Knight Awakened (Circle of Seven #1)

by Coreene Callahan

  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—

  Xavian cleared his throat. He raised a brow, throwing her a strange look. She glanced away, unable to look him in the eye. If she did, he might see the yearning she kept buried in her heart and believe he was the reason.

  CHAPTER NINE

  “I am glad he brought you to me.”

  Busy watching Xavian’s retreat, the softly spoken comment threw Afina. The door closed with a thunk, leaving her inside with his lover and him out of bashing range. She glared at the wooden planks, resisting the urge to stomp her feet like a child, and tossed Sherene a look that said she was insane. Unhinged. Totally
deranged. What other explanation could there be? The welcome she extended must be contrived. No woman worth her salt would accept a rival with so much warmth.

  Sherene raised both hands, flipping them palms up. “Truly.”

  Afina’s eyes narrowed.

  “And before you ask,” she said, lips twitching, a gleam in her dark eyes. “No, we are not.”

  “Not what?” Afina asked, hurling another imaginary fireball at the door. Too bad she couldn’t conjure a real one. Maybe if she could, the flames would eat through the wood and singe the dolt no doubt standing guard on the other side.

  “Lovers.”

  The admission whipped Afina’s head around. She stared at Sherene, mouth wide open. “But you seemed so...Then he was, well...You’re not...really?”

  “Yes, really.” Picking up a measuring tape from inside a metal tin, Sherene fiddled with the leather end, winding the strip around her index finger. “Although there was a time I would not have said no to Xavian, I am grateful he pushed me in Ivan’s direction instead.”

  “Who?”

  “My husband.” Sherene’s mouth curved up at the corners. “For almost a year now.”

  “Oh. I...Forgive me,” Afina said, combating the heat in her face.

  “It is nothing.” Sherene waved her hand, brushing the apology along with her awkwardness aside. “It is good you feel as you do. Your possessiveness shows you have spirit. A necessary thing when dealing with bullheaded men. No?”

  Spirit...as in courage? No, not really.

  Bianca had been the one with cartloads of courage, leading the way, making all the difficult decisions. A little like Sherene in some ways. Afina chewed the inside of her lip, wishing she’d inherited some of those traits. Then again, boldness had never been an option with her mother, and dreaming didn’t make things so.

  “Truthfully,” she said, feeling as much a toadstool next to Sherene as she had with her sister, “I haven’t the first idea about men or how to deal with them.”

  “You will learn, as I did.” Her head tilted, the seamstress stopped in front of Afina. A soft expression on her face, she reached out and brushed golden strands from Sabine’s brow. Afina’s daughter sighed and put her thumb back to work, and Sherene smiled. “She is beautiful, your little one.”

  With a murmured “thank you,” Afina kissed the top of her cherub’s head. Silence stretched and time expanded as she stood with Sherene. Unmoving. Content in the moment to watch her daughter fall into slumber as the fire cracked and a plan formed. A good one, and with Xavian gone? Out of sight. Out of earshot. Out of mind.

  Now presented the best chance for escape.

  Nodding to the seamstress, Afina skirted a pile of linen and headed for the nearest shelf. Implements of all kinds lay scattered on the wooden surface: wood and metal, round and straight, short and long, sharp and dull. There seemed an unending supply, but what held her attention most were thin strips of trim on the shelf below them. If she could manage to—

  “Mistress?”

  Afina glanced over her shoulder, half turning toward the door. A dark-haired girl stood on the threshold, a wooden platter in her hands. The scent of honeyed biscuits and apples drifted into the chamber, pulling her gaze to the pitcher and two glasses sitting on the tray. Sweet cider. Thank the goddess. It was just want she needed, even better than what she’d planned.

  “Ah, Basima. Good,” Sherene said, waving the girl into the chamber, toward the work surface in the center of the room. “You may place our refreshment on the table and go. I will not require your aid with Lady Afina.”

  Lady?

  Afina almost sighed. The title sounded so good with her name. A little taste of respect and home; one that had been denied her for two very long years. But she couldn’t allow the assumption to go uncontested. Part of her disguise required she pass as a commoner. Having everyone believe she held no importance above her healing skills kept Vladimir from picking up her scent. But Xavian knew. Somehow he knew the swine hunted her—his demand that she tell him why while they had argued in the dell made that all too clear.

  She frowned at the coiled measuring tapes. How did he know the bastard was after her? Had Vladimir’s frustration boiled over, causing him to make her disappearance public knowledge?

  She examined the possibility then discarded the idea. News traveled fast, and the fact Transylvania’s new high priestess was not where she needed to be would have started the gossip hounds howling and a widespread search. With merchants and laymen moving from village to village, word would have reached her by now...forewarned her of the increased threat.

  No such warning had come.

  Not a murmur from her enemy, even though Afina knew he still searched for her. The swine would never give up. He couldn’t claim the throne or the Transylvanian coffers without her.

  So the bigger question became...what was Xavian’s objective?

  Afina played with a thimble, scraping her nail against its stippled edge as she examined all the facts. The puzzle pieces slowly came together, and with a curse, she tossed the trinket onto the shelf. Xavian knew because he was involved. Had somehow gained inside information. The kind that could only come from Vladimir.

  By the goddess, she was an imbecile. How could she have missed that?

  Distraction was no excuse, exhaustion less so. No matter how tired of running, she should never have stayed so long in Severin. Foolish and weak, and a whole host of other—

  “My lady?”

  “Do not call me that, Sherene,” she said, her voice so low she barely recognized it. On a slow spin, Afina turned into the room, determined to throw the woman off her trail. “I am no lady.”

  “You are.” Sherene’s gaze narrowed while speculation played across her face. “I am accustomed to dealing with the wealthy and titled. Though you may not look it, I know you belong in that circle. It is in the way you hold yourself...in your manner and speech.”

  “You are mistaken. I but mimic my betters, no more.”

  “You will need to do better than that if you wish to fool me—or Xavian, for that matter.” The seamstress shook her head, her voice even as though she instructed a child. “He does not tolerate lies. But I suspect you are already aware of his fondness for honesty.”

  Right. Honesty. Afina curled her hand into a fist. Xavian...the dishonest cheat. And he had the gall to call her a liar? “He lies as much as any.”

  “Now you are the one mistaken, fetita. I know him,” Sherene said, her quiet tone undercut with steel and just as sharp as she called Afina little girl. “Like my Ivan, he has endured much for very little in return. Too many lies, too much death. Truth is the only thing his kind trusts. Give him that, and his loyalty has no end. If you do not? He will cut you to the quick and leave you where you lie.”

  His kind. What did that mean? And why did she care?

  She shouldn’t, but Afina wanted to ask anyway. To delve into why Sherene spoke as though her husband and Xavian were a breed apart, a dangerous one. But anger stopped her. She didn’t want to know any more about him or his kind. She knew all she needed to. The lying, two-faced jackal was in league with her enemy. He held her life in the balance, playing cat to her mouse.

  And goddess keep her. She’d slept with him. Made love to him while the entire time he intended to do her harm. Her stomach rolled, wanting to heave. She swallowed the burn and turned her attention back to Sherene. The sooner they finished, the sooner she could flee. Time wasn’t on her side. Xavian wouldn’t stay outside long, and she refused to be anywhere near Sherene and her shop when he came to collect her.

  “Do you need to measure me?”

  “Only for length.” Sherene’s dark eyes narrowed on her face.

  Afina wiped her expression clean, refusing to give away her plan. Or the advantage. No matter how nice, Sherene wasn’t her ally. The moment the seamstress guessed her intent, she’d run straight to Xavian.

  Loosening the strap at her shoulder, Afina asked, “Where may I put
Sabine?”

  “There.” A frown puckering her brow, Sherene searched Afina’s face as she pointed to a pile of linen beside the hearth. “She will be safe enough while I see to your fitting. I have ones ready made that should suit.”

  Afina nodded, grateful for Sherene’s efficiency and, flipping the sling’s strap over her head, set Sabine down gently on the makeshift bed. As she arranged the dark wool around her daughter she tamped down her guilt. What she planned wasn’t wrong. Unkind, mayhap, but not wrong. Sherene didn’t deserve it, but Xavian did. He’d taken her against her will—scared her half to death in her own home—for the bastard who stalked her. No doubt for a wagonload of coin.

  The fact she intended to take the warm clothes and run before he came back didn’t qualify as dishonest. It was simply fair play. Well earned, and not half of what he deserved.

  Straightening away from Sabine, she moved toward the refreshments as Sherene flipped open the lid of a large trunk in the far corner of the chamber. As the seamstress rooted through the contents, Afina palmed a small vial from her healing satchel before lifting it over her head. She propped the leather bag against the table leg, sent a silent prayer heavenward, and asked, “May I pour you some cider, mistress?”

  “Yes, please do.” Head half buried in the trunk, Sherene’s elbows bobbed as she dug, tossing fabric hither and yon. “We will partake before I fit you.”

  Thank the goddess. Had Sherene refused she didn’t know what she would have...Well, it didn’t bear thinking about.

  A slight tremor in her hands, Afina poured two cups of sweet cider and threw a quick glance in Sherene’s direction. Still elbow deep in the trunk, the seamstress mumbled, eliminating one gown after another, giving Afina time to wiggle the vial’s stopper free. Her conscience reared its ugly head. She shoved it back down. The seriousness of the circumstance dictated the path. Sabine needed her to be strong. Bianca, bless her soul, was counting on her, along with the Transylvanian people.