No movement. No one talking. All quiet, but for the crackling of a well-laid fire.
Cracking her eyes open, Cosmina stared out into an open space. Soft light filtered in. Pain lanced her temples. Her eyelashes flickered as her vision warped. Blurry shapes expanded, then contracted, making objects dance in her line of sight. She blinked. Once. Twice. The third time brought everything into focus. Relief snaked through her, banding around her rib cage. Thank the gods. She could see again . . .
Everything in stunning clarity.
The low table situated across the room. The trio of rickety stools gathered around it. The compact dirt floor and rough handwoven rug in front of the lopsided stone fireplace. Each finger of flame as fire licked between the logs, throwing heat into the room. Turning her head on the pillow, she glanced up at the ceiling. A mobile made from falcon feathers hung from the thatched ceiling, its bob and sway all too familiar.
Tears tightened her throat. Everything just as she had left it. So grateful she could hardly breathe, Cosmina allowed her eyes to drift closed again. Home. Praise the goddess. She’d somehow found her way home. To safety and solace. To her tiny cottage inside the Limwoods.
The realization gathered inside her head and unearthed another. A picture rose in her mind’s eye, one of hazel eyes and a too-handsome face. She sighed, the soft exhale half appreciation, half apprehension. Henrik . . . the warrior with unequalled strength and a gentle touch. No other explanation fit. Especially since she remembered falling asleep in his arms—head tucked beneath his chin, body curled around his, desperately seeking his warmth as her chill ran marrow deep.
The memory should’ve embarrassed her. Made her squirm in discomfort and want to forget her need for him in the wee hours. Helplessness, after all, was not a girl’s best friend. More often than not, it landed a woman in trouble—the kind from which many never recovered. She’d seen it time and again. Had crept through the streets of Ismal on her yearly visits, ghosting in, stealing supplies, then getting out without anyone being the wiser. So aye, she knew all about men. About sex too, and the ways they procured it. Men preyed on the vulnerable. Experience and a lifetime spent watching told her that much, but . . .
Focused on the mobile bobbing on its thin string, Cosmina shook her head. ’Twas odd, but she didn’t feel that way about Henrik. She couldn’t put her finger on the reason, but despite her natural caution—the mistrust she carried around like a blade—she trusted him not to hurt her. Or take undue advantage. Wishful thinking? A by-product of her infatuation with him? The stir of attraction she felt for him, her need to explore it and know more? She pursed her lips. Mayhap. Mayhap not. But one thing for certain, she refused to be embarrassed for relying on him. Despite her helplessness, she knew Henrik didn’t perceive her as weak. Like recognized like . . . and the strong welcomed strength. She acknowledged his, and intuition told her he saw hers.
Something to celebrate, not ignore.
So forget the vulnerability. Never mind the embarrassment.
Cosmina refused to entertain either notion. Or allow shame to grow. She flexed her hand, tweaking her sore muscles, feeling her injured arm throb, and indulged in gratitude instead. She’d needed him. He’d provided all she required without hesitation—holding her, warming her, enduring discomfort so she wouldn’t suffer. Add that to the fact he’d saved her life and—aye, pride could go hang itself. Courage deserved equal measure. His had ensured her survival and safety, so no other way to look at it. The situation held no room for humiliation, just heartfelt thankfulness.
Which meant she needed to find and thank Henrik before he left her for good.
Bracing herself, Cosmina gripped the edge of the fur-lined throw. Time to leave the warm comfort of her bed, face the chilly room, and the rest of the day. Not that there was much left of it to conquer. The lone window across the cottage told the tale. Covered by shutters she’d woven from small saplings and leather strips, light crept around its edges and over the sill, allowing her to gauge the time. The end of the day, early evening in all probability. She cringed. Goodness, she’d been asleep for hours. Much longer than usual after suffering a vision.
Or dealing with magic.
A point of concern? Or normal after performing the goddess’ ritual? Excellent questions. Ones best left for another day. She needed to stay focused and on task. Job one equated to finding the man who’d risked his life to keep her safe. After that, there would be plenty of time to figure out what the goddess expected from her next. Once Henrik was gone. Once things returned to normal, and she found herself alone in the Limwoods once more.
The thought sent a pang straight to her heart.
Regret followed. Cosmina swallowed the lump in her throat. Alone. Forever on her own. In the world, but not of it. Strong. Tough. Self-reliant to the point of isolation. She’d played that role for five years, stayed on the fringes, and embraced obscurity. It had seemed fine to her—a true necessity—until last night. Until Henrik. Meeting him inside White Temple had done something strange to her. Poked at her soul. Awakened a yearning. Dragged need to the forefront, forcing her to acknowledge the deprivation she lived with day in and day out. Now her life no longer seemed good enough. It felt bland and colorless, making her long for more. Something better. Something only boldness and a wild sense of adventure would cure.
With a quick flick, she flipped the covers back and pushed herself upright. Cold air rushed in, chasing goose bumps across her skin. She stared down at her bare legs for a moment. Her brows collided. Oh dear. Great heavens. A complete surprise too considering she was half-dressed—no stockings or trews, no sign of her leather tunic or the binding she always wrapped over her breasts either. Just her short braes beneath a too-big linen shirt that didn’t belong to her and . . .
She blinked. Good goddess. Henrik. He’d undressed her while she slept.
The realization should’ve set her back a step. Or, at the very least, lit the fuse on her temper. Somehow, though, it didn’t. Ire remained suspiciously absent. In its place, curiosity bloomed. Had he liked what he’d seen? Did he find her beautiful? Silly questions. Ones that meant naught in the grand scheme of things. He’d been kind and gentle, nothing more—removing damp clothing, seeing to her comfort, tucking her in without waking her . . . caring for her when most men wouldn’t have bothered.
All lovely gestures that didn’t mean a thing.
Anyone with two wits to rub together would realize it. Naught good would come from romanticizing Henrik. Or reading anything into the way he cared for her. Honorable men treated women with respect. ’Twas protocol, a rule among warriors or something, so . . . aye, fantasy needed to stay where it belonged, in the realm of impossibility. Pragmatism owned the here and now. Was as much a part of her life as eating and sleeping. But even as she reminded herself of that, Cosmina pressed her nose to the collar of Henrik’s shirt and took a deep breath.
His scent invaded her scenes.
Pleasure prickled through her. She hummed in reaction. Goddess, he smelled good, like man and musk—of decadence, heat, and perfect summer afternoons. She inhaled again, filling her lungs with him, and called herself a fool as a chasm opened deep inside her. Yearning stepped into the breech, spilling through her until she could no longer deny the truth. She desired him. Wanted to spend a night—hell, strike that, make it a few days—coming to know him as a woman did a man. No holds barred. No shyness. No regret in the aftermath. Just him, her, and an avalanche of satisfaction before they went their separate ways.