In a rush, Henrik reached for his clothes. Before Xavian could get a glimpse, he tossed his leather tunic over his head. “I like my women plump, but an exception can always be made.”
A direct hit.
Xavian clenched his teeth. Christ, this silent shit was getting old. But the more Henrik talked, the better his ability to ferret out the facts. His comrade wanted something. Something that had little if anything to do with the old man. Halál had ordered his execution on sight, and if Henrik were here for that purpose he would already have tried to take his head.
“What say you?” Henrik pulled the lacing on the side of his tunic tight. “In the mood to share the wench?”
Hearing Afina called a “wench” almost sent Xavian over the edge. He locked his muscles, refusing to move. He couldn’t stop the growl, however. It broke through, rolled up his throat, giving sound to his rage. Black birds in the tree above him scattered, taking flight as they perceived a predator in their midst.
“Hmm, guess not.” One corner of his mouth jacked up, Henrik sheathed his blades and pivoted to face him. Xavian frowned. Something other than amusement gleamed in his comrade’s eyes. Was that relief he spotted? “A bit possessive of her, aren’t you, Ram?”
“Very,” he said, his territorial nature getting the better of him. Didn’t matter. ’Twas time to end the game. If Henrik needed a declaration to start the fight, he was more than happy to provide one. “Touch her and you die.”
Henrik nodded and broke eye contact. Xavian’s gaze narrowed. Aye, ’twas definitely relief on his comrade’s face.
“Time to tell me why you are here, brother.”
In answer, Henrik unsheathed a dagger and let it fly.
Without moving his feet, Xavian tipped his head to the side, felt the wind, heard the blade whistle by his ear before it hit the tree trunk behind him. The twang rippled through the clearing as the steel settled into its temporary home.
Dropping his arm to his side, Henrik raised a brow. “Clear enough?”
Well, well, well. The bastard had clearly started something, hadn’t he? Xavian bared his teeth and started forward. In agreement with the plan, Henrik settled into a fighting stance.
Finally. He would get what he needed. The satisfaction of a bone-crushing brawl while he beat the truth out of Henrik. And really, who could deny such a gift as that?
Blood ran from Henrik’s left temple. The trickle just missed the outside corner of his eye as he blocked the right hook with his forearm. Ram countered with a quick jab to his rib cage. Tucking his elbow in tight, Henrik absorbed the blow and spun. Loose turf churning beneath his boots, he delivered an uppercut, unwrapping the punch like a present beneath Ram’s chin.
A shock wave rippled through his fist.
Ram cursed.
Henrik grinned. Goddamn, he loved a skilled opponent. And one as fast as Ram never failed to please.
“That all you got?” Ram stepped back and circled left.
“Not even close.” Henrik moved right, mirroring his friend. “I learned a few things in Poland.”
“Prepared to share?”
“’Tis the least I can do.”
Ram snorted.
Henrik attacked, hammering his friend with all the skill he’d gained from the savages in the North. Someone needed to pay for the loss of his sister, for her senseless death and his pain. It might as well be Ram. He could take it, shape it, give him the release he needed.
Christ, he hadn’t felt this good in months.
Fighting with Ram was like manna from heaven. Inspired in a hallelujah kind of way.
His comrade smiled around his split lip, dropped into a crouch, and pinwheeled. The bastard’s boot caught his ankles and sent him flying. Henrik landed with a thud beside the fire pit and, planting his hand in the dirt, rolled in the opposite direction.
“Rahat.” Ram leapt skyward, trying to clear his body as it hurtled toward his legs.
As he passed underneath him, Henrik reached up, caught the toe of Ram’s boot, and pulled. His friend went topsy-turvy, landing in a heap a few feet away.
“Nice.” On his back in the dirt, Ram jackknifed to his feet. Rotating his arm in a backward circle, he closed the distance between them, coming at him like a sidewinder. “Impressive, H.”
He reset his stance. “I aim to please.”
“Since when?”
Henrik shook his head. Trust Ram to want to chat while in the midst of a good fight. It was surprising, actually. In the heart of Al Pacii, Ram had been quiet, keeping to himself more often than not. But then, he’d been the same way, and like recognized like. ’Twas the reason he’d spent most of his time with Ram, almost all of it passing in companionable silence.
But his friend wasn’t silent now. Something had changed. Henrik suspected Afina was to blame.
It didn’t seem possible, but seeing them together forced him to admit the truth. Ram was perfect for her. The bastard could love and protect her at the same time. Something he’d been unable to do on his best day. What did that make him? Weak? Inept? A terrible brother?
The roar of denial started soul deep. The vibration rattled through him, ripping him wide open. Rage spilled out, giving way to a war cry as he lunged at his friend. Halfway to his target, Henrik realized his error. But it was too late to stop. The narrow alleyway to his heart was already open, and Ram would use it without mercy.
Henrik saw the flash of a blade and almost smiled. Relief was but moments away. His death would wipe the slate clean—bring justice to those he’d killed, to the murdered lass with pleading eyes that still haunted his dreams.
He could go now.
His sister was safe with a man he trusted, no matter how badly it had gone in the end. ’Twas the last piece of his puzzle, and as it slid home to complete the picture, steel nicked his skin. Instinct threw his hands out to block the thrust. Ram twisted his wrist and brought the dagger up, slicing through the lacing on the side of his tunic.
Henrik grabbed for his belly, searching for the wound. His hands came away clean. No blood. No guts. No torn flesh.
Time defied logic and slowed until every moment lasted an eternity. Henrik frowned and met Ram’s icy gaze. The bastard kicked his feet out from under him, slamming him back-first into the turf. The numbness left and feeling came back in a rush. The tingle worked its way to his fingertips as Ram planted one boot on his biceps, the other on the opposite thigh, and ripped his tunic aside.
His friend’s gaze landed on his chest—on the proof of his shared blood with Afina. Both marked by the moon-star, the goddess’s brand sat over his heart. Christ, what a fallacy. He hated the goddess. She’d destroyed his family. Cut them apart like a butcher’s knife separating muscle from bone.
And now Ram had made the connection. Henrik could see it in his eyes.
“Jesu. I knew you were hiding something. I knew, but...” The tip of his knife dipped as Ram’s gaze left the moon-star to meet his. Surprise and something more moved in the depths of his pale eyes.
Henrik recognized it for what it was...compassion. A rare understanding that made him want to gag. The bitter taste sat like a boil on his tongue, oozing poison. The bastard. What right did he have to pity him? Grey Keep wasn’t a place anyone went to by choice. Whatever Ram’s history, it couldn’t be any better than his.
Grabbing Ram’s calf, he shoved. “Back the hell off.”
A crease between his dark brows, Ram stepped back. “You are related.”
Pulling his tunic closed, he hid the mark that shamed him and rolled to his feet. Ram stood six feet away, ready but quiet, ever patient as was his nature. Normally he respected that about his friend. Today he wanted to kill him for it.
The silence was too much, opening a fissure into the past. It made him remember what he needed to forget: that his mother and the goddess of all things had never wanted him. And no matter how many times he told himself it didn’t matter, the hurt shattered his well-constructed illusion.
His
rib cage contracted around his lungs. He breathed deep to combat the squeeze and reached for a distraction. He wouldn’t best Ram if he lost control again.
“Shit,” he said, glancing down at the loopholes of his damaged tunic. “You owe me new laces.”
“Screw the laces.” Sheathing his dagger, Ram gave him a hard look, refusing to allow his evasion. “Afina’s your sister, isn’t she?”
The question wasn’t a question at all, but a statement of fact. Henrik waited for the panic, for the closed in feeling he always got when caged. It never came. Instead the truth embraced him like a thick mantle in the dead of winter. Goddamn, it felt good. He didn’t have to hide it anymore. “We are blood kin...of the same line.”
“Sweet Christ, H,” Ram said, tone edged by fury. “What the hell have you been doing? She needed you...your protection and strength. You could have...You are her family, for shit’s sake.”
His hands cranked into fists, he surged toward Ram. “Do not pretend gallantry. You are no better than I.”
“I did not abandon my kin.” His guard up, Ram pivoted on one foot, matching him step for step.
“The hell you didn’t.” Henrik bared his teeth and struck, cranking his knuckles into Ram’s ribs. Ever ready, his friend absorbed the blow, brought his elbow up, and slammed it against the side of his head. Off balance, Henrik dodged a well-aimed jab and circled left as Ram went right.
“Who did I betray? Halál?” Pale eyes almost glowing, Ram said, “I owe that butcher nothing. Not my loyalty or my skill.”
“You bastard,” Henrik said, hearing the ache in his own voice. He hated the weakness, but naught could stop the wound from opening. Even after all this time, it was still fresh. Deep-seated pain threw his fists out in a volley meant to maim.
Ram blocked each thrust, turning them aside without attacking in return. “Who, Henrik?”
“Goddamn it...” Henrik’s throat closed around a lump so big he couldn’t swallow. How could Ram not know? How could he not see his mistake?
He threw another punch. Ram caught his fist in the cup of his hand, held on, and reeled him in. Nose to nose, his friend locked him in place. Henrik refused to retreat. He would have his say before he slit Ram’s throat. Naught would do but that he die with the truth of his crime ringing inside his head.
“Tell me, brother.”
“Me!” His eyes burned as the truth exploded, geyser high. “You betrayed me!”
Ram’s hand tightened around his fist. “Nay. Never. I—”
“You left me there...with that bastard,” he said, the accusation whisper-thin as his voice gave out. “You took the others...and left me! You left me...”
“Jesu, Henrik. You were in Poland.”
“You could have gotten word to me.” He thumped Ram on the shoulder with his free hand. “Instead you gathered the others and—”
“I did not! They followed, H. They followed!” Ram grabbed the side of his neck with his free hand and hung on. “I left alone. Scaled the north cliffs in the dead of night to escape Grey Keep and Halál.”
Henrik shook his head, struggling to understand. A moment passed before comprehension hit. The band around his chest loosened a little. Drawing back as much as Ram’s hold would allow, he wiped his eyes.
Christ, the north cliffs. Ram must have been half mad to have risked his life like that.
“I stopped at Ismal to return the boy...to Sherene,” Ram said as his grip tightened.
“Ivan’s woman?”
He nodded. “Cristobal and the others tracked me through the mountains into the marketplace.”
“Goddamn Cristobal.” Henrik closed his eyes, no longer fighting Ram’s touch. Had he not been a man, he might have cried. His friend hadn’t chosen the others above him. Hadn’t meant to leave him behind. Relief came with that knowledge, and struggling for control, he said, “The son of a bitch always was the best tracker.”
“I thought they’d been sent to kill me, but—”
“They wished to join you instead.”
“Aye.”
“And Drachaven?”
“The keep and land were given to me by the Wallachian ruler, Basarab...for services rendered.”
So the rumors were true. No surprise there. A credit to their kind, Ram was brutal when it came to battle and ambushes. “The decimation of the Hungarian army in the mountain pass.”
“We killed many, forcing King Charles into negotiations with Basarab,” Ram said, loosening his grip a little. “Wallachia is now a free country, and I have a home.”
Henrik straightened, putting more space between them. “Lucky bastard.”
“Very.” His expression serious, Ram released Henrik’s fist to rest his hand on his shoulder. Locked together by touch and truth, he said, “I did not want to leave you, brother, or the others, but I couldn’t stay. Not a moment longer.”
Foolish or not, Henrik believed him. Ram never lied. ’Twas a flaw he didn’t understand, but one he appreciated. The truth was a strange animal. It washed all things clean. Forgiveness didn’t come easy, but for the moment, letting go of the anger felt better than holding onto it.
Henrik rolled his shoulder, knocking his friend’s hand free. “You’re taking Afina to Drachaven?”
“Aye.” Releasing his nape, Ram stepped back, resetting the boundaries between them. His gaze slid to the head of the trail, toward the river and Afina. “Vladimir Barbu’s wolves hunt her. Until I find and kill him, ’tis the safest place for her to be.”
“I know where to find him,” Henrik said, inspecting his bruised knuckles.
“How’s that?”
“I’m inside the enemy camp...a hunter hired to track Barbu’s prey.” He shrugged when Ram raised a brow. “I needed information to track Afina...her last known location. The bastard provided that.”
“He paid you?”
“In gold.”
The corners of Ram’s mouth curved. “Well done.”
Henrik dipped his chin in a mock bow and straightened with a grin. His enjoyment faded, however, when Ram stepped in close again and offered his hand.
Still as death, his comrade waited for him to accept the peace offering. “Will you make your home with us, brother? Drachaven is strong, but ’twill be stronger with you among us. You have a place with us, H...if you want it.”
His heart stumbled then picked up its beat. A home. A true one he could come back to with friends inside instead of rivals. It took an instant to decide, and as his palm met Ram’s the pieces of another puzzle clicked into place. “Do you have a priest at Drachaven?”
Ram shook his head. “Why? You going to need the last rites anytime soon?”
“Nay. But you will...” Henrik trailed off, using the pause to effect. “If you don’t do right by Afina.”
“’Tisn’t that simple. I—”
“She is my sister.” He tightened his grip on his friend. “My sister.”
“Christ.”
“Do not make me regret my forgiveness.” Meeting his gaze head-on, Henrik put a warning in his own. “Wed her, brother, and you will have no quarrel with me. Abandon her and I will take you apart...piece by bloody piece.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
The trews were a revelation. The clean skin a blessing. And the two came together as though meant to be...like wings on a bird.
Afina smoothed her hand over the leather encasing her thigh then kicked out with her foot. Her mouth curved. Good goddess, the freedom was nothing short of amazing. She could move so quickly. No heavy fabric to twitch aside or lift, just...light-as-air leather. She did a little jig. The trews slipped, falling down her hips an inch at a time.
She grabbed for the waistband and reached for the lacing. Each tug pulled the leather tighter, molded it to her curves until she bit her bottom lip. Glancing over her shoulder, she took a gander at her behind.
Well. The trews certainty fit...umm, adequately.
Her gaze swung to the head of the path. Xavian was going to have a se
izure when he saw her outfit. Then again, he was the one to suggest it, so...
“Never mind him,” she said, tying a bow to secure the trews. With a wiggle, she adjusted the lacing below her belly button and reached for a long linen strip. “As if his opinion matters.”
The instant she said it Afina recognized it for what it was—a lie.
She sighed. Drat Xavian and his love of honesty. She’d caught his disease. Now it spread like some rampant infection, disrupting her ability to avoid the truth. Afina smoothed her thumb over the fraying ends of the linen binding and wondered if there was a cure. An elixir, mayhap, that would return the capacity to delude herself.
Maybe then she could stop what was happening. Stop the ache and the need and the—
No. She refused to call it love. She didn’t love Xavian. How could she? He’d kidnapped her, for heaven’s sake. Scared and harassed and...protected her at every turn. Made her feel important and cherished, as though she mattered to someone.
A delusion. She needed one right now. Otherwise she would remember the way he made her toes curl when he touched her, and that wouldn’t be good for anyone.
Afina tucked the linen strip beneath her arm and wound the first length underneath both breasts. How could she fix this? How could she defend against something she didn’t understand? The walls she’d spent most of her life building were failing. With the efficiency of a siege engine, Xavian had hammered a hole in her defenses. Now the ramparts were crumbling, opening a fissure into a world of hurt. Sooner or later she would lose her footing and fall in. And how did one recover from a tumble like that?
She glanced toward the trailhead, picturing his rugged beauty and steady strength. It would be so easy to take that leap, to push off and let herself fly. But Xavian had made it clear he didn’t want to catch her. Not that he’d said as much. It was more a feeling; a deep truth that festered like a sore on her soul.
He didn’t want her. At least, not in a way that mattered...in a way that lasted.
Knight Awakened (Circle of Seven #1) Page 20