Coreene Callahan - Knight Avenged

An excellent notion.

Too bad it was chock-full of problems. First among them: the usual calm she carried like a badge of honor had vacated the premises. Henrik was to blame. He’d ambushed her, rattling her with his presence, throwing her off-balance with his quick moves and gentle touch. Cosmina frowned at his back. Odd, but . . . she recognized him now. Had put a face to his name. He was the man from her vision. The warrior with the hazel eyes, hard expression, and little mercy.

Blowing out a shaky breath, Cosmina shook her head. Gods, ’twas inconceivable. Confusing in the extreme. Henrik had not only taken liberties with her, but turned his back on her as well. Just like that. Without any hesitation, acting as if he hadn’t a care in the world . . . as if she presented no threat to him at all. Her fingers flexed around the dagger hilts as she debated the best course of action.

Attack him from behind. Retreat into the gloom. Or do as instructed, stay close, and . . .

Obey a strange man who’d stripped her to the skin.

All right. So he hadn’t stripped her. Not exactly, but . . . gods. It had been close. So very close. The memory slapped at her. Cosmina flinched, remembering the strength of Henrik’s body, how easily he’d subdued her . . . the warmth of his hands on her skin. He could’ve hurt her without difficulty. Taken all he wanted. Kept her pinned facedown—and bottom up—against the altar. Cut away the rest of her clothing and—

The open edges of her leather tunic flapped against her back.

Cold air washed in, mocking her with what might have been.

A shiver raced up her spine, colliding with the base of her skull, causing an awful ache to bloom behind her eyes. Cosmina swallowed the lump in her throat and shook her head. Nay. No chance in heaven or hell. She refused to think about it. He’d done the right thing. Let her go. Seen what he wanted to see—the moon-star burned into her skin—and retreated. Which meant all the terrible what-ifs needed to stay the hell out of her head. Dwelling on the past served no purpose. Well, other than to distract her, which was nowhere near advisable. Not with Henrik armed and acting dangerous. The thought prompted another, forcing to her to circle back to her alternatives.

Attacking Henrik again wasn’t a good idea. No real option at all. Particularly since she wanted to keep her weapons where they were . . . in her own hands.

And the second possibility?

Cosmina’s focus split. Half her attention on Henrik, her gaze strayed to the stained glass circling the base of the dome. Dread coiled in the pit of her stomach, making her insides hurt. Fighting the internal burn, she chewed on the inside of her lip and faced the facts. Forget option number two. It wasn’t viable either. She refused to turn tail and run.

Not while duty called and her conscience squawked.

The moon hastened its ascent into the night sky, throwing illumination through the high windows. Stained glass glowed, sending color spilling onto the mosaic tiles below. The sight jabbed at her, reminding her of her promise to the Goddess of All Things.

Rise and return, child. The future rests with you.

Cosmina’s chest went tight. She couldn’t fail. Must at least try to fulfill her duty and keep her word. Otherwise she was nothing but a liar and a cheat. Naught but a shell of the girl she’d once been—the one who’d braved the wildness after being turned out of White Temple to face the world alone. So forget fear. Let it all go. She must cling to faith, stay the course, and . . . get moving. The Chamber of Whispers lay just behind her, hidden behind a thick wall covered in ancient carvings. One keyhole away from disabling the lock and watching the heavy door slide open.

With a nod, she dragged her attention from the windows. Her gaze landed on Henrik. Tall and strong, he was a wide-shouldered, hard-bodied dream. So blasted handsome with his dark hair and hazel eyes. Lethal allure wrapped in aristocratic features. Not that she was noticing his appeal. Nay. She pursed her lips. Certainly not. ’Twas more of an examination, a way of weighing his character while deciding how best to proceed without angering him.

Or making him turn and come after her again.

Not the least bit desirable. She didn’t want his hands on her again.

The thought made her shiver, tightening muscles over her bones. Shoving aside her rising panic, Cosmina rolled her shoulders to ease the tension and glanced down. The round key bumped against the front of her tunic. She exhaled long and slow. Still there. Her scuffle with Henrik hadn’t broken the chain. Thank the gods. Her foresight too. Putting the key on a necklace—keeping it with her always—had just paid off.

Footfalls quiet, mind racing to come up with a solid plan, Cosmina shifted behind her would-be protector. She stifled a snort. Protector . Right. Henrik didn’t want the role. ’Twas evident in the way he tensed as she moved, aware of her but unwilling to take his gaze from the wide expanse of the rotunda. Another round of unease rolled through her. Not good. For a man like him to turn his back on an armed stranger signaled serious trouble—the kind no sane person wanted. He’d said something about Al Pacii by way of explanation. Possible. Even so, she wasn’t sure she believed him.

The Order of Assassins never came out into the open. They were a legendary league. Trained killers without conscience or mercy. A group that operated in the dark places most refused to tread. Ordinary folk never saw them—not coming or going. Rumor held only those marked for death ever looked an Al Pacii assassin in the eye. And then, never for very long before he became a bloody corpse.

Which posed a problem of another sort, didn’t it?

If Henrik spoke true, the assassins had entered White Temple for a reason. On the eve of the winter solstice, a time of great importance to the Order of Orm. A coincidence? Cosmina’s hands flexed around her dagger hilts. She didn’t think so. The timing didn’t bode well. Not for her.

Nor for the man who’d become her impromptu shield.

Instincts screaming a warning, Cosmina sidestepped again. The shift improved her view. She caught movement near the mouth of High Temple. Men dressed in black and armed to the teeth crept under the massive archway. Disquiet ramped into full-blown fear. Her breath caught while her mind yelled . . . run! Cosmina stood her ground instead, all her focus leveled on the fighting force slithering into the rotunda. How many, she didn’t know. She couldn’t get an accurate count in the gloom as the enemy spread out to cover more ground.

A smart move.

Splitting into smaller groups increased their advantage, allowing the assassins multiple points of attack . . . while cutting off access to the only exit.

Alarm picked up her heart, slamming it against her breastbone. “Henrik, mayhap—”

“Quiet.” His hushed tone rang with authority, pricking her skin until the hair on her nape stood on end. A fine tremor rippled through her. Knife tips quivering, Cosmina widened her stance. Henrik turned his head, giving her his profile. Bow drawn tight, chin even with his shoulder, he glanced at her from the corner of his eye. “Stay true, iubita . Be strong for me. I’ll get you out.”

Cosmina blinked. Iubita ? Really? The gall of the man, trying to soothe her with an endearment . . . and a misplaced one at that. Her eyes narrowed on him. “Don’t call me ‘sweetheart.’”

“It suits you.”

“Does not.”

“Would you prefer hellion?” Hazel-gold eyes flashed in amusement, making her tingle, before his gaze left her. His muscles flexed, rippling in warning. Hands steady on his weapon, he swiveled and faced forward once more. “Then again, mayhap vrăjitoare fits you better.”