Desire licked through him.
He put a leash on the errant urges and clung to self-discipline. To hell with his reaction to her. He was stronger—more experienced—than that. No way would he allow baser needs to get in the way. Answers. He wanted some. Right now. Needed to see the mark and confirm her status without a shadow of a doubt. But as he shoved at the linen, pushing it up her torso—uncovering the incredible curve of her waist, the fine indent of her rib cage, seeing goose bumps spread on her skin—Henrik struggled to control his lust. All of a sudden he wanted to touch, to taste, to slip between her thighs and find the heart of her, instead of discovering the truth.
Dumb. Reprehensible. So wrong in every way.
And yet, he refused to stop. Or let her go.
Another shove. The linen rose another six inches, catching beneath her arms. She twisted, quivering with fear, raging beneath him, revealing the side of her breast. Henrik blew out a long, slow breath. Call him a wretch, then call it a night, ’cause . . . God. She was beautiful. All smooth skin, tempting curves, the taut curve of her breast so enticing, his imagination took flight and filled in the blanks, supplying an image of her in his bed. Bowed in supplication beneath him. Legs spread and lips parted as she begged for his possession.
Henrik cursed. Wrong thought. Again.
“You bastard.”
Without a doubt. He qualified as the worst sort. But as he uncovered the expanse between her shoulder blades, Henrik knew he’d taken the correct tack. Been right to check because—aye, there it was—the moon-star, the symbol of the Goddess of All Things burned into her back. Literally. Unlike him, she hadn’t been born with the mark. Hers had been seared into her skin the moment she’d been born inside White Temple.
Just another in a long line of the goddess’ mindless servants.
“Goddamn it,” he growled, brushing his thumb over the raised patch of scarred skin. He shook his head. Of all the horrible luck. “A Blessed.”
The growl in his tone made her shiver. “Please let me go.”
Her quiet tone pierced through his disappointment, then sank deep to touch his heart. His grip on her gentled, but he couldn’t do what she asked. Not yet. Not with the past circling like a rabid dog, reminding him of his mother. Of her cruelty and all the abuse he’d suffered inside these walls. God, how he despised this place. Hated everything about it. The exquisite expanse of mosaic floors. The intricate pictographs carved into its stone walls. The golden dome rising over the rotunda’s center. Some might have called the chamber beautiful. Mayhap it was, but only on the surface. Ugliness seethed beneath, infecting White Temple’s underbelly, heralding a brutal history that couldn’t be ignored, forgotten . . .
Or forgiven.
“H, wrap it up,” Andrei said from his position behind a pillar. “Company’s coming.”
The reminder brought Henrik’s head up.
The rasp of multiple footfalls drifted into the chamber.
His focus snapped to the rear of the rotunda. Gathering the gloom, Henrik wrapped himself and the woman in magical swirl. She shivered, reacting to the chill that always accompanied the veil of invisibility. As the air thickened and his exhale frosted into white puffs, a man-size silhouette crept into view. Others followed, one by one. More than twenty strong, the enemy assassins crossed the threshold, slipping beneath the archway that served as High Temple’s only entrance. Its only exit point too. Henrik growled in appreciation. Absolutely fantastic. Perfect in every way. Except for one thing . . .
The woman still pinned beneath him.
Some men would’ve said the hell with it and let her go. Turned away and left her to fend for herself in the face of the coming onslaught. Henrik couldn’t do it. Aye, she might be a member of an Order he despised, but he refused to abandon her to Al Pacii. Instead, he would do his duty. Get her to safety. See that she got outside the city walls in one piece before sending her on her way.
“Please.” Harried breaths coming in icy bursts, another tremor rattled through her. “Let go.”
Smoothing her shirt back into place, Henrik covered her up. Groin pressed to her bottom, he leaned in close. The wall of his chest met the curve of her spine. She tensed. He set his mouth against her ear. “Listen very carefully, Blessed. I will let you go on one condition.”
“W-what?”
“You must do what I say, when I say it,” he said, so low only she heard the instructions. “Otherwise you will not make it out of the temple alive. Understood?”
She hesitated a moment. “Who’s here?”
“Al Pacii assassins.”
“I need my knives.”
“Pick up your blades, then stand at my back.”
Her chin dipped as she nodded.
Releasing her wrists, he tightened the veil of invisibility around her. The temperature dropped another few degrees. She shivered in the growing chill, but even as he regretted her discomfort, he held the line. The cold was a necessary thing, the only way to keep her hidden without him touching her. If she obeyed and stayed close, the enemy wouldn’t see her until he lifted the veil in order to attack. As he straightened and stepped away from her, she spun to face him. Wary green eyes met his. She shuffled backward, putting more distance between them. Henrik didn’t blame her. She’d been manhandled and stripped in the space of a few minutes.
Her mistrust was only natural.
Holding her gaze, he drew the yew bow from inside his quiver of arrows. “Move when I say move. Got it, Blessed?”
“Cosmina.” Throwing him a nasty look, she sidestepped and, slipping between him and the altar, went in search of her blades. She found both near the base of the rear wall. After palming the pair, she stood and glared at him over her shoulder. “I am more than my calling, warrior.”
He arched a brow. Well, well, well. More than just a Blessed, it seemed. One with a temper to match the fire in her eyes and the color of her hair.
“Henrik,” he murmured, giving in to convention.
First names were a good idea. Comfort came with knowing. Knowing engendered trust. Both excellent things at the moment. Particularly while headed into battle with a strange woman at his back.
“Remember my instructions.” Sense crackling in warning, Henrik treated her to another no-nonsense look. “Stay close, Cosmina.”
Bow at the ready, he turned his back on her and drew a poison-tipped arrow from his quiver. He notched it and, pivoting toward the open expanse of the rotunda, pulled the bowstring taut. Wood whispered against wood. Inhaling through his nose, he caught the scent on the air. Oiled leather and wood smoke, Al Pacii calling cards. Excellent. The enemy was downwind and headed straight for him. About time too. After playing hide-and-seek inside White Temple for the last hour, he needed a fight. A brutal one in which he snapped necks and watched Al Pacii blood flow.
***
Heart hammering, stance set, Cosmina fought to steady her nerves along with her hands. She glanced at the tips of her twin blades. Both shook, following the tremor running beneath her skin. She swallowed a curse. Goddess help her, she needed to pull it together. Right now. Before she made a complete fool of herself.
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.