Knight Awakened (Circle of Seven #1) by Coreene Callahan

reprisal. In this moment, he meant nothing more than to soothe her. He was safe and, like it or not, she found that enthralling. “You were not in my care then.”
    “Fair enough,” he said, his low tone alive with approval before he withdrew his hand.
    A chill replaced his warmth at the base of her neck then washed out in a wave of goose bumps along her spine. She blinked, feeling lost for a moment, at sea with her lifeline drifting out of reach. Panic closed in, making her want to follow his retreat. Afina drew away instead, breaking the spell surrounding them.
    Diving into her satchel, she pretended to dig, searching for the vial already in her hand. A buffer. She needed one, needed space between them before she did something stupid. Like lean in and thank him for his kindness with a kiss.
    Her gaze drifted back to his lips. Good goddess. He was temptation and sin, male in a way that defied description. But she couldn’t do it. Couldn’t trade the hope of her future—and his life at the hands of her enemies—for a moment in his arms. She wasn’t foolish, or mayhap brave enough.
    With a frown, she put the witch hazel and a linen square to work. Silence dripped from the tree limbs above while she cleaned the wound, the hush so complete the wind was still, giving the leaves a momentary reprieve from the constant push and pull.
    As the stillness folded in around them, she found herself falling into his rhythm: the easy in and out of his breathing, the murmur of leather and the special blend of spice that made up Xavian. It was a little hypnotic, like the Order’s temple mass: the echo and incense and murmuring chant. String by taut string, Afina unwound and let herself drift into a place she used to know but hadn’t visited in years. It felt good, as though she were sinking into a cushion of clouds or—
    “From where do you hail, Afina?”
    The question jarred her and she jumped, even though his voice had been soft. He was digging, using their proximity to find the whys and wherefores of her circumstance before his interference. Drat. She was supposed to be doing that. But somehow the tables had turned, and now she found herself on the wrong side of the question. “Severin...where you found me.”
    “Your accent is Transylvanian.”
    “Is it?”
    “Aye. What took you so far from your home?” He paused then leaned forward and settled his uninjured forearm on his knee. The movement brought his head even with her own, and his heat rolled into her shoulder. “Sabine’s sire, mayhap?”
    Her hand paused in mid-dab.
    A violent splash of memory washed in around her. Her chest went tight as the mental torrent picked her up and took her with it. As colorful as the paintings on the temple walls, pictures of Bianca surfaced and she remembered: the bright eyes and flushed cheeks, the lightness of spirit, her sister dancing across their tinycottage each time Bianca returned from meeting her lover. Each time. Every time. The hope and happy glow that made Afina love her sister all the more for her courage, for her trust and generous heart.
    “Or mayhap not for love at all. Mayhap you fled with naught but the clothes on your back...to keep yourself and Sabine safe.” He plucked at the sleeve of her gown, giving weight to his theory by scratching at a thread-barren patch in the wool. “Which is it,
draga
? Love or self-preservation?”
    She swallowed. What did Xavian know? Had Vladimir finally crumbled, cast aside his pride, and sent messengers far and wide to ensure her capture? What crime had he accused her of? Was there a price on her head now? But the bigger question, the one that truly mattered...was the promise of Transylvanian gold enough to tempt Xavian?
    Afina chewed on the inside of her lip. She should have listened to her instincts and changed her name, cut her hair...something. Anything.
    Goddess. Another mistake. More to add to her ever-growing tally.
    She was foolish. So stupid to not have played the game in