Knight Avenged (35 page)

If the bastard so much as twitched. Made another move. Just one more, Cosmina would let fly and bury Henrik’s dagger hilt deep in his chest. ’Twould be easy enough to do. Despite being outnumbered, she held the advantage, the element of surprise along with a prime position.

An ugly expression on his face, Valmont double-fisted his sword hilt.

Shifting right along the wall, Cosmina improved her vantage point. With a quick flip, she rotated the knife in her palm. Blade poised between her fingertips, she tensed and got ready to throw hard and move fast. Stepping in close, the bastard took aim at Nairobi’s throat. Muscles tightened along Cosmina’s spine. Skill drew her arm back. Premonition flexed, then flared, telling her to aim for the right side of his chest. Confidence steadied her hand and—

Cosmina unleashed, launching the dagger.

Steel flashed. Its sharp tip spun over the weighted hilt. Time stretched, thinning perception, making her breath slow and her heart pause mid-beat. The Druinguari’s gaze snapped toward her. But it was too late. She’d thrown hard and aimed well. Orange eyes widened in disbelief a moment before her dagger struck home. Steel pierced muscle and bone to reach the vulnerable flesh beneath. A sickening crack echoed. Black blood spilled down his chest a second before—

Valmont disintegrated with a sickening pop.

Sludge sloshed on the cobblestones next to Nairobi. Snarls of fury rolled across the courtyard. Already up and over the half wall, Cosmina unsheathed another dagger, drawing it from inside her boot mid-leap. Focusing on the five remaining Druinguari, she sprinted toward her friend. “Nairob
i . . .
”

Wide eyes met hers. Nairobi’s mouth fell open. “Cosmina?”

“Run!”

Her command rang out. Her friend didn’t hesitate.

Hands bound, Nairobi scrambled backward as the enemy came to life in front of her. Moving in unison, each pulled identical swords free from matching scabbards. Baring her teeth, Cosmina chose the Druinguari nearest her, took aim, and threw her knife. Just like the other, the dagger hurtled end over end to reach its target. With a flick of his sword, the beast deflected the weapon in flight. The blade hit the ground, clattering across ice and snow. As she watched it spin, terror hit full force. Gods, it was futile. She was doomed. Worse than dead the second the enemy got ahold of her.

Still, she refused to retreat. Or give up.

Running hard, she grabbed Nairobi mid-stride, lifting her to her feet. With a yank, Cosmina dragged her friend across the courtyard. She needed to get up the stairs and into High Temple. Once inside, she could take cover behind the columns and make for the back wal
l . . .
and the Chamber of Whispers. Just like she had the last time. ’Twas their only chance. The only slice of hope in a situation filled with death. But as she sprinted up the steps, a bowstring twanged behind her.

A whistling sound followed as the arrow shot through the air.

Tears burned the corners of her eyes. Oh god
s . . .
please help her. She knew how much getting hit was going to hurt. Remembered the pain. Still felt the burn of impact and blood rolling down her arm. Anticipation tearing her apart, she waited for it to happen. Felt her muscles tense and suffered the fear as—

A Druinguari bellowed in rage behind her.

Losing her footing on slick stone, Cosmina stumbled, missing a step. Nairobi staggered into her, knocking her sideways. Her knee cracked against marble. Steel met steel behind her, the clash muffled by the blood rushing in her ears. Another Druinguari roared in pain. Shoving her friend up the stairs ahead of her, Cosmina glanced over her shoulder. The air swirled, warping into naught but a shimmer beneath sunlight. The enemy paused to take stock. The wind held its breath. A man materialized in the courtyard, stepping out from behind an invisibility shield.

Cosmina’s mouth fell open.

“Good goddess,” Nairobi said from behind her. “Who is that?”

“Henrik.”

She whispered his name like a benediction. The tears she refused to shed, but couldn’t stop, spilled over her bottom lashes. Gratefulness bubbled up, swallowing her whole as she watched Henrik engage the enemy. Rhythm sure, lethal skill on display, he whirled, ducking beneath Druinguari blades, wielding his own, bringing death with each parry and slice. Black blood arced, splashing beneath the sunlight. Druinguari heads flew a second before Henrik thrust his blade home, into the right side of their chests. As each pop reverberated through the courtyard, a group of warriors arrived to help him, coming from—Cosmina frowned—well, everywhere. Sliding down rooftops. Charging between the high hedgerows. Flying in on dragon-back before making the jump to land on the ground beside Henrik.

Not that he needed anyone’s help.

Precision personified, he was already done. The last Druinguari lay at his fee
t . . .
and Cosmina started to shake. She couldn’t help it. Shock rode in on a wave and held her under, drowning her with unyielding emotion. It made so little sense. His arrival. Her rescue. The terrible yearning rising up from deep inside her. She thought she was past the desperation—the clawing need, the terrible wan
t . . .
all the heartfelt longing. One look at him forced her to admit the truth.

She needed him more than her own heartbeat.

Druinguari blood dripping from his blades, Henrik turned toward her. Expression set in fierce lines, his intense hazel-gold eyes met hers. And just like that the barriers between them fell away. Aye, she ought to be angry with him. Should no doubt make him pay for abandoning her the way he had, but as relief sparked in his eyes, the past ceased to matter. He was here now. She wanted him forever. So to hell with doubt. Say good-bye to her pride. She refused to deny her love, so instead of turning away, she held his gaze and sprang to her feet. Not wasting a second, she sprinted down the steps toward him.

No one moved. White Temple didn’t even breathe.

Her footfalls rang across the courtyard.

Henrik murmured her name and, sheathing his swords, reached for her. Cosmina didn’t hesitate. Not for a moment. She ran straight into his arms, feeling as though she’d finally come home as she settled in and Henrik hugged her tight.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

Silence settled like a net, blanketing the courtyard in front of High Temple. Déjà vu. Kismet. Call it whatever the situation warranted. The title didn’t matter. Neither did the fact it always came down to this—him and White Temple, going head to head and heart to heart. But not this time. Henrik’s mouth curved. Aye,
not this time
. Right now, he was exactly where he wanted to be—

In Cosmina’s embrace. His heart pressed against hers.

Stifling a shiver, Henrik struggled to hold on—to distill the violent rush of bloodlust and slow the beat of his heart. It refused to listen, hammering the inside of his chest as he pulled Cosmina closer. A kind of sacrilege, actually. He shouldn’t be holding her while the urge to kill still gripped him. He stank of death. Wore the scent like the predator he was and would always be. So aye, he should release her—long enough at least to get himself under control. But even as the thought surfaced, the needy bastard inside him rose, refusing to unlock his arms and let her go. He needed the contact. Craved her heat and the acceptance. Which left him flailing, unable to turn away until he knew for sure she was all right.

Asking her was no doubt the best tack to take.

Too bad he couldn’t find his voice.

Christ, she’d scared the hell out of him. It had been so close. Too damned close. A moment later—a split second more—and Cosmina would be dead. Lying in a pool of her own blood. Sacrificed on the steps of High Temple. An arrow in her back, her heart no longer beating. The image made him draw a shaky breath. The reality of how lucky he’d been made him thank God. It could’ve gone the other way so easily. Could’ve ended in sorrow instead o
f . . .

Cupping the back of her head, Henrik pressed his face into her hair. “Cosmina.”

“I’m all right, but, please, not ye
t . . .
” she whispered against his throat. He shifted in her embrace, wanting to see her face. Her grip on the back of his tunic tightened. “I’m not ready to let go of you yet.”

Fine by him. He wasn’t anywhere near ready either. “Not to worry,
iubita
. We can stay here as long as you like.”

“Are they g-gone? Are they al
l . . .
” She shivered against him. “Gone?”

“Aye.”

True. One hundred percent accurate. Henrik scanned the terrain over the top of her head anyway, looking for danger where he knew none existed. Proof ran in rivulets on the cobblestones, finding the cracks, marring the face of colorful mosaic tiles. Druinguari blood—black as pitch, evil as sin. He stared at it a moment, then turned the dial, fine-tuning his senses, wanting to make sure. Nay. Nothing to be worried about. The Druinguari who had invaded the holy city were dead. The absence of vibration between his temples told him so. The stillness creeping across the square confirmed it.

None remained inside White Temple. He’d killed them all to keep her safe.

“Henrik?”

“Aye, love?”

“Is Nairobi all right?” Another shiver racked her. Running his hands over her shoulders, he drew gentle circles down her back, absorbing her chill, sharing his body heat, providing the kind of comfort she gave him all the time. “I don’t know how badly she is hurt. The beast hit her, Henrik. He
hit
her. Now she’s—”

“Being well tended.”

Cosmina frowned against the side of his throat. “By whom?”

“Cristobal.”

Pressing a kiss to her temple, Henrik gave her a gentle squeeze. He didn’t want her to worry. Nairobi was in good hands. And Cristobal? Well now, his friend was in fine form. Without lifting his chin from atop her head, Henrik glanced across the courtyard. His mouth curved. Halfway up the fluted staircase, his friend didn’t notice his perusal. Crouched in front of Nairobi—hands busy, body tense, healing satchel open on the step beside him—Cristobal was too busy playing knight in shining armor to the damsel in distress.

Odd in more ways than one.

Particularly since Andrei usually handled injuries in the aftermath.

Blowing out a shaky breath, Cosmina uncurled her fingers from his tunic and lifted her head. Her hands slid over his arms, making pleasure hum and yearning rise. Christ, he wanted her. More now than ever, but instead of picking her up and carting her off, he clung to self-control. She needed time to calm down. So did he. But as she set her hands, palms flat, against the wall of his chest, he almost lost it. The heat of her touch. The beauty of her scent. All her lithe curves pressed to him sent him sideways, tearing apart patience, making his restraint falter.

He murmured her name.

Tipping her chin up, she met his gaze. The chaos in her eyes set him straight, shoving desire aside. Jesus. He didn’t like that look. It contained so much doubt, as though she’d lost her footing along with her bearings. Henrik frowned, wondering for a moment if her uncertainty was somehow his fault. His leaving hadn’t been kind. Aye, he’d left the note bu
t . . .
hell. It didn’t mean much. Not here. Not now while he tried to get closer an
d . . .

She backpedaled into full-blown retreat.

All right, so she wasn’t withdrawing physically. She still stood in the circle of his arms. Nor was she trying to break his hold. But Henrik recognized the shift into self-protection. Saw her guard go up an instant before she broke eye contact and looked away. Shifting in his embrace, Cosmina glanced over her shoulder. Her gaze landed on the pair halfway up the steps. Worry furrowed her brow. A moment later, she pushed against his chest and tried to step away. He held on tight, preventing her from leaving his arms and returning to her friend. She’d said it first:
not yet.
He wasn’t ready to let her go yet.

“She’s fine, Cosmina,” he said, tone full of reassurance. “Cristobal can be trusted. He’ll see to her wounds and keep her safe.”

“Like you did me.”

“Aye.” Brushing the hair from her temple, he met her gaze, then turned his hand and cupped her cheek. Soft silk caressed his palm. Pleasure hummed, raising awareness as he traced her mouth with his thumb. She opened for him, parting her lips, inviting his kiss, bu
t . . .
goddamn it. As much as he yearned to taste her again, he couldn’t. Too much remained unsaid between them. So like it or nay, he must hold the line. Make it clear. Bring them back to the point where trust took root, and she believed in him again. “Like I did you,
iubita
. Like I always will you.”

Tears filled her eyes.

“Sweet lov
e . . .
please look at me.”

She shook her head. “If I do, I’ll be finished. Just done an
d . . .
blast it all. ’Tisn’t the least bit fair.”

“What isn’t?”

“I should be furious with you for the whole mind-invasion thing.” She frowned, looking more confused than angry. “And the way you left too, but—goddess help me—I cannot begin t
o . . .
I don’t even know how t
o . . .
”

Her voice broke. Henrik’s heart along with it. He hadn’t wanted to hurt her. Had known from the beginning making love to her—allowing her too close—would lead to huge complications and bad feelings. And yet, here he stood, acting selfish once again, holding on to her instead of leaning away.

“I want to be angry. I really do, bu
t . . .
” With a sigh, she thumped his shoulder with the side of a fist. A moment later, her forehead followed, touching down in the center of his chest. “I cannot seem to manage it. ’Tis the truth, I’m so happy to see you, I cannot think of one nasty thing to say. ’Tis pathetic.”

“Nay, Cosmin
a . . .
’tisn’t a bit pathetic,” he said, stroking his hand over her hair. The tendrils slipped between his fingertips, encouraging him to delve deeper. He didn’t hesitate. Murmuring his enjoyment, he played in the thick strands, loving the weight and feel, but mostly that she allowed him to touch her. “’Tis just the shock talking. As soon as it passes, you’ll show no mercy.”

She huffed. “Probably.”

“I’m sure of it.”

“I don’t like feeling this way.”

“I know,” he said. “Would you like me to fix it?”

“Do you think you can?”

He knew he could. Three little words said out loud instead of written on parchment. That’s all it would take. At least, he hoped so. Nothing in life ever came easy. Love least among them. Yet Henrik knew he needed to do it. To right the wrong he’d done to her, bare his soul and come clean. The truth must be told. Cosmina deserved every ounce of it. Knowing it, however, didn’t make moving forward any easier. He hated that he’d hurt her. Despised all her uncertainty and pain. But as silence fell, he struggled to find his voice.

’Twas a helluva thing.

So brave in battle. Yet terrified by the power of his love for Cosmina.

So instead of baring all, he wrapped his arms around her, buying the time he needed to work up the courage to start the conversation. Cosmina didn’t object. She snuggled close instead, wrapping him up, aligning her body with his, taking all the room beneath his chin. Gratefulness squeezed his heart tight. He loved the feel of her. Could hold her for days and never get bored. ’Twas inevitable, he guessed. Mayhap even normal. His need for her superseded self-preservatio
n . . .
along with the usual impulse to retreat. She made him feel things he hadn’t thought possible—need, want, a yearning so deep it scared the hell out of him. Too bad he wasn’t a coward. ’Twould be easier to deny the truth and walk away. But he couldn’t go back.

Or even contemplate leaving her again.

Not while he held her close, and she clung to him. His desire to be near her was no longer a matter of choice or a simple case of want. He needed her now. Far too much to ever let her go. So instead of unlocking his arms, he tightened his grip and murmured her name. She whispered his back, making his heart hurt and his chest ache. Goddamn, she’d been unbelievable today. So smart. So strong. The best kind of accurate too, when she’d taken aim and let the dagger fly. An image of her skipped through his mind. Intense gaze pinned to her target. Perfect balance and form, even on the run. Courage and ability rolled into one. His mouth curved. He couldn’t help it. His pride for her was an involuntary reflex, one he couldn’t—

Someone cleared his throat.

Henrik cringed. Ah hell. He’d lost track of tim
e . . .
and his comrades.

With a sigh, he lifted his cheek from atop Cosmina’s head and glanced over his shoulder. Jesus. ’Twas even worse than he thought. Standing in a semicircle behind him, boots planted and expressions set, his friends wore varying shades of
what the hell
?
Henrik understood the surprise along with the charged pause. All the raised eyebrows too. He’d broken rank. Had gone half-mad in his quest to reach Cosmina in time. Add that to the fact he now stood holding her in the middle of the quad while his friends looked on and—aye, give the man a prize. His comrades’ astonishment made sense. He wasn’t, after all, the hugging kind. Open affection simply wasn’t his forte. Or at least, it hadn’t bee
n . . .

Until he’d met Cosmina.

He met his friend’s gaze. “Give me a moment, Xavian.”

“Take all the time you need,” he said, understanding and more in his tone. The
more
wasn’t difficult to guess. His friend knew what it felt like to fal
l . . .
to be deep in uncharted territory with a woman on his mind. “See to her. I’ll see to the rest. With the dragons in the air, the city will be locked down in less than an hour.”

True enough. White Temple might be large, but its design made defending the city easier than most. Throw in thick stone walls. Add on the square parapets rising like teeth across the battlements, then consider the double gatehouses complete with murder holes at each city entrance and—aye, a skeleton crew could not only man it, but hold it against an enemy for years. Not that three dragons qualified as a
skeleton crew
. The trio was a force unto themselves. One an incoming army wouldn’t survive, never mind defeat. And as Henrik watched Tareek fly overhead, wings spread wide, bloodred scales gleaming in the sunlight, his heartbeat slowed, and he felt himself unwind.

Finally. ’Twas about time.

Taut muscles relaxing, Henrik exhaled in a rush, thankful as tension loosed its grip one talon at a time. Rolling his shoulders, he held Xavian’s gaze and tipped his chin. The quick gesture carried a silent message. One wrapped in gratitud
e . . .
sent by him, and received on cue by his friend. Xavian accepted his thanks with a nod. Seconds later, he was gone, leading the others across the courtyard, footfalls quiet, voice hushed as he doled out individual duties. As his comrades disappeared into the city, Henrik swung Cosmina into his arms.

She went rigid against him. “Hey.”

Her sharp tone lightened his mood. Ah, good. There she wa
s . . .
the smart-mouthed hellion he knew and loved. “Humor me,
iubita
. We need to talk and there are too many ears and eyes here.”

“Oh.” Brows drawn tight, her attention strayed to Nairobi and Cristobal.

“They’ll be fine.”

She stared at the pair an instant longer, then looked back at him. Green eyes brimming with uncertainty met his. The impact hit him like a sucker punch, knocking the wind out of him. He went stone-still, wanting to say more, needing to explain. The compulsion to convince her nearly overwhelmed him. He forced himself to remain still instead, waiting for her to decide. Stay or go. Run away and hid
e . . .
or hear him out. ’Twas her call. Not his. He couldn’t force her to listen. He didn’t deserve a second chance, not after the way he’d betrayed her in the Limwoods. But as the silence stretched, nerves got the better of him. His chest went tight. Henrik swallowed, combating the burn as pressure squeezed around his torso.

Jesus help him. Mayhap it was too late. Mayhap he couldn’t fix it. Mayhap having her in his life was too much to—

“All right then,” she said, voice so soft he barely heard her. And yet, it restored his faith, making him believe, infecting him with the possibility forgiveness existed a conversation away. Buoyed by the prospect, his gaze strayed to her mouth. Desire slammed through him. Unable to help himself, he leaned in. A quick kiss. Just one taste. ’Twas all he needed. But as he got close, Cosmina denied him, pressing her finger to his lips, shaking her head, warning him with a look. Looping her arm around his neck, she pointed to a building beyond the courtyard’s half wall. “Talk first. The shoemaker’s cottage is closest.”