Knight Avenged (9 page)

Cosmina blinked, a slow up and down.
The arrow?
“What arrow?”

“The one in your arm.”

“I don’t feel it.”

“You’re in shock,
iubita
. Hold still. It’ll be out soon.”

Uh-huh. All right. He would see to it. Wonderful. Especially since she was now floating, adrift in a stream of soft sensation—no pain to speak of, just the gentle rush of his hands on her skin.

Footfalls sounded beside her. The chill in the room stirred, brushing over her temple. Cosmina twitched, reacting to the unexpected rush of cold air.

“’Tis only Andrei, Cosmina,” Henrik murmured, reassuring her. “Shay is right behind you.”

“Your men?” she asked.

“His brothers,” the man behind her said, his tone touched by the shades of youth.

Something flapped open. A satchel, mayhap?

“
Tiens
, Henrik. Hold this.” Andrei settled beside her, brushing her boot. “The witch hazel tonic?”

Senses attuned to him, she perceived Henrik’s nod. “The wound needs to be cleaned.”

Cosmina grimaced. Witch hazel tonic. Gods, that was going to sting. But as Henrik helped her curl onto her side, she didn’t resist. He was right. If the wound went untreated, infection would set in. And honestly, more pain was the last thing she needed. So instead of arguing, she followed Henrik’s instructions to the letter—refusing to complain, gritting her teeth, and cursing under her breath when he examined her arm and the arrow shaft.

The sound of a knife leaving its sheath broke through the quiet.

Years of mistrust reared, pushing panic to the surface. Unable to fight it, Cosmina squirmed beneath Henrik’s hold. She wanted to escape the warriors and return to what she knew. To the familiar stone cottage sheltered inside the Limwoods, the forest not far from White Temple. Safe. Secure. Untouched by the outside world.

Her home for the last five years.

The image settled her, helping her stay still as Henrik’s grip tightened. Tone soft, he talked to her, asking her to trust him. Trust. It seemed like an abstract term, one that felt unfamiliar. She sank into it anyway, and exhaling long and slow, surrendered to the moment and the certainty Henrik would keep his word.

Steel cracked against wood.

Her arms jerked. The fletched end of the arrow flew up, feathered edges flicking at her cheek. Cosmina bit down on a scream. A soft cry escaped in its place, expanding through the quiet. Henrik cursed, but didn’t relent. Grip firm, he held her down as Andrei grabbed the arrowhead. Someone whispered an apology. Henrik? Andrei? Shay? She didn’t know. Didn’t care much either. Not while the pain increased and—

“Forgive me,” Henrik said, voice edged with regret. “Now, Andrei.”

With a smooth draw, the Frenchman pulled on the arrow. Wood dragged through muscle, past bone, tearing her skin. The excruciating slide arched her spine. Clenching her teeth, Cosmina struggled, whimpers clogging the back of her throat. A cacophony of curses rose in the wake of her outburst. She barely noticed. Didn’t care about the trio’s remorse either. Fighting the lockdown, she scrambled in full retreat, holding tears at bay.

Don’t cry. Do not cry.

She couldn’t stomach the vulnerability. Her reaction was silly. It shouldn’t matter if she wept. But somehow standing strong, proving her toughness in the face of adversity, had taken precedence over circumstance. And as her arm throbbed and pain clawed over her shoulder, pride stepped into the void. She needed to save face. To prove to herself that she could handle anything.

Tough as nails.

She’d always been that way. But even as she clenched her teeth and told herself to hold the line, tears escaped. The droplets rolled over her temples. And in the moment, she knew it was over. She’d failed. Fallen hard. Lost track of herself along with the magic. Now she was more than just vulnerable, she was weak. Something she couldn’t abide. Something a man never respected. Which left her more than helpless. It left her alone in a place where Henrik possessed all the power and she held none.

CHAPTER SEVEN

With a muttered curse, Henrik watched the blood well on Cosmina’s pale skin. Flowing unchecked now, it soaked her shirt, running down to pool in the V of her elbow joint. The sight tightened his chest. His heart went overboard, splashed down, and hit hard. Sympathy spilled through the cracks in his ultra-thick guard. His eyes on her face, he talked to her, his voice soft, his tone even and sure. The soothing words didn’t help. She was too far gone, deep in shock now, shaking so hard her teeth chattered an
d . . .

He couldn’t stand it. Hated to see her suffer, never mind watch her cry.

But as her tears fell, rolling over her temples, regret sank deep. The urge to shove Andrei aside, pick her up, and hold on hard ripped through him. Henrik gritted his teeth. A witless reaction. Not the least bit productive either, bu
t . . .
Christ. He didn’t like any of it. Not the look of her injury. Not the weakness Cosmina now displayed. Nor her gasps of pain. All necessary, he knew. The arrow needed to come out, and the wound tended. Pain walked hand in hand with the procedure. But God, it was hard not to howl at the unfairness as he held her down and allowed Andrei to do his work.

Goddamn bastards. The Order of Assassins had no shame. No code. Or honor.

The truth shouldn’t surprise him, but somehow it did. Al Pacii didn’t waste energy on the insignificant. Slip in. Hit hard. Sneak out with leaving a trace. ’Twas always the objective. No need to waste time on those not marked for death. Which prompted a serious question: Why target Cosmina? Halál’s arrow had flown straight and true. No mistake about the intent or the bastard’s mission. The leader of Al Pacii stood inside White Temple for a reason. A deliberate one. Instinct told him it had everything to do with Cosmina and—

“Andrei. Hurry the hell up.” Worry in his eyes, Shay met his gaze, and Henrik understood. The young assassin might be deadly, but the time with Al Pacii hadn’t damaged his heart. He didn’t like seeing a woman hurt anymore than Henrik. “You’re hurting her.”

“It cannot be helped.” With a scowl, Andrei twisted the arrow shaft, pulling gently.

Cosmina grimaced. More tears fell, streaking over her temple.

Shay growled an obscenity.

“There are small barbs on the arrow shaft, Shay,” Henrik said, his throat tight and voice even. How he managed to sound normal, he didn’t know. Especially while watching Cosmina suffer. Christ, the sight made him want to unsheathe his blades and maim someone. “If he pulls too fast, he’ll damage the muscle.”

“Henri
k . . .
” Lashes spiked by tears, eyes shut tight, Cosmina shifted in his grasp.

“Almost done, Cosmina.” His focus strayed back to her face. God, she was pal
e . . .
far too pale. Holding her down with one hand, he cupped her cheek with the other. Desperate to calm her, he caressed her, tracing the rise of her cheekbone with the pad of his thumb. His touch settled her. With a choppy exhale, she turned her face into his touch. Her faith laid him low. Split him wide open. Such acceptance. So much trust. More than he would’ve been able to give had the circumstances been reversed. “Hold tight,
iubit
a
. . .
just a bit longer.”

“Sorry.” Her eyelashes fluttered. “I’m sorry.”

Sorry?
Henrik frowned. For what? “There is no need—”

“Is everyone all right?” She flinched as Andrei pulled on the arrow again. “I didn’t mean to hurt anyone. But the spell, i
t . . .
I had no idea it would blow out like that. I would never hav
e . . .
”

“’Tis all right,” he said as she trailed off. “We’re all in one piece.”

Well, except for her.

But even as Henrik lamented the fact, he left regret in his wake. No sense dwelling on the past. He couldn’t go back and change it. The debacle was where it belonge
d . . .
behind him. Now he must deal in the present. Move forward. Give Cosmina what she needed while he found an alternative route out of White Temple.

A good plan. Particularly since he could still hear them out there.

Tilting his head, Henrik listened harder. Aye, most definitely. He could actually hear the enemy. Strange in more ways than one. By rights—and all human standards—he shouldn’t be able to perceive anything outside the sacred chamber. The walls were too thick and the door too solid. Somehow, though, he heard everything. The soft scrape of multiple boot treads on the tiled floor. The quiet draw of a knife being unsheathed. The almost imperceptible murmur of Al Pacii warriors searching for a way inside.

Each minute noise wound him a notch tighter. He glanced at his apprentice. “Let go, Shay. I can handle her from here.”

Quick to comprehend, Shay’s focus sharpened. “What do you need?”

“Check the walls for hidden doors. Find another way out.”

“Halál’s still out there?”

Henrik nodded.

“Can you hear them?” Surprise in his expression, Shay pushed to his feet. Turning toward the megaliths ringing the dais, eyes skimming over stone walls, he strode toward the far side of the chamber.

“Clear as a bell.”

“Impressive,” Andrei said, his attention still on Cosmina and the arrow. “But then, you’ve always been a beautiful predator. Senses far too keen.”

True enough. And even more so now. As much as he hated to admit it, magic upped the ante—along with his prowess. “Andrei, how close—”

“Done.”

With a flick, Andrei tossed the broken arrow shaft aside. As it clattered across the stone floor, his comrade pivoted toward the healing kit on the floor beside him. Digging inside, he tossed a cloth over his shoulder. Henrik caught it in midair and, releasing Cosmina’s wrist, pressed the wad of linen to her wound. She winced. A puff of air escaped her. And Henrik’s heart sank as Andrei turned back toward him with a bone needle and thread in his hands. Intense blue eyes met his over the top of her head.

“Get it done, Andrei.”

Picking up a vial of clear liquid, his friend flicked at its top. The stopper popped off the glass.

“Wait,” Cosmina said, hearing the cork lid bounce on the floor. “Give me a—”

“No time.”

Hating the idea, but knowing it was necessary, Henrik tugged her upright. She settled on the edge of the dais, then swayed, drifting backward. With a gentle shift, he steadied her, bu
t . . .
goddamn it. Too late. The movement jarred her. She gagged in reaction. Empathy tugged on his heartstrings. Henrik ignored the pull. Feeling sorry for her wouldn’t help. Keeping her mind busy and her moving, however? Aye, that just might. On his knees in front of her, Henrik cupped her nape and raised her chin, forcing her to sit up straight.

“Please don’t. I cannot—”

“Aye, you can,” he said, interrupting again. “It needs doing, Cosmina. Andrei will be gentle.”

She shook her head. “No more.”

He held firm. “Open your eyes and look at me.”

The hard edge in his voice made her jump. A furrow between her brows, she turned her face away, refusing to obey. Henrik’s mouth curved. Stubborn little spitfire. Even injured, she was difficult to handle. Why he enjoyed that about her, he didn’t know. Mayhap he was a masochist. Mayhap he got off provoking redheaded hellions. Mayhap he’d lost his mind. Who knew? But whatever the case, he refused to back down. Or allow her to wallow. She needed a distraction—a target, someone to be angry at while Andrei saw to her wound. Like it or nay, he would give her one. Poke. Prod. Put a bull’s-eye on his own back in order to give her what she needed to get through the pain.

“Come,
mica vrăjitoare
,” he said, using the nickname he knew she hated to get a rise out of her. “Don’t be a weakling—look at me.”

His insult pushed her brows together. “Don’t c-call me that.”

“Then open your eyes.”

“Bonehead.”

“Hellion.”

She huffed. “I want my knives.”

“Why?”

“So I can stab you with one.”

He bit down on a grin. “I’ll give you one free shot, but only if you listen to me. No
w . . .
open.”

She winced as Andrei set to work, and his heart went into a free fall. Taking a deep breath, Henrik swallowed another apology and raised his free hand. His fingertips touched her skin. She sighed. He drew a circle on her temple, encouraging her to give him what he wanted. A moment later, she complied. Spiked by tears, her eyelashes fluttered, then rose, and—

Henrik frowned. Something was wrong. Very, very
wrong
.

Pressing his thumb to the corner of her eye, he applied gentle pressure, asking her to open wider. She obeyed. He sucked in a quick breath. Christ. Had he said
wrong
? Well, add bizarre to the mix. Throw in a dash of startling too, because—Jesus. Her eyes wer
e . . .
were—hell, how to explain? Almost colorless, the green of her irises had faded, leaving naught but contracted pupils in a sea of white.

Surprise struck, wiping his mental map clean.

Henrik shook his head. “Cosmin
a . . .
”

“I know. It’s bad this time,” she said, panic in her voice. Her hands trembled as she reached out, looking for something solid to hold on to. Without hesitation, Henrik became her anchor, and shifting closer, gripped her forearms. Blood slickened his palm, making his fingers slide on her skin. “I cannot see anything. I canno
t . . .
”

“What do you mea
n . . .
this time
?”

“I hate this.” Following his voice, she grabbed a fistful of his cloak. “I hate it.”

“’Tis all right,” he said, trying to soothe her. But goddamn, it was hard not to become distracted. The lack of color in her eyes surpassed surprising. ’Twas downright strange—magic bor
n . . .
something he never liked to dabble in. But as she quivered, each breath coming hard and fast, curiosity took hold. “Has this happened before—the blindness?”

Her chin dipped, relaying her answer.

“How many times?”

“Twice.” Shielding her gaze with her lashes, she turned her face away.

Cupping her cheek, he brought her back toward him. Andrei drew another stitch. As she flinched, Henrik smoothed his thumb over her jaw, soothing her with gentle strokes. Back and forth. Over and over. Past experience had taught him well. Women liked to be caressed. Could be soothed with tenderness and a soft touch. He hoped the hellion in his arms would react the same way. He needed to know everything about her. All the finite details. Every aspect of her life along with what had brought her to the brink.

“Explain, Cosmina.”

“It’s complicated,” she said, hedging to avoid the truth.

The dodge was a good one. Most men would’ve taken the easy way out and headed in the other direction. Not him. Curiosity was a powerful thing. Now he wanted to know. “Humor me.”

“I don’t know you.”

“True, but you can trust me.” Another stroke across her skin. God, she was fine. An incomparable beauty with more than her fair share of brains. And surprise, surpris
e . . .
he liked that about her too. Shifting mid-caress, Henrik brushed over the furrow between her brows, then drifted right to trace one of her eyebrows. She sighed, the sound one of relief as though his touch eased her pain. “I’ll keep you safe. Trust me with the truth. I cannot help if I do not understand what ails you.”

“Why would you want to help?”

Good question. One without an easy answer. So he stayed quiet, allowing the silence to speak for itself. Her mistrust was normal. Necessary even, s
o . . .
nay. Pushing for the truth wouldn’t garner the desired results. Not with Cosmina. He recognized her breed: smart, sassy, too stubborn for her own good. So instead of pressing her for the truth, he kept his hands moving—sweeping over her skin with light caresses—and waited.

Andrei murmured and, tying off the last stitch, snipped the thread.

“I cannot tell you,” she said. “’Tis a secret.”

His mouth curved. Bull’s-eye. Silence was definitely the way to go. Success lay moments away, and as Andrei finished securing the bandage, Cosmina broke. Henrik saw the shift, the instant she moved past doubt into partial acceptanc
e . . .
into the beginnings of fragile trust.

“I’m not supposed t
o . . .
” She hesitated a beat. Uncertainty lay in the pause. Fear too, the kind that made his gut twist and his heart ache. So unsure. Too vulnerable. Carrying so many secrets, the weight of them bogged her down. “I was told to never tell anyone.”

“Things are different now, Cosmina.” He dipped his head, getting in close. His cheek a hair’s breadth from hers, he used his closeness to breed more confidence. She wanted to trust him. He could feel it with every breath he took. Her need for a confidant—someone who understood and would never judge—infused the air around her. “You can tell me.”

A fine tremor rumbled through her. “I’m not safe anywhere.”

“You are with me.”

She swallowed. “I see thing
s . . .
sometimes.”

“What kind of things?”

“The futur
e . . .
events that have yet to occur.”

“Visions?”

“Aye.”

Henrik drew a quick breath in surprise. A Seer with the ability to tell the future. One of the most sought-after commodities in all of Christendom. “How often do the visions come?”

“Too often,” she said, her voice hushed. He knew that tone. Often used it himself when talking about the magic in his blood. “I don’t understand half of it, Henrik. The tumble of image
s . . .
the echo of voices inside my head. ’Tis always such a jumbled mess. I never get the whole picture, just pieces at a time. And the headache
s . . .
” She frowned, then shook her head. “They are terrible when the visions come. Sometimes the pain is so powerful my eyesight goes blurry. Or I lose my peripheral vision for days. Other times I—”

“Go blind.”

She nodded, bumping her cheek against his. “The blindness doesn’t happen often. ’Twas the worst when I saw m
y . . .
”