Was she was capable of believing it anymore?
His suffering brought the question home. It all seemed so unfair. The goddess had protected her, yet abandoned him. All things happen for a reason. The words throbbed inside her head, making certainty rise along with something else . . . the need to soothe him. Mayhap their meeting inside High Temple had been fated. Mayhap the goddess had put her in his path to atone—to make right a wrong by sending her to help him heal the wounds of the past. Mayhap she was the only one he would allow to make a difference in his life. Stranger things happened every day, so instead of pushing for answers, Cosmina stayed still and let silence speak. Rushing him wouldn’t work. Nor would pushing him toward resolution. She waited instead, heart in hand, hope rising like a specter inside her.
He cleared his throat. “How old were you?”
“At the funeral?”
He nodded.
“Not very.” She frowned, thinking back, searching for details as she shuffled closer and settled at his side. Unable to help herself, her hand roamed over his shoulder. The caress made him sigh. Tense muscle relaxed behind her questing fingertips, and Cosmina exhaled long and slow. Gods, she loved that about him. He never shied away, always welcomed her touch, allowing her close, trusting her to be gentle with him. Gaze glued to his profile, she cupped his nape, then slid up to play in the soft strands of his hair. “Almost four, I think.”
“So young.”
“You were too.”
“I was seven,” he said, tone low and tight. A muscle twitched along his jaw as he shook his head. “When she . . .”
He trailed off. She picked up the thread, guessing at the rest. “She abandoned you, didn’t she? Gave you away, faked your death to save face and—”
“Thrust me into hell. Paid Al Pacii to take me off her hands.”
Shock made her flinch. The Order of Assassins . . . now the Druinguari. “So the creatures in the temple?”
“Former comrades. Their master . . . my old sensei,” he said, flexing his hands. “I defected from the Order along with six others months ago.”
“And now you hunt them.” It made perfect sense. Held the kind of symmetry Henrik no doubt enjoyed . . . the hunters becoming the hunted. “’Tis the reason you were at White Temple . . . tracking them.”
“Aye.”
“Did he do this to you?” Leaning forward, she set her mouth to the back of his shoulder. He winced. She kissed him again, and then again, following the raised lines across his skin. “He is responsible for your scars?”
Henrik nodded. “’Tis the crest of Al Pacii.”
“The bastard,” she said, her outrage catastrophic. “An animal in need of killing.”
“Now more than ever.” He turned to look at her, the tiniest spark of amusement in his eyes. As quick as his humor arrived, however, it faded. Shifting on the mattress, Henrik half turned, bumping her with his bent knee. As he settled sideways in front of her, he raised his hand and cupped the side of her throat. “She never wanted me, Cosmina. I was an abomination in her eyes . . . a boy in a place where males held no value. She loathed me from the moment I was born.”
“Ylenia was a fool. A cruel witch without conscience or merit,” she whispered. “I should know. She hurt me too.”
His brows collided. “How?”
“She murdered my mother to gain control of me.”
“Jesus.”
“I know.” With a shrug, she gestured to her small cottage. “As you can see, it didn’t end well.”
“What happened?”
“I saw my mother’s death before it happened, but the vision was jumbled, broken into so many pieces, I couldn’t . . . I didn’t understand.” Sad, but true. The story of her life. Always too little, too late. “By the time I figured out what it meant, ’twas over. My mother lay dead and I was locked inside the north tower.”
“She coveted your gift.”
“Aye.”
“So you escaped and found your way here?”
She shook her head. “I wish I had thought of that, but . . . nay. White Temple was my home. It was the only thing I knew, so I did the only thing I could. I rebelled and shut her out, refusing to share my visions. She meted out punishments, kept me locked in that god-awful room, forbidding me friends and visitors. What she didn’t know, however, is that I am a very good climber.”
Henrik raised a brow, asking without words.
“I left the tower room every day, climbing down from the window. Sometimes I would visit the Limwoods. Other times I would meet Simon outside the city walls.”
“The boy you thought you loved.”
“And made the mistake of bedding.”
“There are worse mistakes, Cosmina.”
“Not many. It got me banished from White Temple.”
Surprised winged across his face. “She threw you out?”
“With naught but the clothes on my back.” Henrik’s grip tightened on her as he drew a quick breath. Registering his disbelief, she shrugged, knowing her eviction from the Order had been her fault. Pure and simple. Close the book, no need to look further. Had she told Ylenia the truth instead of lying, insisting the loss of her maidenhead equaled the end of her gift, she wouldn’t have been thrown out. She’d have remained locked behind a closed door instead. “In the dead of winter.”
“Goddamned witch.” Rage gathered in Henrik’s eyes. A muscle twitched along his jaw an instant before his expression smoothed out. “I am sorry, Cosmina.”
She blinked. “Why? ’Tisn’t your fault.”
“Her blood runs in my veins.” Leaning away, his hand slid against her neck, then left her completely. “I am part of her and—”
“Don’t.” Eyes narrowed, she leveled her finger at him. “Don’t you dare compare yourself to her.”
He went stone-still, stalling mid-retreat to stare at her.
And she saw it all. His hope. His doubt. All the confusion along with his need to believe he could be something other than what blood and destiny dictated. Empathy stole through her. Outrage shoved it aside. She wouldn’t allow it. Not the comparison. Nor the hint of self-loathing she sensed in him.
“You are nothing like her,” she said, sounding fierce, feeling protective. Such a strange inclination. Henrik didn’t need her protection. He was warrior strong, a man born and bred for battle. And yet, as she held his gaze, her desire to shield him overcame her. ’Twas undeniable. Inescapable too. He needed someone on his side, and—even knowing it was unwise, naught but a temporary thing—Cosmina wanted to reassure him. “Blood is never thicker than intention. You share a lineage with her—so what? The heart and mind determine your path in life, not the blood in your veins. You are who you choose to be, Henrik. She has naught to do with that.”
“Christ, Cosmina,” he said, something akin to awe in his eyes. Reaching for her, he pulled her into his lap. She settled astride him and nestled in—breasts to chest, the inside of her thighs pressed to the outside of his, his heat snug against hers. Enthralled by the feel of him, loving his strength, she hummed as he wound her hair around his fist. A gentle tug tipped her head back. A rough nip on the underside of her chin set her ablaze, making her body throb. “You say the damnedest things.”
“All part of my charm.”
He grinned against the side of her throat.
Both hands in his hair, she kissed him softly. “Henrik?”
“Uh-huh?”
“Again please.”
Powerful arms flexing around her, Henrik reversed their positions. Her back touched down on the mattress. He flicked over her pulse point, wetting her skin with his tongue, hips settling between her thighs. “With pleasure, iubita . . . with a great deal of pleasure.”
Gods, she hoped so.