Knight Awakened (Circle of Seven #1) (14 page)

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. Either 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.

A thick ball of dread congealed in the pit of her stomach. She fought the nauseating lump and kept her chin level, unwilling to show him how much his opinion hurt. Yes, she’d lied to him, but did she truly deserve
this
? To be treated no better than a...like a...oh, goddess, no...a whore on sale to the highest bidder?

But the hard lines in his face said it all. He’d brought her here—to the most exquisite shop she’d ever seen—as payment for their intimacy. He would provide her with a new gown. Mayhap even a warm cloak to compensate her for the fact he’d taken her maidenhead. As if that would repair the damage—soothe her suffering over his rejection.

Afina curled her free hand into a fist and straightened until her spine cracked. Reaching deep, she dredged the bottom of her soul, looking for anger. Shame surfaced instead.

She wanted to be furious. She really did. But fury was a difficult animal. A disobedient wretch that never came when called. Pain, though—pain was a different story. Predictable, trustworthy, it always arrived without the barest whisper of warning. Now she throbbed with it, the pressure in her chest so heavy she struggled to draw a full breath.

She cleared her throat. “I don’t want anything from you.”

“The decision is not yours to make.”

“I won’t wear them.”

“You will,” he said, his quiet tone so chilly goose bumps erupted on Afina’s skin. His eyes followed suit, freezing her in place until she swore frost gathered between her shoulder blades. “Or I will put them on you myself...and enjoy the doing.”

Afina clenched her teeth to keep them from chattering and looked away, unable to handle the directness of his gaze. Shelves stacked high with rolls of wool and folded linen, the ones she found so beautiful, blurred. She swallowed. Hadn’t she promised not to do this? Hadn’t she told herself he wasn’t worth her sorrow? Hah. Barely an hour later, and she was already breaking her word. Pitiful.

“Afina.”

The hard thread in his voice was as good as any threat. Like a knife wielded by an expert hand, it cut deep, warning if she didn’t obey he’d make her sorry. She understood the underlying message, but refused to listen, even though it meant getting sliced again. Yes, it might sting, but she’d live. If she looked at him now, something told her she wouldn’t survive. The cold
was too intense. Her heart would suffer, freeze into a solid block inside her chest and stop beating.

He sighed, exasperation and more expelled on a single rush of air. “We head into the mountains on the morrow. Both you and Sabine will need the added warmth to survive the cool nights and bitter winds. The new gowns will provide that, along with a thick cloak and good boots.”

The wretch.

With the ease of a smooth-tongued swindler, he tossed Sabine into the mix. He hacked at her pride, scraping her raw with the fact she couldn’t provide her daughter the basic necessities. Afina’s stomach cramped, guilt rolling like thunder in her belly. How could she refute him? He was right. She was a terrible mother, unable to give what her baby needed to stay safe and warm.

“One gown each,” she said, agreeing under duress and a cartload of self-reproach. But pride wouldn’t let her leave it at that. “But I’ll pay you back.”

“With what?”

Heat hit her cheeks then washed up until the tips of her ears burned. “I-I’ll—”

“Forget I said that.” One hand clenched into a fist, he ran the other through his hair. “Consider it an advancement.”

“An advancement?” Shaking her head, Afina blinked away the threat of tears. “I d-don’t understand.”

“You are my healer, Afina,” he said. “There are many in my home that will require your skills. As your master, it is my duty to provide for you.”

Her master. Right.

She held no more importance to him beyond that. Naught more than an underling. A bit of rot to be scraped off the bottom
of his boot and forgotten just as fast. Self-preservation told her to remember that fact. But pride wanted her to shout a denial. Afina settled for ignoring both and, cradling Sabine, moved closer to the fire. Mayhap if she got close enough, the frozen lump burning its way up her throat would melt and give her ease.

“My lord.”

The softly spoken address brought Afina’s head up.
My lord?

Spinning on her heels, Afina turned toward the other side of the room. A woman stood in an open doorway, her focus on Xavian, warm welcome on her face. She stared, unable to help herself. Afina had never seen anything like her. Not only had the woman called Xavian
my lord
, but she was brown from head to toe. Brown eyes, brown hair, and the most beautiful dark brown skin Afina had ever seen.

But worse? She was beautiful, a vision in green silk.

“Sherene,” Xavian said, honey in his tone. His lips tipped up at the corners, his eyes traveled, moving over the woman with approval, and something more. Afina swallowed, recognizing the mix of emotion—admiration and affection. Unlike her, he respected Sherene. “’Tis good to see you.”

The dark beauty smiled and, in a quiet voice, asked, “How fare you, my lord?”

“Well enough. And Dharr?”

“A mischief maker. Always up to no good.” Sherene laughed, the tinkling sound a warm gift before her chin dipped and humor faded. A soft veil clouding her features, she bowed low. “Thank you once more, my lord, for his safe return.”

“You need not thank me, Sherene.”

“I must,” she said, disagreement in her wide, expressive eyes. “I do not know what I would have done if...if...”

“’Tis over, and he is safe.” Xavian shifted as though uncomfortable with the topic.

Afina’s instincts went on high alert.

What were they talking about? Something important...monumental, in fact, if Sherene’s anxious expression was anything to go on. Her gaze bounced between the two as Afina ran through the possibilities, formulating questions and building theories. Each of them came to the same conclusion. The woman was Xavian’s lover. She had to be. The subtle connection permeated the air like a fragrance, radiating around the chamber with such strength it knocked Afina off balance, and right into...

What exactly?

Confusion? Disappointment? Anger and disgust?

And all with herself.

She should have known. Should have been better prepared for the eventuality. Xavian wasn’t celibate. He was a man with needs. Her experience with him in the stable had shown her that, so why was she surprised? Why did she feel the overwhelming urge to place herself in front of him and stake her claim?

Lunacy. Pure, unadulterated witlessness.

She held no claim on him. His reaction in the aftermath, once the pleasure had faded, told her all she needed to know. He didn’t want her beyond the pleasure her body could give him. Beyond the one tryst they’d shared. But that didn’t stop the craving, the soul-deep ache that wanted the affection he so easily gave to Sherene for herself.

“What brings you to my shop, my lord?”

The sultry hum in the exotic beauty’s voice rubbed Afina raw, making her want to root through her healing satchel in search of her salve. Instead she stood stock-still, hoping the floor would open up and swallow her whole.

“I am in need of your talents.”

Afina snorted. Hah. No doubt. Too bad she was standing between him and his lover. Otherwise she was certain he would have tossed Sherene onto the nearest table and—