The edge in his voice slowed her down. Her hand stilled its intimate play. Retreating a little, she met his gaze. “After what?”
Brows drawn tight, he drew a deep breath.
“Henrik?” Seeing the regret in his eyes, alarm streaked through her.
Oh dear. Not good. She didn’t like that look.
Remorse lived in his expression, the kind she didn’t want to see, never mind have directed at her. Something was wrong . . . terribly wrong. Treading water with him, she held him close, caressed the tops of his shoulders, hoping to alleviate his tension. It didn’t help. Her touch cranked him tighter instead, and as his arms flexed around her, she hooked onto his emotional turmoil. Worry. Remorse. Guilt. All took a turn in his expression and—gods. He was uncertain about something. Completely conflicted. Uncomfortable in his own skin. Not like the Henrik she’d come to know at all.
Desperate to soothe him, Cosmina raised her hand and cupped his cheek. Whiskers scraped her palm, teased the pads of her fingertips as he bowed his head and pressed his face to the side of her throat. His torment tugged at her heartstrings. “What is wrong?”
“Naught.”
“You’re a terrible liar.”
One corner of his mouth tipped up. “I am an excellent liar.”
“Probably,” she said against his temple. “But not with me, so . . . out with it. Tell me what is troubling you. You know I will needle you until you do.”
Her teasing tone was meant to make him laugh. A tremor rolled through him instead.
“Cosmina.” He whispered her name like a benediction, with yearning, as though asking for forgiveness for something he hadn’t yet done. Raising his head, he met her gaze. Gentle and sure, he brushed wet tendrils of hair away from her face. “Do you trust me?”
She hesitated a heartbeat. ’Twas a loaded question. One she’d hoped to leave unexplored. But as she held his gaze, Cosmina faltered. She should say no . . . no way. No chance in hell. Trust was a big step, but going all in and admitting it? Cosmina knew that might prove fatal. Men talked of trust all the time, but rarely, if ever, proved worthy of it. And yet, as the silence expanded and Henrik waited for her to answer, the truth struck home and . . .
Goddess help her. She didn’t want to lie. Not to him.
“Aye, Henrik,” she whispered, knowing she shouldn’t, telling herself not to, plunging headlong into trouble anyway. “I trust you.”
A mistake. Cosmina knew it the second the words left her mouth.
Still she refused to take them back, even when Henrik drew her closer. Warm water swirled between them. Cosmina barely noticed. Locked against him, his gaze bored into hers, making her forget the here and now. A tingle circled her temples, then stroked along each side of her head. She tensed. Something wasn’t right. But even as the realization registered, the strange vibration coalesced at the base of her skull, then tugged, pulling her sideways inside her own mind. Pure seduction, the tilting pitch urged her to give in and go along, but . . .
Wrong. All wrong. The prickle, the mental fog . . . the drift of sensation.
Clinging to Henrik, Cosmina blinked and, fighting to clear her mind, reached for clarity. None came. Instead the brain fog thickened as, gaze steady on hers, Henrik’s eyes started to shimmer. Alarm slithered through her, making instinct rise. She shook her head. His grip on her tightened. Gasping his name, she tried to retreat, struggling in his arms, battling sensory overload as a vortex opened deep inside her. Whispering reassurances, Henrik cupped the sides of her face, pressed his thumbs beneath her chin, forcing eye contact.
Her breath hitched. Her muscles twitched. Her brain shut down.
In that order. Even as she fought the slow slide into enchantment. Even as she called his name, asking him to stop. Even as the pressure built between her temples and the cerebral burn took hold, making her fall into him instead of away. Panic kicked her heart against her breastbone, but she couldn’t move. Couldn’t resist or pull away. Lost in the swirling gold of his gaze, a snick echoed inside her head. She whimpered. Henrik murmured, telling her to relax, that he wouldn’t hurt her, soothing her with his voice as he pushed past reason and invaded her mind.
***
Heart so heavy his chest hurt, Henrik finished lacing his tunic. Boot soles rasping against the dirt floor, he left his knives on the table, picked up Cosmina’s necklace, and turned toward the bed. The ancient disc that doubled as a key swung from a delicate chain made of silver links. Back and forth. To and fro. A pendulum of movement that sent him back to White Temple and the instant he’d first laid eyes on her.
So feisty. So full of life.
So goddamned beautiful, clothed in boy’s trews and a bad attitude.
His mouth curved. Remorse killed his amusement, filling his chest, squeezing around his heart, making it difficult to breathe as he tumbled back into the present. The necklace came back into focus. Delicate yet strong . . . just like Cosmina. And unlike him at the moment. Bowing his head, Henrik fought the claw of emotion—the need, the want, the god-awful yearning. Firelight flickered against the timber beam walls and off the silver links coiled in his palm, throwing light into the room, mocking him with a warmth he didn’t feel and in no way deserved. Comfort didn’t belong in his corner. Not anymore.
Not after what he’d done.
Raising his arms, Henrik cupped the back of his neck and pressed down. Taut muscles squawked. Pain streaked down his spine, then clawed across his lower back. He barely noticed. Was too busy telling himself to put his feet to good use and go. To head for the door, ’cause—God. He sure as hell shouldn’t be standing inside Cosmina’s cottage, occupying the same space, defiling her with his presence while longing to hold her close. Just as he had during the night when her nightmares arrived, and she’d fought demons he couldn’t see, never mind vanquish, for her.
His fault. Every terrible moment of it.
Putting her in Thrall had opened mental doors she’d shut long ago. Probing her mind to find what he needed had made it worse, unearthing memories, releasing her monsters—all the things Cosmina kept tucked away and struggled to forget. Things she no doubt didn’t want him to know. But it was too late. He’d seen her past, felt her fear in the wee hours, and held her close while she cried out in her sleep. Henrik closed his eyes as recall spun him around the lip of self-loathing. He shook his head, trying to banish the abhorrence, consoling himself with the fact he’d tried to help. Had done his utmost to banish the ghosts and ease her suffering. It hadn’t worked, so he’d wrapped his arms around her instead, whispered nonsense, stroked her hair and . . .
Hated himself the whole time for causing her pain.
Which meant he needed to leave. Right now. Before she woke to find him mooning over her like a lovesick lad. A clean break. A quick getaway. Both would be best—safer for her, more advisable for him to cut his losses and walk away while he could, but . . .
Deep-seated longing wouldn’t let him.
He needed to touch Cosmina one last time.
Drawn to her against his will, his feet took him to the side of her bed. Fast asleep now, red hair a tangled web around her head, she lay on her side, curled beneath the coverlet, face pale, body relaxed, and mind exhausted. Guilt tightened its grip. Henrik cleared his throat and, unable to help himself, reached for a lock of her hair. The soft strands clung to his fingertips, making his heart throb as he remembered. Her struggle. The gentle insistence he’d wielded to subdue her at the hot spring. Her slide into terrible dreams and restless slumber in the aftermath of mental conquest. Goddamn it, he was a first-rate bastard. The lowest of the low for using his magic against her. It didn’t matter he’d had little choice. The facts spoke for themselves and couldn’t be refuted—he’d entered her mind, gone against her wishes to retrieve information.