Knight Avenged (27 page)

He cleared his throat. “How old were you?”

“At the funeral?”

He nodded.

“Not very.” She frowned, thinking back, searching for details as she shuffled closer and settled at his side. Unable to help herself, her hand roamed over his shoulder. The caress made him sigh. Tense muscle relaxed behind her questing fingertips, and Cosmina exhaled long and slow. Gods, she loved that about him. He never shied away, always welcomed her touch, allowing her close, trusting her to be gentle with him. Gaze glued to his profile, she cupped his nape, then slid up to play in the soft strands of his hair. “Almost four, I think.”

“So young.”

“You were too.”

“I was seven,” he said, tone low and tight. A muscle twitched along his jaw as he shook his head. “When sh
e . . .
”

He trailed off. She picked up the thread, guessing at the rest. “She abandoned you, didn’t she? Gave you away, faked your death to save face and—”

“Thrust me into hell. Paid Al Pacii to take me off her hands.”

Shock made her flinch. The Order of Assassin
s . . .
now the Druinguari. “So the creatures in the temple?”

“Former comrades. Their maste
r . . .
my old sensei,” he said, flexing his hands. “I defected from the Order along with six others months ago.”

“And now you hunt them.” It made perfect sense. Held the kind of symmetry Henrik no doubt enjoye
d . . .
the hunters becoming the hunted. “’Tis the reason you were at White Templ
e . . .
tracking them.”

“Aye.”

“Did he do this to you?” Leaning forward, she set her mouth to the back of his shoulder. He winced. She kissed him again, and then again, following the raised lines across his skin. “He is responsible for your scars?”

Henrik nodded. “’Tis the crest of Al Pacii.”

“The bastard,” she said, her outrage catastrophic. “An animal in need of killing.”

“Now more than ever.” He turned to look at her, the tiniest spark of amusement in his eyes. As quick as his humor arrived, however, it faded. Shifting on the mattress, Henrik half turned, bumping her with his bent knee. As he settled sideways in front of her, he raised his hand and cupped the side of her throat. “She never wanted me, Cosmina. I was an abomination in her eye
s . . .
a boy in a place where males held no value. She loathed me from the moment I was born.”

“Ylenia was a fool. A cruel witch without conscience or merit,” she whispered. “I should know. She hurt me too.”

His brows collided. “How?”

“She murdered my mother to gain control of me.”

“Jesus.”

“I know.” With a shrug, she gestured to her small cottage. “As you can see, it didn’t end well.”

“What happened?”

“I saw my mother’s death before it happened, but the vision was jumbled, broken into so many pieces, I couldn’
t . . .
I didn’t understand.” Sad, but true. The story of her life. Always too little, too late. “By the time I figured out what it meant, ’twas over. My mother lay dead and I was locked inside the north tower.”

“She coveted your gift.”

“Aye.”

“So you escaped and found your way here?”

She shook her head. “I wish I had thought of that, bu
t . . .
nay. White Temple was my home. It was the only thing I knew, so I did the only thing I could. I rebelled and shut her out, refusing to share my visions. She meted out punishments, kept me locked in that god-awful room, forbidding me friends and visitors. What she didn’t know, however, is that I am a very good climber.”

Henrik raised a brow, asking without words.

“I left the tower room every day, climbing down from the window. Sometimes I would visit the Limwoods. Other times I would meet Simon outside the city walls.”

“The boy you thought you loved.”

“And made the mistake of bedding.”

“There are worse mistakes, Cosmina.”

“Not many. It got me banished from White Temple.”

Surprised winged across his face. “She threw you out?”

“With naught but the clothes on my back.” Henrik’s grip tightened on her as he drew a quick breath. Registering his disbelief, she shrugged, knowing her eviction from the Order had been her fault. Pure and simple. Close the book, no need to look further. Had she told Ylenia the truth instead of lying, insisting the loss of her maidenhead equaled the end of her gift, she wouldn’t have been thrown out. She’d have remained locked behind a closed door instead. “In the dead of winter.”

“Goddamned witch.” Rage gathered in Henrik’s eyes. A muscle twitched along his jaw an instant before his expression smoothed out. “I am sorry, Cosmina.”

She blinked. “Why? ’Tisn’t your fault.”

“Her blood runs in my veins.” Leaning away, his hand slid against her neck, then left her completely. “I am part of her and—”

“Don’t.” Eyes narrowed, she leveled her finger at him. “Don’t you dare compare yourself to her.”

He went stone-still, stalling mid-retreat to stare at her.

And she saw it all. His hope. His doubt. All the confusion along with his need to believe he could be something other than what blood and destiny dictated. Empathy stole through her. Outrage shoved it aside. She wouldn’t allow it. Not the comparison. Nor the hint of self-loathing she sensed in him.

“You are nothing like her,” she said, sounding fierce, feeling protective. Such a strange inclination. Henrik didn’t need her protection. He was warrior strong, a man born and bred for battle. And yet, as she held his gaze, her desire to shield him overcame her. ’Twas undeniable. Inescapable too. He needed someone on his side, and—even knowing it was unwise, naught but a temporary thing—Cosmina wanted to reassure him. “Blood is never thicker than intention. You share a lineage with her—so what? The heart and mind determine your path in life, not the blood in your veins. You are who you choose to be, Henrik. She has naught to do with that.”

“Christ, Cosmina,” he said, something akin to awe in his eyes. Reaching for her, he pulled her into his lap. She settled astride him and nestled in—breasts to chest, the inside of her thighs pressed to the outside of his, his heat snug against hers. Enthralled by the feel of him, loving his strength, she hummed as he wound her hair around his fist. A gentle tug tipped her head back. A rough nip on the underside of her chin set her ablaze, making her body throb. “You say the damnedest things.”

“All part of my charm.”

He grinned against the side of her throat.

Both hands in his hair, she kissed him softly. “Henrik?”

“Uh-huh?”

“Again please.”

Powerful arms flexing around her, Henrik reversed their positions. Her back touched down on the mattress. He flicked over her pulse point, wetting her skin with his tongue, hips settling between her thighs. “With pleasure,
iubit
a
. . .
with a great deal of pleasure.”

Gods, she hoped so.

Now that the talking was done and the truth told, she wanted the pleasure. Lots of it. All he could give her and more than she could handle. ’Twas only fair. He belonged to her now, but not for long. So forget tomorrow. Never mind the worry. Ignore the impending doom. She needed to stay rooted in the present. In the here and now. With him. Far away from thoughts of heartbreak and the threat of loss. The future would look after itself. It always di
d . . .
without any help from her.

Crouched in front of the hearth, Henrik laid another log on the fire. Not that the conflagration needed it. Already ablaze, flames licked upward, throwing heat into the room. ’Twas busywork more than anything else. A way to distract himself, something to keep him occupied while Cosmina dressed. Looking at her wasn’t a good idea. Every time he did, need reared its ugly head, making him want her again. Ravenous gluttony. Unquenchable thirst. Wicked, delicious desire. He couldn’t get enoug
h . . .
of her lithe curves, of her soft skin, of the slick heat between her thighs and his mouth on hers.

Christ, her tast
e . . .

The goddamned taste of her.

A tremor rippled through him. Muscles tightened across his abdomen, pulling at his hip bones, awakening the traitor inside his trews. Henrik sighed and, staring at the flames, shook his head. Stupid prick. He needed to get a handle on i
t . . .
and his reaction to her. ’Twas becoming embarrassing. He was a grown man, for the love of God, not some green lad. Yet everything she did aroused him. His fixation was absurd. A real eye-opener considering he’d never experienced it before. Women didn’t hold his interest for long. Sure, any number caught his eye, and he enjoyed each one’s company while it lasted. But he never stayed. He gave the pleasure expected of him, took some in return, and then got the hell out.

Every single time.

Cosmina didn’t fall into that category. She wasn’t the usual—a fast lay followed by a quick getaway. Why? Henrik didn’t have a clue. All he knew was that he wanted her more with every breath he took. Disconcerting to say the least. Dangerous to say the most. Particularly since duty and honor dictated that he let her go.

She deserved better than him. He kept hammering that truth home, repeating it over and over, telling himself she was his for now, but not forever. But even as decency urged him to do the right thing—push to his feet, turn, gather the others waiting outside, and leave—his senses remained riveted to her. Each rustle of clothing. Every move she made. Her sighs of contentment behind him. He cataloged it all from his position in front of the fire. Without looking, he knew she drew on her trews, dragging the leather up her beautiful thighs, over her gorgeous bottom an
d . . .
ah, there it was. The rasp and tug of lacing against the sweet stretch of skin below her navel.

Henrik swallowed a groan.

Goddamn, he loved that spot. She was so sensitive there, always raised her hips, spread her legs, undulated against him while he kissed his way—

“Henrik?”

Low and husky, her voice stroked over him. A tingle raced along his spine, raising goose bumps on his skin, sending pleasure spinning through him. Bracing for impact, he glanced over his shoulder. Jewel-green eyes met his. His heart kicked, stealing his breath as his gaze clung to hers. Shirtsleeves bunched along each arm, a smile playing at the corners of her mouth, she drew the collar over her head. He clenched his teeth, mouthwatering as he watched her pretty pink nipples disappear behind the linen.

Exhaling in a rush, he pushed to his feet. “Aye?”

“Do you swim?”

“Like a fish.”

“There is a hot spring not far from here,” she said, tucking her shirttail into her trews. Which—goddamn it to hell and back—made him want to close the distance between them and rip it back out again. “Will you come swimming with me?”

Unable to find his voice, he nodded.

“Good.” Mischief sparked in her eyes. “I’m looking forward to washing your back.”

Jesus help him, Lord knew he couldn’t help himself. “Turnabout is fair play, Cosmina.”

Grabbing the satchel hanging from the bedpost, she grinned at him. “I’m counting on it.”

Infected by her playfulness, he shook his head. “Insatiable.”

“I have to be,” she said, bypassing the table in the middle of the room. Boots scraping over the dirt floor, she stopped in front of a tall armoire. With a tug, she opened a door that had seen better days. Old, rickety, way past its prime, the cabinet listed to one side, its frame bent by weather and time. His gaze drifted over sagging wooden shelves. Not much to speak of piled atop each: a couple of linen towels, three or four bars of soap, an extra pair of trews neatly folded beside a stack of shirts. Reaching up, she snagged two drying clothes off the top shelf. After stuffing the stash into her satchel, she glanced over her shoulder at him. “I only have you so long. I need to make the most of it.”

So long.
Translatio
n . . .
limited time, not long enough.

The reminder should’ve backed him up a step. Made him retreat and seek distance. Thankfulness rose to infect him instead. God, she was incredible. A woman of rare fortitude and unequaled glory. Her beauty surpassed the physical. It went soul deep, shaming him with the knowledge that his carried the stink of death. Was stained, blackened by his crimes, all those he’d killed, maimed, and hurt over the years. Yet, she wanted him anyway—despite the circumstances, regardless of reality. Even knowing he couldn’t stay hadn’t deterred her. She wasn’t angry. Didn’t expect anything she did or said to change his mind. Wouldn’t be bitter in the aftermath either. He could see it in her eyes when she looked at him. Cosmina accepted him for who and what he wa
s . . .
an assassin on a mission that didn’t include her.

’Twas a magnificent gift. One he longed to return.

In another life, he would’ve plunged in without hesitation. Taken what he wanted and committed to Cosmina, heart and soul. But he wasn’t that man. He was a killer—ruined, disgraced, unfit for love, and unworthy of her. That he wanted something long lasting with her didn’t matter. Shouldn’t matter. He knew it with a clarity that startled him. Holding on to her would be a mistake rooted in the worst kind of selfishness. And yet, temptation rolled, urging him to set aside his scruples, close his fist around what fate handed him like a greedy two-year-old, and hang on tight.