Knight Awakened (Circle of Seven #1)

by Coreene Callahan

  She could go on forever. The list was endless. Everyone had been taken by stealth, but more incredibly, no one seemed to mind. They all accepted Xavian and loved living at Drachaven.

  Which was insanity to the next power.

  But then, she understood it to some degree. Foolishly felt it herself. In the two weeks since her arrival, Drachaven had become home. Now if only Xavian would cooperate...

  Afina frowned, irritated all over again, and stopped in front of the back wall. Rope, coiled and tied into loose bundles, hung from metal hooks hammered into the mortar joints. She bit her bottom lip, trying to decide. The selection was mind-boggling. Leather, twine, and braided cloth ropes, thick and thin, long and short, marched like soldiers along stone: orderly, neat, ready to be used.

  Oh, goddess, what was she doing?

  Up in her bedchamber, it had seemed like a marvelous idea. Now she wasn’t so sure. Could she go through with it? Afina rubbed her fingertips with the pad of a thumb, her gaze hopping from one rope to the next. Xavian would no doubt kill her if she...But Goddess help her! She couldn’t take the distance anymore.

  She missed him so much. Missed the scent of forest musk and man and the sound of his voice. Missed his sharp intelligence and quick wit and gentle hands. But more than anything, she missed how he made her feel: strong and able and maybe even a little bit brave.

  Feeling that way felt good. So right, in fact, she refused to let it go. She’d learned something from Xavian: how to fight and take what she wanted. It was simply unfortunate—at least for him—that she was about to use the same tactics he’d taught her against him.

  Poetic justice.

  Yes, that was it. Xavian had started the battle between them. She would end it, using any means available to her...rope included. Now all she had to do was corner him.

  Chewing on the inside of her cheek, Afina examined her choices again. The braided cord made of cloth was probably the best option. The last thing she wanted to do was hurt him, and the other ropes would no doubt cut into his—

  “Priestess.”

  With a squeak, Afina swung around, her heart a tangled mess inside her chest. She put her hand over it, telling it to calm down. It paused a moment then sped up again as she spotted the intruder. Planted in the middle of the center aisle, Garren stood, arms crossed and expression intent.

  His gaze narrowed on her. “Up to no good, I see.”

  Afina swallowed. A prickle of fear shivered through her and her fingertips throbbed, her magic responding to the unspoken threat. Her body always reacted the same way whenever Garren was around. Something inside her knew he didn’t like her—would hurt her if given half a chance. Shifting a little, she widened her stance to match his, preparing for whatever he threw at her.

  “Relax, Priestess. No one needs to get hurt here.”

  His tone was lazy, unconcerned, but most of all unthreatening. Afina resented it. She hated the fact he scared her so badly. A close second on the annoying scale? He never called her by name. It was always “Priestess,” as though using anything else might cause him to forget the past and her family’s crimes.

  “I have a name, dragon,” she said, giving tit for tat. If he wanted to play rough, she would meet him and raise the stakes. She wasn’t a fragile flower. Not anymore. “And what I do is none of your concern.”

  “Itching for a fight, are you?” One corner of his mouth hitched up, he tilted his head, studying her. “Not that I blame you. Frustration will do that to a female.”

  “Go away, Garren.”

  “And what...leave you bereft? Without the benefit of my advice?”

  “I do not need your advice.”

  “Truly,” he said, raising a dark brow. Afina curled her hands into fists, fighting the urge to yank the offending eyebrow back down. “You are not doing very well on your own and...I am good at tying knots.”

  Afina blinked, surprise momentarily lowering her guard. “How—”

  “It is written all over your face,” he said, a spark of amusement in his eyes. “Of course, it doesn’t hurt that I am privy to your thoughts as well.”

  She clenched her hands so hard her fingernails bit into her palms. Wonderful. A runaway dragon with mind reading capabilities. Just what she needed. By the goddess, she wanted to hit him...just once.

  “Striking me will not solve your problem, Priestess...or bring Xavian closer.”

  “Stop it,” she said, warning in her tone. “Get out of my head, Garren.”

  “As you wish,” he murmured, dipping his chin in a mock bow.

  The pompous ass. He was a nightmare come to life. “Do you always intrude where you are unwelcome?”

  Garren shrugged. “It is a hobby...of sorts.”

  “I’m sure,” she said, her tone without bite. Closing her eyes, Afina rubbed the spot between her brows and huffed, the sound half-laugh, half-sob. She was so tired; tired of fighting with Garren, tired of chasing Xavian, tired of always being on the losing end. “All right, Garren. You’ve had your fun. Now could you please just...leave me alone.”

  His boots scraped against the limestone floor as he stepped toward her. Afina’s head snapped up. What was she doing? She knew better than to take her eyes off him. He was dangerous—a predator on the hunt—and she was nothing but an intriguing bit of prey.

  She raised her hands. Magic pulsed in her fingertips.

  Instead of charging, he stopped six feet away and held both hands, palms up and to the sides. The universal sign for “I mean no harm.” Afina studied the hard planes of his face, waiting for the trick, the ambush that would tear her apart.

  “You are in pain, Priestess,” he said, tone soft, expression without a hint of the anger he always showed her.

  “Come to gloat?”

  “No...to help.”

  “Why would you bother?” She crossed then uncrossed her arms, feeling uncomfortable in her own skin. “You hate me.”

  “Hate is too strong a word, Afina,” he said, causing her to flinch. Coming from him, her name sounded strange, like it belonged to another person. “Besides, he suffers too.”

  Afina swallowed past the lump in her throat. “Then he wouldn’t stay away.”

  Giving voice to the thought made her head ache and her heart hurt. The truth of it was terrible, like being sideswiped by a runaway horse and dragged through gravel. She was raw, completely bare, and didn’t know how to reset her defenses. Garren didn’t need to touch her to cause her pain. Like any warrior, he’d found the chinks in her armor and thrust the blade home.

  Fighting tears, she told herself to walk away before he did more damage. Her feet refused to listen, which in turn encouraged her runaway mouth, and she said, “If Xavian truly wanted me, he wouldn’t—”

  “Hristos, woman.” Garren scowled, his expression so black Afina took a step back. She bumped into the crate behind her, wobbled then reset her balance as he ran a hand through his dark hair. “That bitch really didn’t teach you a thing, did she?”

  “Not much besides pain,” she whispered, viselike pressure banding around her rib cage.

  Garren stared at her, puzzlement and uncertainty in his eyes. After a moment, the hard planes of his face relaxed, softening until she got a glimpse of the man behind the dragon. “I am going to clue you in. But if you tell him I told you...”

  A peace offering...from Garren? There must be a catch. Was he sending her into a trap; one designed for his own amusement? Afina rubbed a hand over her heart, mistrust warring with the need to know. She needed information—wanted to understand—and Garren was the closest thing she had to a mentor. He’d been there from the beginning, had known her mother, understood magic and what Afina was capable of. She would never find a better teacher.

  Swallowing her fear, she took a chance. “I won’t tell him, I swear.”

  Garren frowned and, rolling his shoulders, gave her another stern look.

  “Promise.”

  He sighed. “You and Xavian have bonded, Afina. The co
nnection is one of mind, body, heart, and soul. Once forged, it is unbreakable. You need each other. He drains the excess magic in your blood and keeps you healthy. You bring him power, increase his natural abilities, help him heal quickly, among other things. If one of you dies, the other will not survive long.”

  “But my father died when I was—”

  “He and your mother were never truly mated. The connection between them was not a strong one.” A crease between his brows, Garren scanned the assortment of rope hanging on the wall behind her. The blue streaks at his temple winked in the low light as he moved to stand alongside her, closer than he’d ever been before. Afina tensed, ready to flee when he turned and planted his shoulder against a timber post. “Xavian cannot help but want you. It is in every breath he takes...in all that he is. Whether he admits it or not, he is a bonded male now. A dangerous thing without his female. The longer he is away from you, the more aggressive and territorial he will become. Not a good thing for a male who is built that way to begin with.”

  “But he is avoiding me and I...” She paused, feeling inadequate. Talking to Garren about her lover was like airing dirty laundry: unpleasant and embarrassing. But what choice did she have? He was willing to help. She wasn’t getting anywhere on her own, and Xavian was suffering too. The thought was unbearable. “What can I do? No matter how hard I try, I cannot get close to him. Please, tell me what to do.”

  “First thing?”

  She nodded, chin bobbing, ears and heart wide open.

  “Stop thinking about tying him up. A male such as Xavian is too proud for that.”

  “But—”

  “Touch him, Afina.” Garren pushed away from the post. His massive form cast a shadow, falling over her head and shoulders as he pivoted toward the exit. “All you need do is touch him.”

  Afina huffed. “How am I supposed to do that when I cannot find him?”

  “He is in his workshop. South side of the courtyard, behind the smithy. ’Tis where he sleeps, too, so you will be comfortable enough.”

  “Thank you,” she whispered, her throat so tight she could barely force the words out. Brushing an errant tear from the corner of her eye, she reached out without thinking. As her hand touched his forearm, he went stiff. “Thank you, Garren.”

  His chin tilted down, he stared at her hand then brought his violet gaze up to meet her own. A silent understanding passed between them, a truce of sorts. Giving him a squeeze, she let him go before she overstepped her bounds. His eyes narrowed, he studied her a moment then moved off, long legs striding toward the double doors. Just before he crossed the threshold, he pivoted and tipped his chin in her direction.

  “One more thing.” One corner of his mouth curved, Garren put his large hand between his legs and cupped himself. “Touch him here, lass...with your mouth.”

  Afina’s eyes went wide as the naughty image tumbled through her mind. It hit the rocks somewhere between unlacing his trews and—

  She shook her head. Not a chance. No way she could...would...be able to—

  “Trust me,” he said, the devil in his eyes. “No male worth his salt can resist such a thing.”

  Irresistible was good. Very good, she decided as the dragon-shifter stepped into the sunshine and disappeared from view.

  The rasp of metal joined the clang of the smithy’s hammer as Xavian drew the whetstone along the blade of his carving knife. His rhythm was sure but his mind was elsewhere. Normally ’twas what he liked most about carving. It took him to another place, away from the past, out of the future, leaving him grounded in the now.

  The now, however, was presenting a problem. One with dark hair and hazel eyes and a body that—

  He needed to stop thinking about her.

  Xavian dropped his tools on the table and shucked his tunic, tossing the balled-up linen onto the chair behind him. No matter how well made, he couldn’t stand the fabric against his skin. ’Twas too soft. Reminded him too much of Afina and the silk between her thighs.

  “Hell...’tis where I am,” he muttered, testing the edge of the blade with his thumb. After a few more swipes, he set the whetstone back in its wooden box and turned to his newest sculpture.

  Three feet high by almost six feet long, the piece sat on the center table of his workshop. It was the largest he’d ever attempted, its size an exact match to the enormity of the distraction he was feeding. The room he was nursing it in should have helped. Instead it felt like a pine box; one that was already six feet under.

  Sandwiched between the curtain wall and the blacksmith’s, the large, timber-beamed structure he worked and slept in blended so seamlessly into the smithy it was difficult to find. And thank Christ for that. The stone walls and sloped roof gave him what he needed most—privacy. A scarce commodity on a good day. But essential now that Afina was flitting around the keep.

  Hell, Drachaven was his home, normally a bastion of calm in the sea of his life. Not anymore. Trying to do the right thing was tearing him apart...and he was hurting Afina in the process. He felt her pain. Could distinguish her moods better than his own—all without getting anywhere near her.

  He knew when she spent time with Sabine and his lads, her happiness a living thing that enlivened his heart and steadied his soul. The vibration changed when frustration took hold, like now, radiating until his skin prickled and his muscles tightened. Xavian shifted, discomfort a slow draw that chipped at his calm, making him want to stab something.

  He ran his free hand over the nape of his neck, pulling at tension. Christ, what a mess. Mayhap Cristobal was right. Mayhap he should be selfish and take what he wanted. The problem? Afina would suffer more with him than without him. So he ignored his friend’s prodding and stayed away, following at a distance like a lovesick lad.

  But worse than that? He was driving his staff mad: pestering Cook to make sure Afina ate enough, quizzing the maids to ensure she had enough blankets at night, prodding Mistress Kent about the new gowns he’d ordered for her, beating the snot out of his men on the practice field to ease his frustration. All this to combat the one thing he wanted most...to hold her while they talked, lazing the day away in bed.

  Xavian smoothed his hand over the half-formed carving. Made of basswood, the fine grain gleamed in the low light, its golden hue a soft stroke against his palm. When he’d placed it on the table, he’d been tempted to stand it upright and carve a person. But the only one he saw was Afina, and the last thing he needed was to see her lovely face at the start of each day.

  ’Twould send him over the edge...one he was perilously close to already.

  Raising his blade, he leaned in and made a precise cut along the block’s flank. A wood curl, about the width of his thumb, gleamed against the knife tip. It fell away and landed on the surface of the table as he twisted his wrist, ending the line. He continued on, cutting a series of grooves until a hind leg took shape and form. Next he moved onto the foot, working on the claws.

  He was doing the carving from memory, and though he’d only seen the dragons in the dark, the likeness was good. Garren would no doubt try and burn it. The man-dragon hated having his beast carved—had threatened to skin him alive when Xavian had told him why he wanted the large block. Xavian grinned. He needed to finish fast. Couldn’t wait to defend the carving. Even if he lost and the piece got roasted, the fight would give him what he craved...release.

  Blade working in quick strokes, he lost himself in the rhythm, sinking beyond his shop into another world. Moving around the table, he sculpted, defined and redefined, care in each curve and deep-set line. Just as he started on the scaled torso, a tingle swept the back of his neck. Xavian’s head came up so fast it nearly snapped off his shoulders.

  Eyes narrowed, he glanced toward the doorway. Jesu. It couldn’t be. He’d made certain she didn’t know where—

  “Xavian?” Afina’s voice drifted through the open doorway.

  The husky timbre washed over him like summer rain: warm and gentle and tempting. His body respond
ed, the traitor behind his laces hardening so fast he grabbed the edge of the tabletop to keep from doubling over. A death grip on the knife hilt, Xavian closed his eyes.

  He was in trouble. Serious—the-kind-a-man-didn’t-get-out-of—trouble.

  Panic picked up his heart and slammed it against his rib cage. He dropped the knife. As it clattered on the table, he pivoted toward the back of his shop. He needed to reach his bedchamber and the sliding panel behind his wardrobe before she touched him. Or he got a look at her.

  Escape was the only option.

  And the secret passageway concealed by the large cabinet was his best bet. It would take him into the labyrinth beneath Drachaven. Carved out of solid rock, the maze was a useful tool, one he often used to move from place to place around the castle, but never more than in the last sennight. Without it, he would never have been able to watch Afina without her knowing he was there.

  Halfway to the chamber door, Xavian heard a mad scramble behind him. He picked up his pace.

  “Xavian!” Her voice was sharp with warning. He kept going, teeth clenched, hands fisted with determination. Something crashed behind him, sounded like a wooden chair hitting the floor. “Oh, no. Don’t you dare!”

  He did and, lengthening his stride, came even with the door-jamb. The air crackled, became hot and thick, but Xavian didn’t look back. She was too close, and he was too needy. If he laid eyes on her at this range, he’d have her beneath—

  His head snapped back as he hit some sort of barrier. With a “Christ,” he stumbled back a step, searching for whatever he’d smashed into. Warped, the air in front of him waved, a shimmering undulation in midair.

  Rahat, magic. What the hell did Afina think she was doing?

  With a snarl, he swung around to face her. A sensible person would have run in the other direction when they saw his expression. Afina kept coming, hazel eyes aglow with green. He shifted left, preparing to counter her. But she was already on him, slapping her hand in the center of his bare chest, pushing him backward until his arse hit the edge of the sideboard.

  Wooden figures rattled as his shoulder blades bumped the shelves and the cupboard rocked against the wall behind it. He grabbed her wrist, desperate to get her hands off him. She resisted and, shoving him off balance, bumped his knee out to step between the spread of his thighs. Jesu, she was stronger than she looked. And now her hips were precisely where he didn’t need them—and exactly where he wanted them.