his comrade’s head snapped back, he planted his foot in the center of his chest and pushed, sending him sprawling in the dirt. Cristobal laughed, rolled, and, flipping to his feet, assumed the ready position.
“Stop,” a woman yelled, her voice close yet somehow far away. “Stop it!”
Focus absolute, power pounded through Xavian’s veins, pushing all but the here and now from his mind. He growled. As the satisfying sound bubbled up his throat, he bared his teeth and circled left, countering Cristobal.
Small hands with cold fingers grabbed his upper arm.
Xavian snarled, temper wild as he whirled to dislodge the intruder. She hung on, arms roped around him, chest pressed
flush to his right bicep. Hazel eyes wide with fear and confusion met his rage.
“Stop. Please, Xavian...stop.”
Afina.
Her name rang in his head as she repeated her appeal. The soft plea broke through, washed over him, and turned his aggression into another kind of heat. His growl ended on a groan. Burned raw by her touch—by the concern in her gaze—his control slipped, sliding into the inferno blazing inside his chest. Lost, beyond redemption, he sank into need, picked her up, and carried her through the stable doors and into shadow.
CHAPTER SEVEN
The desperate gleam in Xavian’s eyes scared her to death. The hard press of muscle locked around her and his pace didn’t help much either. Each long stride took Afina further from safety, into the cool shadows of the stable and closer to full-blown panic.
Had she overstepped her bounds? Was he angry with her for interfering?
She bit the inside of her cheek and looked up into his face.
He didn’t seem to be. Anger no longer lined his features. But then, nothing did. And his contained expression frightened her more than his fury would have. Something churned just before the surface, suppressed emotion she couldn’t see but knew was there.
“Xavian?” She kept her voice soft as she looped her arms around his neck. Startling him wasn’t a good idea. He was wound too tight, and she was too vulnerable...within striking distance. Not that she thought he would hurt her. But honestly? Better to be safe than sorry. “Please, stop.”
He slowed, the echo of his footfalls fading as he halted in the middle of the aisle. She held her breath, listening to the thump of his heart as he tightened his grip under her knees and turned his face into her hair. Each one of his breaths whispered over her temple, the hot rush sweet with a hint of mint.
Not knowing what else to do, her hand stole to the nape of his neck, seeking, stroking to ease his tensi
on. He murmured, pressed closer, curling around her as though he needed her touch as much as he needed to breathe. A small pang echoed in the center of her chest. Something was terribly wrong. He was hurting. The strong, brave warrior was in pain, and she couldn’t stand it. Couldn’t let it continue. The healer in her wouldn’t allow it.
“Please, tell me what is wrong,” she whispered, fingers playing in his hair, sifting through the thickness. Good goddess, it was a wonder, the softness. She’d never imagined a man could have such beautiful hair. Not that she was noticing. No, not really. She touched to reassure, not to—
Drat. Now she was lying to herself.
She ordered her wayward hands to still. When neither listened, she returned her attention to Xavian. “Let me help you.”
A fine tremor racked his large frame.
She tightened her grip. “Put me down so I can help.”
“Nay,” he said, his voice half-growl, half-groan before he shuddered and moved forward, continuing into the interior of the stable. “You’re mine.”
Mine? Or rather, his? What the devil did that mean?
“Ah, Xavian, I think mayhap...” She trailed off, catching a glimpse of movement in her periphery. Three stable lads, pitchforks hanging from limp hands, gaped at them, mouths wide open. Wonderful. Now they had an audience. She glanced at Xavian, knowing he wouldn’t approve. He was having some sort of breakdown, and no man worth his weight would relish witnesses for that.
Afina hung on as he took a sharp right at the end of the aisle. Two strides later, and he’d walked them through a doorway and into the tack room beyond. Sacks of grain occupied one corner, fat companions to the array of bridles hanging on the chamber walls. The long leather strips hovered above saddle horses, some in use, some patiently awaiting the weight of their next charge. With little room to maneuver, Xavian stopped in the center of the room and, one arm still around her, dropped her feet to the floor.
As she found her balance, he murmured, “La dracu, you feel good...so warm.”
The whispered words tickled the side of her neck then rolled like a dark wave down her spine. His voice was decadent. The resonance one of perfect pitch; deep enough to tie her up, light enough to make her want to relax and trust and give. But two years of running—of Vladimir—had ruined any chance of that.
Her hands flat against his chest, she pushed, needing distance. He tightened his grip, shackling her against him while he inhaled, burrowing deep to press his lips to her pulse point.
The contact—mouth to neck, skin to skin—hit her like a thunderstorm, and heat gathered with an alarming rumble. “I, ah...Are you all right?”
“I’m so cold inside...so cold.”
Cold? Afina frowned and rubbed his upper arms. Odd, he didn’t feel chilled. He radiated heat, a pleasant warmth that roped hard muscle and enlivened the surface of his skin. A fever mayhap? That would explain his strange behavior. She’d seen it many times. The crazed look in glazed-over eyes, the chill deep inside a person even though they burned with sickness. A terrible fear gripped her. Was Xavian’s infection out of hand? Was this the beginning of the blood disease that so frightened her?
If he suffered from the ailment, she needed to know...right now. Her healing satchel was woefully in need of restocking, and without the proper herbs he would suffer before the poison ran its course and his body fought it off or—
No, she refused to think like that. He was strong. She wouldn’t allow him to die...refused to fail him like she’d done her sister.
“Xavian, look at me,” she said, her tone tight.
One arm nestled against her back, he buried his free hand in her unbound hair, pulling her flush against him. Her fingers curled, and finding the edge of his sleeveless tunic, she shook him. He raised his head, blue eyes glowing with heat that had nothing to do with a fever. Afina froze. She felt her eyes widen and heard her lips part on a strangled gasp. Could he be...what...Good goddess, was he—
“Don’t be afraid. I won’t hurt you.” He cupped her cheek with a warrior-rough palm. Holding her there, his gaze half-searched, half-pleaded as he leaned in and kissed her, whisper-soft. “Please, draga. Warm me...make me forget the cold for a while.”
Afina’s breath got tangled up in the back of her throat. Wonder nipped at her, drowning out the little voice that whispered a warning. Somewhere deep inside she knew she should listen, heed the kernel of fear coiling low in her belly. But the fact he wanted her—the way a man did a woman—trumped good sense, spinning her into a world filled with new possibilities.
She wanted them all, craved the moment of freedom. Longed to let loose, and just once, do what she wanted instead of pleasing someone else.
And Xavian? His desire was the perfect foil.
Without shame or seduction, he asked, leaving the outcome up to her. But what to do...accept his touch or deny her yearning? Ignoring the lust-filled ache would be safer, but curiosity was a powerful thing. And as she stared into his eyes, blue as the Danube, warm as a hot spring, she remembered Bianca. Ever since her sister had danced across their small cottage, Afina had wondered about her secret meetings with Bodgan. Her enjoyment had been obvious, a curious splendor that had left Afina dissatisfied with her own life.
The restlessness hit her full force. It wasn’t fair that everyone knew joy except her. Life had dealt her a series of denials, but not today. Today was about her, about what she needed—what she wanted—and for once, she followed desire, titled her chin up and invited his kiss.
Xavian struggled to draw a full breath. Holy hell, Afina was going to let him. Allow him to lay her down and touch her soft skin, love her the way he wanted—needed—to. He could tell by the way she moved, that subtle shift in weight that brought her a wee bit closer, and the color...Jesu help him, the color. The sweet wave of crimson washed over her cheekbones, a hot rush of feminine arousal that almost leveled him where he stood.
Held fast by her physical response, he swallowed as her eyes dropped, shielding her thoughts behind her lashes. The downward sweep of her gaze branded him, the invisible caress making him squirm while her fingers played across his already too-hot skin.
He was going to come. Right now. In his leathers before he ever got the chance to touch her.
The decadent dreams that plagued his nights front and center in his mind, Xavian pictured her splayed beneath him, wrapped around him, spine arched, mouth open as she screamed in ecstasy. Rahat. He needed to pull himself together. If he didn’t, he’d never get to hear that scream. He’d be finished so fast he’d cut her pleasure short. And he craved her bliss as much as his own, yearned to give her every bit of what he’d imagined her capable of beneath him. Or atop him. Hell, he didn’t care. He’d give her whatever she asked, however she wanted, just as long as he ended up deep inside her.
Just the thought...of her...of him...
A wicked rush swept through him. Xavian groaned, his whole body straining against his fast-slipping control.
“Shh, ’tis all right,” she said, the husky tenor of her voice stringing him even tighter. “Here. Let me warm you.”
And just like that, the dam broke.
His control split wide open, leaving nothing but need in its wake. The rush rolled over him, and before he knew what hit him he was inside her mouth. Kissing her deep, his tongue stroked along her teeth and...Jesu. She tasted better than he’d imagined, a feast of delight without end. And he wanted more. Wanted to savor every bit of her until he glutted himself and left her weak with satiation.
Full of fire, the heat in his veins boiled over as his hands roamed. He explored every curve, caressing her in long, sweeping strokes, unable to decide what he liked best: her sweetly rounded ass, the nip at her waist, or the bounty of her breasts. Hell, he loved every part of her, but settled on the last, slipping his hand between their bodies to cup one of the pair. With a gasp, she twisted against him. He let go of her mouth, eager to watch her as he played with the tightly furled nipple.
She ar
ched and, eyes closed, threw her head back. Unable to resist the invitation, Xavian lowered his head, kissing the curve of her neck as he cupped the lush curve of her behind. Her moan joined his groan, and walking her backward, he headed for the large grain sacks piled in the corner of the chamber. He couldn’t wait to lie her down, to get at her soft skin and the wet heat between her thighs.
But not like this. Not while he was armed to the teeth and fully clothed.
With a flick, he undid the buckle securing his sword harness and slipped free of the twin blades. As they hit the floor beside the burlap sacks, he returned to her mouth, hungry for more as he attacked the side lacing of his tunic. The instant he was free, he raised his head. Afina whimpered, tightening her grip in his hair as if protesting his departure. He smiled a little, lighter of heart than he’d ever remembered being, then returned, nipping her softly before sliding his tongue between her lips. She sighed, the sound so arousing his shaft throbbed, impatient for the feel of her.
God, she wanted him. ’Twas a miracle, a precious gift that tugged at the tight knot always riding in the center of his chest. He felt himself unravel, slip from gentle to greedy in a heartbeat. Ferocious with need, he cupped her shoulders, released her mouth, and gave her a push. As she tumbled back against the bags of grain, he lifted the leather tunic over his head and tossed it aside.
Landing in a delicious sprawl, color high, hazel eyes wide, she stared up at him.
“Unlace for me, draga,” he said, aware his tone was more plea than command. “Give yourself to me.”
Surprise flared in her eyes. Afina blinked, and Xavian prayed she understood what he was asking. He needed to know she was certain, willing to take him all the way without regret or reprisal. Doubt held no place between them. If she harbored any second thoughts, he had to know now...while he was still able to walk away. Once he touched her, there would be no going back.
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