Coreene Callahan - Knight Avenged

Dying to get out.

The mere hint of battle—the pleasure of drawing his blades—always had the same effect. It invigorated him. Cranked the tension tight. Shoved the past back into the box where it belonged, allowing him to stay in the here and now. Except . . .

The usual wasn’t working today.

No matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t put the last few days behind him. His mind remained fixed on Cosmina. On the way he’d left her. On the note and what it contained. On the hurt he imagined flaring in her eyes when she read it. Goddamn it. Not good. He was a bastard for doing that to her. For not making a clean break. For leaving her with the knowledge that she meant more to him than a fast fling over a few days.

For telling her that he loved her.

He never should’ve done that. Never should have opened his heart, never mind admit how he felt about her. But it was too late. He couldn’t go back and unwrite the note. And honestly, Henrik wasn’t sure he wished to anyway. Which made him worse than a bastard. It qualified him as a first-rate fool. Acknowledging the truth, however, didn’t stop the ache. It simply made it worse. Now he throbbed with it, the pain so persistent errant urges rose to taunt him. He wanted to go back. Right now. Say to hell with it, mount up, ride off, and return to her. If only to hold her one more time.

Henrik huffed. God, he was an idiot . . . for so many reasons. Not the least of which included—

“Henrik.” Boots crunching through crusty snow, Andrei stopped alongside him. His friend threw him a measured look. “Pull your head out of your arse. We need you focused.”

True enough. “I’m good.”

Disbelief in his expression, Andrei’s gaze bore into his.

“No need to worry,” he said, meeting the death stare head-on while he lied to his friend. Andrei’s eyes narrowed. Henrik ignored the perusal and, rolling his shoulders, glanced behind him. Kazim stood at the ready, dark eyes sharp, body loose. Shay, on the other hand, took a different approach. Wet stone in hand, he sharpened one of his blades. The familiar rasp of stone against steel settled Henrik down, calming him in ways naught else could. Dragging his gaze from his comrades, he met Andrei’s. “We all set?”

“The horses are ready.”

Henrik nodded and went over the plan one more time. Pictured the terrain in his mind’s eye. Thought about each move. Visualized how Halál would react and marshal his assassins when he realized the horses galloped into the bottleneck on the narrow trail. By then, it would be too late. Henrik would already be in position, at the enemies flank, weapons drawn, lethal at the ready while Xavian moved in from the opposite direction. Tareek and the other dragons would seal the deal, cutting off any chance of Druinguari retreat.

A good plan. One that would get him what he most wanted . . .

Halál dead. And the Druinguari six feet under alongside him.

“Just so you know . . .” Henrik paused to check his blades one more time. Staring at spruce needles half-buried in snow, he palmed individual knife hilts, sliding each from its sheath, then back in again. Steel whispered against leather. He threw Andrei a sidelong look. “When this is done, I plan to go back for her.”

“And you wish me to know this . . .” As he trailed off, Andrei raised a brow. “Why?”

Henrik shrugged. He didn’t know. Feelings weren’t his forte. Neither was admitting to having any, never mind sharing them. Years spent in isolation had taught him well. He knew the rules. Had accepted the curse of his kind long ago. Never show fear. Never surrender. Never allow anyone close enough to hurt him. All excellent entries in a belief system that kept him detached . . . out of harm’s way in the emotional realm. With Cosmina, though, he didn’t want to keep his distance. Instinct urged him to get closer instead. To claim her while opening himself up for her to do the same.

Odd in many ways. True in even more.

Which meant he couldn’t walk away. Not yet. Not until he knew for certain. He wanted to give what he felt for her a chance. The why of it didn’t matter. Happiness. Need. Desire. All took a turn, digging in, twisting him tight as hope collected inside his heart, making all the what-ifs stream into his head. What if she loved him back? What if she missed him as much as he did her? What if she forgave what he’d done and accepted him back into her arms . . . into her life?

Excellent questions. Every one of them in need of answering.

“’Tisn’t a good idea, H.”

Of course it wasn’t. Henrik glared at his friend anyway.

“I do not say this to hurt you, brother,” his friend murmured, his accent floating like a fragrance on the north wind. “There is no harm in wanting her. A dalliance is one thing, but claiming her?” Andrei paused for effect, the silence driving the point home before he shook his head. “You are chasing heartache, Henrik. She is a member of the Blessed, meant to serve at White Temple. You are one of us. Your home is Drachaven. ’Twill end badly . . . for both of you.”

Polar opposites. Black and white. Her light colliding with his dark.

Henrik didn’t care. Despite their differences, he wanted her anyway. Staring at the snow swirling between his boots, he sighed. Andrei was no doubt right. ’Twas madness to yearn for a woman he would only hurt in the end.

Thumping Andrei on the shoulder with his fist, Henrik pivoted toward the others. He met his comrades’ gazes, each one in turn. “Make it count. Show no mercy.”

“We never do,” Kazim said, his voice little more than a growl.

Shay flexed his fists. “Let’s move.”

With a nod, Henrik walked toward his mount. Ice crunched beneath his boot treads as he left the protective cove of the large spruces. The wind picked up, wiping snow across frozen turf, making branches creak and his violent nature rise. The calm he wore in battle settled around him like a winter cloak, clothing him in silent aggression. Henrik rolled his shoulders, accepting its weight, relishing the emotional chill and the absence of conscience.

His warhorse pawed the ground, snorting in greeting.

Henrik murmured back and, gripping her mane, swung into the saddle. Leather groaned. His mount shifted, muscles bunching in preparation. His need to find a fight as great as his steed’s, he set heels to his horse’s flanks. She leapt forward, strides lengthening, hooves cracking through the underbrush toward the trail beyond the forest’s edge. His comrades behind him, Henrik wheeled around a huge oak, then caught air, jumping over a fallen log. His warhorse landed in the middle of the pathway.

Sharp sound rippled, cracking through the quiet. With a quick flick of the reins, he turned his mount west. It wouldn’t be long now. Gorgon Pass, and the low bluffs rising on either side of the trail, lay just ahead. One more bend in the narrow roadway. A single straightaway, and he’d be in the monster’s throat. No turning back. Little chance of retreat. Weapons drawn for one purpose . . .

Killing the man—minion, beast, bastard turned Druinguari, whatever—responsible for a lifetime of pain. Which meant the more noise he made on approach, the better.

Stealth wasn’t part of the plan. He wanted Halál to hear him coming. Needed his former sensei to make assumptions. Leap to the wrong conclusion. Believe he had Henrik beat so the Druinguari committed to the ambush and entered the canyon. The instant the enemy put boots on the ground, Henrik would make each and every one of them pay. Game over. No mercy. Just death as he brought an end to Halál and those who served him.

Urging his mount to greater speed, Henrik rounded the bend and reached out with his mind. “Tareek, where are you?”