Naught good would come from encouraging the fantasy.
Henrik knew it. He’d witnessed the aftermath—the trauma too—time and again when a man overreached, longing for a woman he held no right to hold. But accepting the truth and putting it into play were two very different things. Point in fact? He couldn’t set Cosmina aside. Oh, he’d tried. Had toyed with the idea of handing her over to one of the others and riding on ahead. But each time he opened his mouth to call Shay forward, he lost his voice . . . and then his nerve.
Henrik huffed. Goddamn need. Stupid yearning. Miles ahead of common sense, both ruled at the moment, setting him up for a hard fall. Knowing it, however, didn’t change a thing. Or set him straight. He wanted her too much. So he cuddled Cosmina close instead of pushing her away, condemning himself with action and a cartload of compelling what-ifs: What if she liked him back? What if she desired him as much as he did her? What if she accepted him for who and what he was—an elite assassin with too much blood on his hands?
Excellent questions. None of which he had any right to ask.
He’d given up the possibility of closeness eons ago . . . the instant he’d chosen a killer’s path. So nay, he didn’t deserve happiness or a second chance. And Cosmina? Hell, she represented everything he refused to entertain—love, acceptance, a chance at normalcy.
Mayhap even a family of his own.
A little boy with her eyes. A little girl with her spirit. Henrik’s throat went tight. God, the image had the power to slay him where he sat. Shifting in the saddle, he shook his head as his gaze strayed to her face. Unable to help himself, he watched her sleep. The shadows thickened around him, painting the Limwoods with a black brush. Lightning bugs lit up the path, showing the way, dancing against the darkness, making him wish he could be as carefree. But then, easy wasn’t his style.
He preferred hard to wholesome, so . . . no question in his mind. Cosmina didn’t belong in his world. He didn’t want to live in hers—a place where the goddess ruled and old wounds festered. Which left him with little choice. He needed to do the right thing and walk away. Take her home, leave her behind, and never look back.
’Twas a solid plan. The best, really, but for one thing . . .
He hadn’t even done it yet, and it hurt like hell.
Dragging his gaze from her face, he refocused on the road, and with a flick of his reins, guided his warhorse around the next bend. Ancient trees stood sentry on either side of the lane, acting like soldiers, creating a tunnel through the forest. Most would’ve called it beautiful. Enchanting. Symbiotic even, the way massive oaks leaned in and stretched, closing the distance to create a tangled canopy over the trail. Too bad all he saw was danger. A warren full of dark shadows and ominous intent.
Paranoid much? Absolutely. He had every right to be.
The Goddess of All Things never let up. And the magic? Christ, it never went away. Or got any more amenable. Thea and the vines roaming the underbrush proved that well enough. So did the awful prickle of unease. With each mile, it slid over his skin, winding him tight, raising the hair on his nape, telling him to get the hell out of the Limwoods. An excellent strategy. Brilliant by all accounts, except . . .
’Twas easier thought than done. Naught but wishful thinking.
Turning back now wasn’t an option. Deep in the forest, the chime and rattle of enchantment closed rank, hemming him in. Now he was surrounded on all sides by supernatural forces. The kind he tried hard to avoid, but somehow never managed to escape. Tied down. Locked up. Nowhere to go. The feelings of isolation were ever present. To be expected, he guessed. Especially with the goddess breathing down his neck. It was eerie. His resistance to her plan didn’t matter. Not to her. She pursued with purpose, refused to leave him alone when anyone else would’ve given up by now and given him his way.
Which was what, exactly?
Peace. Soul solace. A chance at self-fulfillment.
And yet, destiny wouldn’t allow it. Henrik sighed. Mayhap ’twas his fault. Mayhap his refusal to fall into line made him selfish. Mayhap all the uncertainty and pain was a side effect—punishment for his aversion to magic. Henrik didn’t know. Particularly since he’d never been given a choice. Or seen the other side of the equation.
Born of a High Priestess, magic ran in his veins. It didn’t matter whether he liked it or not—or that he longed for something different. Something better. Something more. Freedom to choose his own path, perhaps? The belief that he could control his own life? Without a doubt. Not that any of it mattered. It was what it was. No negotiating with it. No circumventing what he was or who the goddess wanted him to be. Lord knew he’d tried . . . over and over, time and again.
Yet nothing changed.
Fate fought on, placing a target on his back.
Disquiet itched along his spine. Rolling his shoulders, Henrik shrugged off the discomfort and tightened his arms around Cosmina. Ah, and there it was again . . . the urge to turn toward her instead of away. A strange reaction. Stupid in so many ways, and yet he brushed a kiss to the top of her head anyway. He couldn’t fight the awful tug of attraction.
Or his need to get closer.
Hmm, she was something. So relaxed against him. Such a sweet fit in his arms—head on his shoulder, body snug against his, each breath deep and even—trusting him enough to sleep in his presence. ’Twas a gift, an incredible source of comfort too, helping him stay steady as the Limwoods breathed around him. Alive with magic, the sizzle writhed in the chilly air and his restlessness shuffled into full-on dread. Like dice, uncertainty rolled in and instinct piped up.
Mayhap it was time.
Time to stop fighting and accept his legacy more fully. Blame and hatred only got a man so far. Aye, he could go on despising the Goddess of All Things—for abandoning him as a child, for all the torture and pain . . . for the death of his twin sister.
Most days, he tried not to think about it. Usually, he failed. It was his fault, after all. If he’d been there—instead of in Poland, seeing to Halál’s greed and Al Pacii business—he might have been able to shield her. Not that anyone else agreed with him—Afina, in particular. She’d been present during their sister’s illness—when the blood disease had taken hold, decimating Bianca after the birth of her daughter. His chest went tight. Beautiful Sabine, his niece and pride and joy. The two-year-old was a lot like his twin—gentle, full of grace and a keen wonder for the world. He wouldn’t trade her for anything. Loved her more than he did himself. And yet, he mourned Bianca, even though wishing his twin were still alive meant Sabine would never have existed.
He shook his head. God, what a tangle. But even as Henrik recognized the dichotomy in his thinking, he acknowledged the truth. The past couldn’t be changed. And honestly, it took too much effort to hate someone. Even more to resist what Afina already embraced: the truth of their history. The purpose bred into his bloodline.
Henrik frowned. It seemed counterintuitive. A classic case of insanity. Nothing else explained his willingness to accept his connection to the goddess. He’d never acknowledged it before, not even when he pledged allegiance to her. The vow had been made for his brothers-in-arms, not her. Never her. But curiosity called and knowledge equaled power. Accurate information kept a man alive. How many times had he said that? Too many to count or remember, so the hell with it. He’d made his decision. Was now headed straight into the belly of the beast. Into an unwise—and no doubt deadly—confrontation with the Goddess of All Things. He wanted answers. Needed closure. Planned to get both, but . . .
Not yet.
First things first.
Cosmina needed care, and the rest of them required a reprieve. From constant threat. From all the fighting. A day or two of lying low was a necessity now. Halál wouldn’t quit. The bastard never did, so after being denied entrance into the Limwoods, the Druinguari would circle around. Set up somewhere north of Gorgon Pass, wait until he entered the Carpathian foothills, then move in to cut him off.