“Damnation,” he muttered, pouring himself a goblet of wine. Raising his hand, he took a fortifying sip and pivoted to sit on the edge of the sideboard. He stared at the fire across the room, mind churning to form a plan.
He didn’t have time to pander to the self-important idiot. He was needed at home. Unrest swirled, infecting the common man like disease did a well-used whore. Some were even asking questions, challenging his authority, demanding to know why the High Priestess of Orm stayed cloistered behind the walls of the White Temple. Soon word of her disappearance would leak out and the people would rebel, turning to King Charles for help to displace him.
Vladimir tightened his grip on the mug. The little bitch could ruin everything.
A hesitant knock sounded on the door.
Turning his head, he glared at the well-oiled panels. “Come.”
The latch clicked, and Anton, his manservant, stumbled into the chamber. Red-eyed from too much drink, the imbecile swayed, blinking hard against the light coming through the high windows. His head swung left then right, passing over Vladimir without registering his presence.
“Over here, you idiot.”
Anton blinked again, the movement wide and rapid like a startled owl. “Oh, m’lord...didn’t see ye there.”
“Obviously.” He sighed, accustomed to Anton’s idiocy if not yet resigned to it. Honestly, the man was good for naught but shoveling horse shit.
“Yer horse is rigged out, m’lord,” he said, words slurred, leaning forward as if to impart some great pearl of wisdom.
Vladimir gritted his teeth. Even from across the room, he could smell the homemade whiskey. The rank odor wafted around Anton, a swirling trail of inebriation that for once Vladimir wished he could fall headlong into. But today was not the day. He had the grand bastard to coddle.
Grabbing his cloak, he swung it around his shoulders and strode toward the door. As Anton scurried out of the way, he vowed to use his time in the saddle well. A side trip was in order. Henrik hadn’t delivered. Ramir was a ghost. And instinct told him he couldn’t trust either one.
’Twas time to take measures into his own hands. He’d tried to avoid to it—his kingdom and the people in it needed constant supervision—but clearly paying another to do his dirty work wasn’t working. Unreliable bastards would no doubt double cross him.
If they hadn’t already.
He hit the stairs, taking them two at a time. Aye, ’twas time to do some hunting, and Drachaven was as good a place as any to start.
CHAPTER EIGHT
A virgin. Rahat. How could he have predicted that? She was a mother, for the love of Christ, which naturally made for certain assumptions. But then, naught about Afina rang true. Hell, she had enjoyed his touch, acted a wee bit surprised mayhap, but her kiss and sweet curves...
Xavian’s fingers curled. Such heat. The scorching intensity still blazed in his veins, under his skin, stoking his fire higher. He wanted to roar at the unfairness. Wanted to shake Afina until her teeth rattled. Wanted to lay her down and love her again.
He snorted. ’Twas rank stupidity.
What the hell was the matter with him?
She had lied to him. Lied. This time about something so important it—
Her betrayal tore him wide open. Everything he thought he knew about her was tainted by deceit. The ugliness almost brought him to his knees, along with the double-edged sword of regret.
He’d taken her maidenhead—a gift that had not been his to claim. Now his vow lay shattered, the shards as deadly and sharp as the blades strapped to his back. With sure, even strokes, they stabbed at his conscience, bleeding him dry...reminding him of his reasons.
He hadn’t taken the oath without thought. Armed with the knowledge of his kind, he’d made it with single-minded purpose.
A good lass expected good things;, deserved the best of them. He couldn’t provide a woman of worth aught but brutality. He was an assassin, so dark inside his soul bled black. He’d tortured and killed in the name of Al Pacii. For Halál, until blood ran in rivulets, staining his hands, destroying any chance of absolution.
Secrets weren’t meant to be kept, least of all his.
Sooner or later, any woman he took as his own would learn the truth—about who and what he was. And sure rejection would follow. He refused to set himself up for that kind of fall, for the pain as he watched her recoil with disgust in her eyes. But now he was waist deep and sinking fast.
An honorable man would do the right thing, marry Afina, slay her dragons, and give her a solid home. The dragons he could handle, mayhap even the home, but he couldn’t make her his. His stamp of ownership didn’t belong anywhere near her lovely skin. She deserved better, more than he could give in a hundred lifetimes of trying.
The proof lay in his behavior after he’d loved her—in the hurt in her eyes and the look of horror on her beautiful face. He’d done that: put the shame in her expression, shoved it deep until he saw her choke on it. Jesu, he was a beast. A first-rate brute not fit to talk to her, never mind touch her. Or wish for permanency that would destroy them both in the end.
Nay, ’twould be whores for him from now on. Like before. No more assumptions. No more mistakes. And no more touching Afina.
’Twas the decent thing to do. Aye, the right decision, the only decision.
Why then did he feel hollow inside? As though something important had just slipped through his fingertips?
Xavian shook his head and put the thought away. He needed to stay sharp. Danger always lurked in the marketplace and anger blunted the senses. No matter how furious at Afina, he must mute its intensity for now. He’d promised to keep her safe, and with both her and Sabine an arm’s length behind him, he refused to place them at risk. They had a ways to go yet to reach the shop he sought.
Already the vendors lining the wide, rutted streets of Ismal eyed Afina more than he liked. Women were always of interest. A pretty one could start street brawls. But Afina? There was no doubt into which category she fell. Beautiful didn’t begin to describe her.
Xavian locked onto a particularly bold merchant. Dressed in a purple tunic, the bastard stood beneath a thatched overhang, watching from his place in the shadows. He played with the curled tip of his mustache, his potbelly protruding above spindly legs and knobby knees. But it was his eyes that drew Xavian tight. Bright with calculation, his gaze ran Afina’s length before shifting to assess Sabine.
A slaver. Though why the flesh peddler was so far from Constantinople was anyone’s guess. Had he delivered his goods already or were the men, women, and children the bastard considered merchandise chained somewhere nearby?
He clenched his teeth on a curse and schooled his features, refusing to allow even a flicker of emotion to crease his face.
’Twas a man like this who had taken his family.
He’d been so young, just seven years old. And Nadia? They’d celebrated her fifth birthday the day before. The thought unlocked the memories. Images and sounds swamped him, swimming like poison through his mind. The feel of rough hands wrenching him from his bed, the fear and confusion, his sister crying, his mother’s pleas then sobs while his father roared in agony. The smell of smoke and blood and sweat. The sight of his parents lying face down, crumbled like dolls on the cottage floor before men set torches to the roof. Bound and gagged, they’d made him watch, helpless as his parents’ bodies burned along with his home. Now he could barely remember them—couldn’t recall their faces or the color of his mother’s eyes.
A low growl—half-pain, half-rage—rolled up his throat. He wanted to kill the flesh monger, lay him low where he stood. For looking at Afina, for weighing her worth with coins in his eyes.
Just as that scum had done to Nadia.
Instead he leveled him with a look, using his gaze to effect, and slowed his pace, reeling Afina in. He wanted her close, a breath away so the slaver understood. She belonged to his circle and any who attempted to touch her would die...screaming.
&nbs
p; A little slow on the uptake, Afina bumped into him. Her gasp of surprise brushed the exposed skin of his shoulder. Uncaring of the reason for her proximity, lust unfurled, speeding heat through his veins. He ignored the arousal she stirred with a touch and stood his ground, intent on the slaver and their surroundings.
The bastard wasn’t alone. His kind never was.
Hired henchmen always circled, watching for the signal. The one that identified their master’s prey. Once received, the band of thugs would close the loop, blocking all avenues of escape to take their target. Xavian bared his teeth, hoping they made that mistake with him. He would slit every one of their throats.
One brow raised, he held the flesh monger’s gaze, daring him to set the attack in motion. The bastard blinked and, red-faced, glanced away, shoulders rounding as he slid further into the shadows and retreated.
Not so brave after all. But then, slavers weren’t stupid. A canny bunch, the majority stayed ahead of their enemies by out-thinking them. Add the fact that most only challenged those they outnumbered ten to one, and the life of a flesh peddler had the potential to be a long, prosperous one.
With a sigh, Xavian glanced over his shoulder. Two sets of eyes stared back, one beguiling hazel, the other, mismatched green and blue.
Sabine grinned around her thumb. “X.”
“What’s wrong?” Afina asked, voice soft, her question coming on top of the little one’s greeting.
Xavian tamped down an unexpected spike of admiration. He had to give her credit. She didn’t miss much. Had read his body cues and taken them to mean danger. Smart lass. “Naught you need worry about. Stay close.”
He held her gaze, waiting for her to acknowledge his command. When she nodded, he unlocked his body’s protective shield and moved forward, leading them into the heart of the marketplace. Senses alive and searching, he wove a trail through the thickening crowd, around carts piled high with goods pulled by oxen. The beasts snorted and heaved, thick horns curled against their ears as though protesting the noisy chatter of vendors, the scrape of tanners’ blades, and the high-pitched clank of a blacksmith’s anvil.
The farther they walked the more the air thickened, and the smell of roasted nuts, warm apple cider, and oven-baked bread joined the sights and sounds of the Ring. An enormous circle at the market’s center, everything rippled out from it, the streets taking its shape and form. The less affluent vendors occupied the curved avenues banding the hub, while those who could afford to paid the higher rents to set up on the Ring’s edge.
Colorful awnings graced the fronts of most shops. The light fabric undulated in the early morning sun, a light breeze teasing their ample underbellies. One-half of the circle contained pens for livestock, the sounds of cattle, pigs, and goats joining the enthusiastic cries of the onlookers gathered at the other end. Heading in that direction, his gaze skipped over the multitude of street performers that delighted crowds on a daily basis.
Xavian’s mood lifted a little. He enjoyed the performers’ antics. And more often than not indulged in a bag of roasted nuts and a cup of cider whenever he ventured into Ismal. He skirted a group swaying on stilts, an admiring eye on the knives they juggled. Not for the first time, he wondered how sharp they kept the long, thin blades.
Caught up in the gleam and flash of metal, he paused to admire their skill, but got distracted by the soft body at his back. Xavian flinched. He’d told her to stay close, but...not so close she touched him at every turn. The sweet curves brushing him made him remember the wild rush when he’d had her beneath him. He inhaled hard and exhaled smooth, struggling to contain his reaction.
Refusing to retreat, he waited for her to step away. She didn’t. Xavian swallowed a curse. What was she trying to do, set him ablaze where he stood?
He glanced over his shoulder, intending to tell her to back the hell off. He didn’t get that far. Instead he got tangled up by the wonder in her expression. And hell, she wasn’t even looking at him. Flicking his gaze over wooden stalls and the assortment of jugglers, he found the source of her fascination.
Heedless to his body’s tension, his lips twitched. “Fire eaters.”
She blinked. “W-what?”
“Fire eaters.”
One arm curled around Sabine, her gaze jumped from their torches to the streams of flame blazing from their mouths then back again. “How are they doing that?”
“Turpentine.”
“They put it in their mouths?”
“Aye.”
“Isn’t that dangerous?”
“Very. Many scorch their lungs and suffocate before they master the trick.” Unable to look away, Xavian watched emotion play across the fine contours of her face. Astonishment, curiosity, and horror all made a pass. But the most prominent was bafflement, as though she struggled to understand why someone would risk himself in such a way. “’Tis a popular spectacle and earns them coin enough to live.”
She shook her head, her attention bouncing to the next performer. Her jaw dropped as she watched the man insert a long, thin sword down his throat.
“A metal tube,” he said, biting back a grin.
In a heartbeat, he killed the amusement, smoothing his expression. He didn’t want to laugh with her. ’Twas common ground he could ill afford if he held any chance of keeping his oath. Anger and indifference would serve him better. The first he possessed in abundance. The second? He was carrying the short end of the stick. But even as he acknowledged the weakness and told himself to ignore her, the urge to assuage her curiosity proved stronger. “He swallowed it.”
She threw him an incredulous look. “Like a scabbard in his throat?”
Xavian nodded. He didn’t trust himself to answer the question. Not without his mouth giving into a smile.
“That’s insane.”
“Mayhap,” he said, unwilling to agree. ’Twas another point of camaraderie he couldn’t afford. If he allowed himself closeness of any kind, he would fail to keep his hands off her. “Stay on my heels in this crowd. We’re almost there.”
“Where is there?”
“You’ll know when we arrive,” he said, refusing to give her a clue.
He required an edge, the advantage of surprise. If he gave her any forewarning, he wouldn’t get what he needed to douse the slow burn. The blaze of lust. The clawing need. His obsession with Afina. A dangerous combination. One he needed to slay then bury six feet under. The only way to do that was to provoke her. Make her hate him enough to stay away.
And God forgive him, he could hardly wait for the fight.
The smell of warmed wool and peat moss drifted from the dark interior. The comforting blend tickled her nose, reminding Afina of home. She wanted to take solace in the scent. To dive into the past and remember the good times. She caught herself at the last moment. Before she made another mistake and let her guard slip. Now was not the time to lose focus.
Xavian was up to something.
She knew it deep down, in the same way she’d known that danger stood in front of them as they entered the marketplace. The tension holding his body taut had told her so then, just as it did now. Except his rigidity here was different. Afina couldn’t put her finger on the reason, but something—the strange red mist mayhap—warned her to be wary.
Adjusting the sling around her shoulder, she tucked Sabine tighter against her side. Almost time for her morning nap, her cherub nestled in, the suck-suck-sucking sound of Sabine’s thumb soft comfort as Afina followed Xavian inside. He stopped in the middle of the room, and as her eyes adjusted she understood why the scent of wool had rolled out into the street.
Stacked from floor to timber-beamed ceiling, rolls of fabric sat piled, one on top of the other. The mounds were everywhere, taking every available space along the long wall opposite the door. Afina nibbled on her lower lip and turned to look behind her. Make that every wall, except the one the hearth called home.
A tailor’s shop?
Well, the man must have an army of seamstresses. Eith
er that or a fixation for fabric. She’d never seen so many different kinds in one place. Even in the living quarters at the temple, where coin never lacked, their seamstresses had never been given so much choice. Here every color imaginable shimmered in the low light. Yellows and golds, vibrant reds and rich blues, purples, and so many different greens. Wool, linen, and silk together in a kaleidoscope of color that made Afina’s eyes round with wonder. Spools of thread, one to match each shade, sat lumped in shallow-sided wooden boxes, awaiting their turns in the needle.
She shook her head, her gaze bouncing, unable to stay in one place long enough to give each item the attention it deserved. The shop was a veritable treasure trove, a thick-spun oasis in the middle of the clamoring marketplace.
Afina frowned. The shop didn’t seem like one of Xavian’s usual haunts. Not that he wasn’t refined enough, it was just, well...the mill was a woman’s place. Not a man’s.
The thought brought her up short. Suspicion formed, slithering through her mind like a venomous snake. As it reared its ugly head, Afina chanced a quick peek in his direction.
Standing still as death, he watched her from his position by the door. Besides the fact he blocked her path to the exit, a few other things registered. His stance, for one, was all wrong. Arms crossed, chin angled down, he looked as if he anticipated an attack. But more damning than those telltale signs was his silence. He was too quiet. Far too quiet.
Intuition gave her a nudge. “Why are we here?”
“Why do you think?”
Afina’s eyes narrowed. Oblivious to her tension Sabine burrowed into her collarbone with a sleepy murmur. Rubbing her daughter’s back, she met Xavian’s gaze head-on. “Let’s pretend I’m a little slow this morrow and you tell me instead.”
He raised a brow and ran his eyes over her. The message was clear; he found her lacking. Every bit of her...along with her attire. And without him saying a word, she knew what he intended.
Knight Awakened (Circle of Seven #1) Page 10