The empty tomb with his name on it told her that much.
Which meant she should probably leave well enough alone.
Most men didn’t tolerate prying. Some became violent. Others attacked without using their fists, maiming with cruel words or, more often than not, harsh silence. She didn’t believe Henrik would do any of those things. Not to her. Not after all that had happened. No doubt a foolish conclusion, but one she held close nonetheless. She wanted to believe she meant something to him. That the way he treated her—with respect, affection, and passionate need—would pave the way to sharing. The true kind in which physical intimacy reached across boundaries, sliding into emotional connection.
A pang tightened her chest.
’Twas probably idiotic. Naught but a silly feminine urge, and yet, she refused to discount it. Or back away. She needed to know him. Wanted every scrap of his trust and interest focused on her, and her alone. True closeness arrived that way, minting memories that would last her a lifetime. Which meant she couldn’t turn from the truth. Deduction and common sense combined, telling her something more than just bad had happened to him. Her Seer’s eye expanded, calling upon her instincts. Abuse. Abandonment. Agonizing betrayal. He’d suffered all three. Its cruel delivery perpetrated by the one woman who should have protected instead of hurt him . . .
His mother. The former High Priestess of Orm.
Not surprising when she thought about it. Ylenia hadn’t been a saint. She’d been closer to the devil, possessing a terrible temper, wielding cruelty the way most women did love: with unconditional aplomb.
Watching her closely, Henrik cupped her cheek. She leaned into his touch. He hummed, caressing her skin before reversing course to tuck an errant strand of hair behind her ear. “What is it, iubita?”
She swallowed and reached for courage. Here went nothing. “I was wrong before.”
He raised a brow, asking without words.
“Remember when we met and—”
“Collided, you mean?”
She pursed her lips. “Probably more accurate.”
Amusement sparked in his eyes. “I have a slice in my favorite trews to prove it.”
“You are fortunate you have very fast reflexes,” she said, mischief in her tone as she slid her hand across his abdomen. Taut muscles tensed beneath her touch. Without mercy, she cupped him, taking liberties beneath the covers. “If you hadn’t been, I might have ruined something other than your trews.”
His breath caught as his hips curled, lifting off the mattress. She stroked him again, watched his gaze grow dark with desire, loving the feel of him hardening in her hand.
“Sweet Christ, Cosmina.” Breathing hard, he gripped her wrist and tugged, his message clear: talk first, another round of loving after. “What about how we met?”
Excellent question. An even better segue. Especially since it led exactly where she wanted to go . . . toward answers and the truth.
Drawing in a fortifying breath, Cosmina untangled her hand from his and pushed up onto one elbow. The bed creaked beneath her. The soft sound broke through the quiet as she reached out. Her palm touched down on the center of his chest. His heat bled into her fingertips, making need rise and her want more of him. The notion tugged at her, challenging her will, then whispered in her ear, urging her to forget the truth and turn toward desire. Tempting. Oh so much easier too, but she refused to be distracted. He had a secret. She needed to know, so . . . ’twas now or never. Here or not at all. So instead of shying away, she set the course, sealed her fate, and, holding his gaze, drew a gentle circle around his birthmark.
Henrik tensed beneath her hand.
She swallowed hard, but held the line. “I was wrong, Henrik . . . when I said you didn’t belong at White Temple . . . I was wrong. ’Tis your home as much as mine.”
His gaze went flat. The dangerous undercurrent swirled in his eyes a moment before he looked away.
“Please don’t,” she said.
A muscle twitched along his jaw. “Don’t what?”
“Shut me out. I’m sorry if I’m overstepping. I know I’ve no right to ask, but . . .” Chilled by his shuttered expression, Cosmina suppressed a shiver, fighting to stay calm. Emotion wouldn’t impress him. Neither would backing down now that she was neck-deep in it. He valued strength. She needed to show him some. Mayhap if she did, he would open up and let her in. Mayhap talk would lead to trust. And mayhap, just mayhap, if she got very lucky . . . he’d put the past to bed, accept the solace she offered, and gift her with the truth. “We share history. You understand my world, were a part of my home and—gods, Henrik—I remember the funeral . . . your funeral. The small white casket, the procession from High Temple, the burial at the stone crypt and . . . all the crying. It’s one of my earliest memories.”
“Christ . . . crying.” Baring his teeth, he sat up so fast Cosmina flinched.
The covers went flying. With a quick pivot, Henrik swung his legs over the side of the bed. Afraid he intended to leave, she rolled onto her knees behind him, reached out, then stopped mid-motion. She hovered a moment, her palm a hair’s breadth from him, eyes riveted to the terrible scars marring his skin, indecision rising. What should she do? Touch him or respect the stay-away message he threw off like heat and leave him alone?
’Twas a toss-up. In every way that counted.
No one worth their salt provoked Henrik. Cosmina knew it. She’d seen him in action. Had witnessed his skills in battle firsthand. Yet, for all his strength—and ability to inflict damage and dole out death—he didn’t frighten her. He made her feel safe instead. Protected. Accepted. Valued and, aye, cherished too. An odd combination, one that bridged the distance, pushing her toward him instead of away.
Her hand settled against his back. His muscles flexed as her fingertips slid, tracing the patterns that had been cut into his skin. “Henrik, you’ve naught to fear from me. I understand loss. I feel your pain. Please talk to me.”
Planting his elbows on his bent knees, he stared at the floor between his feet. After a moment, he shook his head and, eyes haunted by unwanted memories, glanced over his shoulder at her. “The crying. It’s so much bullshit, Cosmina. No one mourned for me. No one cared.”
“Not true. I mourned you. Many of the others too.”
All the Blessed had grieved the loss. Except, perhaps, the one woman who should have: his mother.
With a growled curse, he dragged his gaze from hers and faced the hearthstone once more. Flames hissed between the logs. The mobile swayed above her head, wooden pegs clicking together in the quiet, and Cosmina held her breath, waiting for him to shrug off her touch, stand up, and stride for the door. An awful twinge streaked across her chest. It felt like empathy and presented itself as pain, tightening her throat with the threat of tears.
Poor Henrik. Blast and damn the Goddess of All Things.
She’d placed the sacred mark upon Henrik’s chest, then abandoned him to a woman without a maternal bone in her body. ’Twas the worst sort of betrayal. One Cosmina didn’t understand. The goddess had been naught but generous with her—providing protection, seeing her through the tough times, visiting her in dreams to bring her comfort—so why not do the same for Henrik? A man branded with the symbol of the Order of Orm. It didn’t make sense, but even as she acknowledged the dichotomy in the deity’s actions, Cosmina knew there must be a good reason. The goddess was nothing if not precise. All things happened for a reason. The maxim was the Blessed’s motto, one she accepted wholeheartedly. And yet as she bore witness to Henrik’s pain, Cosmina wondered . . .