To save himself. To protect his comrades. For the goddess and the greater good.
He flexed his fingers, fisting his hand around the key. The metal dug into his palm, and Henrik swallowed a snarl. The greater good. Jesus. If only it were that simple. The end didn’t always justify the means. He knew that. And yet he’d done it anyway, cornering Cosmina, pulling the information he needed from her mind, cursing himself as she whispered his name, asking him to stop. He hadn’t listened, and that, more than anything, laid him low. Made him recoil inside even as he yearned for her forgiveness.
Another thing that would never come.
Aye, he’d been gentle. So what. Big deal. The manner of it didn’t matter. Leaving her unharmed wasn’t the point. Hurt took on many different forms, the physical kind just one of them. So nay, he didn’t deserve absolution. He had no right to ask for it and knew, beyond a shadow of doubt, Cosmina would never grant it. He’d wronged her. She would hold him accountable. But only if he braved her wrath and . . .
Stayed for the reckoning.
Surprisingly enough, the idea appealed to him. An angry Cosmina, after all, seemed better than the alternative: no Cosmina at all. But even as the thought chased its tail inside his head, tempting him to a dangerous degree, Henrik dismissed it. He couldn’t stay. She couldn’t come where he was going—into battle with the Druinguari—so he traced her cheek with his fingertip instead, memorizing every detail—the softness of her skin, the beauty of her face, the way she tasted along with the incredible way she fit in his arms. He lingered a moment longer, then turned away, and strode toward the table. And his weapons.
Time to go. Even less of it to waste.
The wildlife was getting restless outside.
He could tell by the pitch of his brothers-in-arms’ voices. The heavy stamp and claw of the horses’ hooves on the snowy ground too. His comrades awaited him in the clearing. Each was ready to ride, eager to fight, just five strides and one closed door away. But as Henrik strapped on the twin swords he favored and sheathed his knifes, he paused, his gaze on the piece of parchment he’d left on the tabletop. Small. Neatly folded. Ragged on one edge from being torn from the journal he liked to carry. Naught but crisp white corners and messy handwriting, an inadequate good-bye to the woman who now held his heart.
Henrik stared at the note a moment, wondering if he’d lost his mind. He shouldn’t leave it there. Should crumple the wretched thing into a ball and feed it to the fire. ’Twould be wiser, the kindest choice for Cosmina in the long run. She didn’t need to know how he felt. ’Twas the height of selfishness to leave her with the knowledge, never mind the burden.
Somehow, though, logic didn’t hold sway.
Right. Wrong. Neither mattered anymore.
In the end, it came down to one thing. An unforgivable, irrefutable fact. He didn’t want her to forget him. Needed to know she thought of him often—as often as he would her. So instead of picking up the missive and throwing it away, he unsheathed his favorite dagger—the one he carried next to his heart—set the weapon atop the parchment, then laid her necklace over both. An inadequate explanation anchored by a gift—a blade, expertly designed and exquisitely wrought, the only thing of worth he had to give. Leaving the offerings in the center of the table, he made for the exit. Flicking the handle, Henrik opened the door, and without looking back, latched it tightly behind him.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Standing in front of the fireplace wearing nothing but her rabbit-fur throw, Cosmina pulled the coverlet tighter around her. Flames licked between the logs, throwing heat into the room, warming her bare feet as the pelt settled against the nape of her neck. Soft fur against her skin—undeniable luxury, unerring comfort inside her cottage, a safe haven far from the dangers of the world. And yet, the idea of safety—of hearth and home, and all material goods she used to define it—didn’t soothe her in the usual ways. No pride for her sanctuary. No satisfaction at its warmth. Naught to ease her mind or calm the raging beat of her heart.
Unusual in and of itself.
She took great pride in her home. Loved the security it offered inside the Limwoods. The dawn of a new day, however, had changed everything, banishing neat and tidy in favor of messy and morose. And solace? Cosmina huffed. It wasn’t in the offing. Had disappeared somewhere between here and there . . . that mystical place between absolute certainty and unequaled doubt. Now safe—all things ordinary—felt thin, without their usual weight, like fine comfort cloaked in empty promises. Not surprising. Particularly since she couldn’t turn off her brain. She was too far-gone, deep in a space where it would be better to forget, but she couldn’t let go of the memories, of heart-wrenching loss, and the fact . . .
Henrik was gone.
Cosmina had known it the instant she opened her eyes. No proof to speak of. No need to look further. No reason to rouse her gift to corroborate the truth. Call it woman’s intuition. Or perhaps, a lover’s disappointment. Whatever the case, she’d just known. In the same way she knew she shouldn’t accept the dagger.
Or read the note he’d left on the table alongside it.
Unable to resist, Cosmina glanced over her shoulder. Again. For what seemed like the thousandth time. Surprise, surprise. Nothing new there. She’d been doing the same dance for the better part of an hour. Stare at the folded piece of parchment, talk herself out of picking it up, then look away. Back and forth. Yank, heave, drag—a tug-of-war without end. And yet, she hadn’t moved a muscle. Still hadn’t snatched the blasted thing off the table and hurled it into the fire. Instead she stood stock-still, gaze locked to the blaze Henrik had built before he left, while trying to ignore his damned note.
Without a great deal of success.
In truth, she was failing. Resolve slipping by the second. The treacherous need to know—to accept one last part of him—dragging her closer to the precipice and her doom.
All part of Henrik’s evil plan, no doubt.
A cunning strategist, he’d set the trap, baiting the lure with the one thing he knew she couldn’t resist . . . a blade. And not just any knife either. ’Twas his dagger. She recognized the hilt. Remembered admiring its beauty while lounging in bed with him. Most men would’ve called her interest unnatural. Not Henrik. He hadn’t balked. Had simply handed her the weapon instead—allowed her to test its weight, listened to her praise the design, and smiled when she’d balanced the blade between her fingertips and taken aim, pretending to throw it. The memory tightened her throat. Cosmina shook her head, trying not to appreciate his gift even as she itched to feel the hilt in her hand.
Treacherous, diabolical, beautiful man.
He knew just how to play her. And like it or nay, she was falling right into his trap . . . into the memories and her need to touch something of his. To hold it close. To own it so she didn’t forget, remembered him always even though he’d left her wanting, slipping out her door, walking out of her life, all without saying good-bye.
Or looking back.
“Arrogant ass,” she rasped, the hurt so thick her chest ached. “Double-damned fool.”
The name-calling should’ve helped. It didn’t. Not in the slightest. In truth, it made her feel worse. Made her feel small and restless and . . . wrong. Henrik wasn’t a fool. Wasn’t much for arrogance either. He’d been good to her, right up until the end. Cosmina swallowed past the lump in her throat, refusing to let heartache win. But it was hard. So blasted difficult. She wanted to scream at the unfairness. Let loose, release the pressure building behind her breastbone and—