She needed him more than her own heartbeat.
Druinguari blood dripping from his blades, Henrik turned toward her. Expression set in fierce lines, his intense hazel-gold eyes met hers. And just like that the barriers between them fell away. Aye, she ought to be angry with him. Should no doubt make him pay for abandoning her the way he had, but as relief sparked in his eyes, the past ceased to matter. He was here now. She wanted him forever. So to hell with doubt. Say good-bye to her pride. She refused to deny her love, so instead of turning away, she held his gaze and sprang to her feet. Not wasting a second, she sprinted down the steps toward him.
No one moved. White Temple didn’t even breathe.
Her footfalls rang across the courtyard.
Henrik murmured her name and, sheathing his swords, reached for her. Cosmina didn’t hesitate. Not for a moment. She ran straight into his arms, feeling as though she’d finally come home as she settled in and Henrik hugged her tight.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Silence settled like a net, blanketing the courtyard in front of High Temple. Déjà vu. Kismet. Call it whatever the situation warranted. The title didn’t matter. Neither did the fact it always came down to this—him and White Temple, going head to head and heart to heart. But not this time. Henrik’s mouth curved. Aye, not this time. Right now, he was exactly where he wanted to be—
In Cosmina’s embrace. His heart pressed against hers.
Stifling a shiver, Henrik struggled to hold on—to distill the violent rush of bloodlust and slow the beat of his heart. It refused to listen, hammering the inside of his chest as he pulled Cosmina closer. A kind of sacrilege, actually. He shouldn’t be holding her while the urge to kill still gripped him. He stank of death. Wore the scent like the predator he was and would always be. So aye, he should release her—long enough at least to get himself under control. But even as the thought surfaced, the needy bastard inside him rose, refusing to unlock his arms and let her go. He needed the contact. Craved her heat and the acceptance. Which left him flailing, unable to turn away until he knew for sure she was all right.
Asking her was no doubt the best tack to take.
Too bad he couldn’t find his voice.
Christ, she’d scared the hell out of him. It had been so close. Too damned close. A moment later—a split second more—and Cosmina would be dead. Lying in a pool of her own blood. Sacrificed on the steps of High Temple. An arrow in her back, her heart no longer beating. The image made him draw a shaky breath. The reality of how lucky he’d been made him thank God. It could’ve gone the other way so easily. Could’ve ended in sorrow instead of . . .
Cupping the back of her head, Henrik pressed his face into her hair. “Cosmina.”
“I’m all right, but, please, not yet . . .” she whispered against his throat. He shifted in her embrace, wanting to see her face. Her grip on the back of his tunic tightened. “I’m not ready to let go of you yet.”
Fine by him. He wasn’t anywhere near ready either. “Not to worry, iubita. We can stay here as long as you like.”
“Are they g-gone? Are they all . . .” She shivered against him. “Gone?”
“Aye.”
True. One hundred percent accurate. Henrik scanned the terrain over the top of her head anyway, looking for danger where he knew none existed. Proof ran in rivulets on the cobblestones, finding the cracks, marring the face of colorful mosaic tiles. Druinguari blood—black as pitch, evil as sin. He stared at it a moment, then turned the dial, fine-tuning his senses, wanting to make sure. Nay. Nothing to be worried about. The Druinguari who had invaded the holy city were dead. The absence of vibration between his temples told him so. The stillness creeping across the square confirmed it.
None remained inside White Temple. He’d killed them all to keep her safe.
“Henrik?”
“Aye, love?”
“Is Nairobi all right?” Another shiver racked her. Running his hands over her shoulders, he drew gentle circles down her back, absorbing her chill, sharing his body heat, providing the kind of comfort she gave him all the time. “I don’t know how badly she is hurt. The beast hit her, Henrik. He hit her. Now she’s—”
“Being well tended.”
Cosmina frowned against the side of his throat. “By whom?”
“Cristobal.”
Pressing a kiss to her temple, Henrik gave her a gentle squeeze. He didn’t want her to worry. Nairobi was in good hands. And Cristobal? Well now, his friend was in fine form. Without lifting his chin from atop her head, Henrik glanced across the courtyard. His mouth curved. Halfway up the fluted staircase, his friend didn’t notice his perusal. Crouched in front of Nairobi—hands busy, body tense, healing satchel open on the step beside him—Cristobal was too busy playing knight in shining armor to the damsel in distress.
Odd in more ways than one.
Particularly since Andrei usually handled injuries in the aftermath.
Blowing out a shaky breath, Cosmina uncurled her fingers from his tunic and lifted her head. Her hands slid over his arms, making pleasure hum and yearning rise. Christ, he wanted her. More now than ever, but instead of picking her up and carting her off, he clung to self-control. She needed time to calm down. So did he. But as she set her hands, palms flat, against the wall of his chest, he almost lost it. The heat of her touch. The beauty of her scent. All her lithe curves pressed to him sent him sideways, tearing apart patience, making his restraint falter.
He murmured her name.
Tipping her chin up, she met his gaze. The chaos in her eyes set him straight, shoving desire aside. Jesus. He didn’t like that look. It contained so much doubt, as though she’d lost her footing along with her bearings. Henrik frowned, wondering for a moment if her uncertainty was somehow his fault. His leaving hadn’t been kind. Aye, he’d left the note but . . . hell. It didn’t mean much. Not here. Not now while he tried to get closer and . . .
She backpedaled into full-blown retreat.
All right, so she wasn’t withdrawing physically. She still stood in the circle of his arms. Nor was she trying to break his hold. But Henrik recognized the shift into self-protection. Saw her guard go up an instant before she broke eye contact and looked away. Shifting in his embrace, Cosmina glanced over her shoulder. Her gaze landed on the pair halfway up the steps. Worry furrowed her brow. A moment later, she pushed against his chest and tried to step away. He held on tight, preventing her from leaving his arms and returning to her friend. She’d said it first: not yet. He wasn’t ready to let her go yet.
“She’s fine, Cosmina,” he said, tone full of reassurance. “Cristobal can be trusted. He’ll see to her wounds and keep her safe.”
“Like you did me.”
“Aye.” Brushing the hair from her temple, he met her gaze, then turned his hand and cupped her cheek. Soft silk caressed his palm. Pleasure hummed, raising awareness as he traced her mouth with his thumb. She opened for him, parting her lips, inviting his kiss, but . . . goddamn it. As much as he yearned to taste her again, he couldn’t. Too much remained unsaid between them. So like it or nay, he must hold the line. Make it clear. Bring them back to the point where trust took root, and she believed in him again. “Like I did you, iubita. Like I always will you.”