“Here. Right here.” A callused hand cupped her face. Awareness sparked, thrumming to life as a strange current rose. The contact prickled over her skin, easing her aches, dimming the pain, chasing her chill away. She sighed in gratitude. So good. He felt so good, like sinking into the soothing water of the hot spring not far from her home. Turning toward him instead of away, she pressed her cheek into his palm. “Don’t move, Cosmina. Lay still. I need to check you. Your arm—”
“I’m cold,” she said, her voice whisper thin.
“Understandable. You’ve lost a lot of blood.” With a gentle touch, he examined the gash on the side of her head. “You need stitches. The arrow needs to come out too. Andrei, bring the kit.”
Cosmina blinked, a slow up and down. The arrow? “What arrow?”
“The one in your arm.”
“I don’t feel it.”
“You’re in shock, iubita. Hold still. It’ll be out soon.”
Uh-huh. All right. He would see to it. Wonderful. Especially since she was now floating, adrift in a stream of soft sensation—no pain to speak of, just the gentle rush of his hands on her skin.
Footfalls sounded beside her. The chill in the room stirred, brushing over her temple. Cosmina twitched, reacting to the unexpected rush of cold air.
“’Tis only Andrei, Cosmina,” Henrik murmured, reassuring her. “Shay is right behind you.”
“Your men?” she asked.
“His brothers,” the man behind her said, his tone touched by the shades of youth.
Something flapped open. A satchel, mayhap?
“Tiens, Henrik. Hold this.” Andrei settled beside her, brushing her boot. “The witch hazel tonic?”
Senses attuned to him, she perceived Henrik’s nod. “The wound needs to be cleaned.”
Cosmina grimaced. Witch hazel tonic. Gods, that was going to sting. But as Henrik helped her curl onto her side, she didn’t resist. He was right. If the wound went untreated, infection would set in. And honestly, more pain was the last thing she needed. So instead of arguing, she followed Henrik’s instructions to the letter—refusing to complain, gritting her teeth, and cursing under her breath when he examined her arm and the arrow shaft.
The sound of a knife leaving its sheath broke through the quiet.
Years of mistrust reared, pushing panic to the surface. Unable to fight it, Cosmina squirmed beneath Henrik’s hold. She wanted to escape the warriors and return to what she knew. To the familiar stone cottage sheltered inside the Limwoods, the forest not far from White Temple. Safe. Secure. Untouched by the outside world.
Her home for the last five years.
The image settled her, helping her stay still as Henrik’s grip tightened. Tone soft, he talked to her, asking her to trust him. Trust. It seemed like an abstract term, one that felt unfamiliar. She sank into it anyway, and exhaling long and slow, surrendered to the moment and the certainty Henrik would keep his word.
Steel cracked against wood.
Her arms jerked. The fletched end of the arrow flew up, feathered edges flicking at her cheek. Cosmina bit down on a scream. A soft cry escaped in its place, expanding through the quiet. Henrik cursed, but didn’t relent. Grip firm, he held her down as Andrei grabbed the arrowhead. Someone whispered an apology. Henrik? Andrei? Shay? She didn’t know. Didn’t care much either. Not while the pain increased and—
“Forgive me,” Henrik said, voice edged with regret. “Now, Andrei.”
With a smooth draw, the Frenchman pulled on the arrow. Wood dragged through muscle, past bone, tearing her skin. The excruciating slide arched her spine. Clenching her teeth, Cosmina struggled, whimpers clogging the back of her throat. A cacophony of curses rose in the wake of her outburst. She barely noticed. Didn’t care about the trio’s remorse either. Fighting the lockdown, she scrambled in full retreat, holding tears at bay.
Don’t cry. Do not cry.
She couldn’t stomach the vulnerability. Her reaction was silly. It shouldn’t matter if she wept. But somehow standing strong, proving her toughness in the face of adversity, had taken precedence over circumstance. And as her arm throbbed and pain clawed over her shoulder, pride stepped into the void. She needed to save face. To prove to herself that she could handle anything.
Tough as nails.
She’d always been that way. But even as she clenched her teeth and told herself to hold the line, tears escaped. The droplets rolled over her temples. And in the moment, she knew it was over. She’d failed. Fallen hard. Lost track of herself along with the magic. Now she was more than just vulnerable, she was weak. Something she couldn’t abide. Something a man never respected. Which left her more than helpless. It left her alone in a place where Henrik possessed all the power and she held none.
CHAPTER SEVEN
With a muttered curse, Henrik watched the blood well on Cosmina’s pale skin. Flowing unchecked now, it soaked her shirt, running down to pool in the V of her elbow joint. The sight tightened his chest. His heart went overboard, splashed down, and hit hard. Sympathy spilled through the cracks in his ultra-thick guard. His eyes on her face, he talked to her, his voice soft, his tone even and sure. The soothing words didn’t help. She was too far gone, deep in shock now, shaking so hard her teeth chattered and . . .
He couldn’t stand it. Hated to see her suffer, never mind watch her cry.
But as her tears fell, rolling over her temples, regret sank deep. The urge to shove Andrei aside, pick her up, and hold on hard ripped through him. Henrik gritted his teeth. A witless reaction. Not the least bit productive either, but . . . Christ. He didn’t like any of it. Not the look of her injury. Not the weakness Cosmina now displayed. Nor her gasps of pain. All necessary, he knew. The arrow needed to come out, and the wound tended. Pain walked hand in hand with the procedure. But God, it was hard not to howl at the unfairness as he held her down and allowed Andrei to do his work.
Goddamn bastards. The Order of Assassins had no shame. No code. Or honor.
The truth shouldn’t surprise him, but somehow it did. Al Pacii didn’t waste energy on the insignificant. Slip in. Hit hard. Sneak out with leaving a trace. ’Twas always the objective. No need to waste time on those not marked for death. Which prompted a serious question: Why target Cosmina? Halál’s arrow had flown straight and true. No mistake about the intent or the bastard’s mission. The leader of Al Pacii stood inside White Temple for a reason. A deliberate one. Instinct told him it had everything to do with Cosmina and—
“Andrei. Hurry the hell up.” Worry in his eyes, Shay met his gaze, and Henrik understood. The young assassin might be deadly, but the time with Al Pacii hadn’t damaged his heart. He didn’t like seeing a woman hurt anymore than Henrik. “You’re hurting her.”
“It cannot be helped.” With a scowl, Andrei twisted the arrow shaft, pulling gently.
Cosmina grimaced. More tears fell, streaking over her temple.
Shay growled an obscenity.
“There are small barbs on the arrow shaft, Shay,” Henrik said, his throat tight and voice even. How he managed to sound normal, he didn’t know. Especially while watching Cosmina suffer. Christ, the sight made him want to unsheathe his blades and maim someone. “If he pulls too fast, he’ll damage the muscle.”
“Henrik . . .” Lashes spiked by tears, eyes shut tight, Cosmina shifted in his grasp.
“Almost done, Cosmina.” His focus strayed back to her face. God, she was pale . . . far too pale. Holding her down with one hand, he cupped her cheek with the other. Desperate to calm her, he caressed her, tracing the rise of her cheekbone with the pad of his thumb. His touch settled her. With a choppy exhale, she turned her face into his touch. Her faith laid him low. Split him wide open. Such acceptance. So much trust. More than he would’ve been able to give had the circumstances been reversed. “Hold tight, iubita . . . just a bit longer.”