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in its Audible Audio Edition, Unabridged!
In AD 1331, warlord Vladimir Barbu seizes control of Transylvania. But in spite of his bloody triumph, his claim to the throne remains out of reach. The king of Hungary opposes his rule, the Transylvanian people despise his brutal ways, and the high priestess needed to crown him has vanished without a trace. But Barbu hasn’t come this far only to be thwarted by a woman. He unleashes his best hunters to track her down and bring her to him—dead or alive.
For Xavian Ramir, killing is the only life he has ever known. Torn from his family when he was a child, he was trained from an early age to be an elite assassin. But now he longs for something more, vowing to start anew after one last job. The bounty on his target’s head is enough to set him up for good—if he can resist the long-dead conscience that stirs to life when he meets his beautiful mark.
Afina Lazar never wanted to become high priestess, but the brutal murders of her beloved mother and sister leave her no choice. Now she is running for her life, desperate to protect the magical amulet entrusted to her care. But when Barbu’s assassin comes for her, she realizes her only chance of stopping the warlord’s rise to power is to convince this enigmatic—and handsome—hunter that she is more valuable alive than dead.
Dramatic and fast-paced, Knight Awakened is a stirring love story between two people searching for a second chance in a magical world of assassins, warlords, unearthly beasts, and nonstop adventure.
And here, for your reading pleasure, is our free excerpt:
CHAPTER ONE
Transylvania – AD 1331
It was twilight when he made his move, the moment day folded into dusk, the space between light and shadow. He’d watched her all day, marked her progress through the marketplace between stalls and calling vendors, watched her and the little one go about their business never knowing he trailed like a phantom in their wake. A hunter tracking his prey. Now, concealed by the twisted limbs of large beech trees, he watched from across the clearing as she ushered the girl-child over the threshold and closed the planked door behind them.
His gaze centered on the tiny stone cottage. Xavian Ramir absorbed every detail—the thinning thatched roof, the crum-bling chimney, the missing mortar between the stones, and the aging wheelbarrow beside the small garden—then scanned the shadowed forest beyond as he’d been trained to do. Study the angles. Flesh out the target. Define the variables. Old habits died hard. An unfortunate truth for the woman preparing to eat her evening meal.
He smelled the stew. Rabbit, most likely. The decadent aroma mingled with the grey curl of wood smoke as it escaped, twist-ing up to meet a darkening sky. His stomach growled. Xavian ignored the discomfort and distracted himself by picturing her. Raven hair spilling over the curve of her shoulder, she stirred the pot, hazel eyes intent on its thickening contents. Aye, he’d been close enough to see them, memorize their shape, the exotic up-tilted outer corners framed by dark brown lashes. He saw the supple curve of her cheek, the lushness of her lips, and imagined them wrapped around something other than the wooden spoon she no doubt used to taste the gravy.
The muscles roping his lower abdomen tightened. Aye, she was a tidy little bundle, but that didn’t explain why Vladimir Barbu, new lord to Transylvania, wanted her. Hunted her, had gone to extremes to find her. Not entirely, at least. The recently ascended voivode might want the lass in his bed, but Xavian guessed the reasons the warlord had hired him struck closer to the coffers than his heart. What did she have that Vladimir wanted?
’Twas a question that bothered him more than he liked. Curiosity was a luxury, one he couldn’t afford. For an assassin operating at the top of his game, the curse of conscience signaled trouble…the kind he wished he’d never met. But now that he’d been bitten, the bug—the need to know—burrowed beneath his skin, festering until he itched to solve the mystery. So now he must decide. What was more important? The coin he needed to see countless boys rescued and his fledging academy through the coming winter, or her life. He hated to choose. A mother. Jesu, he hadn’t expected that. He flexed his hand and felt the gash on his forearm throb with the movement. The injury was courtesy of a brother-in-arms, the latest in a long line of those sent to kill him.
“Ram?” the soft voice, vibrant with the fullness of youth, came from behind.
Qabil. His new apprentice, borrowed without permission. Hell, borrowed. ’Twas a matter of opinion, one the old man would dispute with his dying breath. Mayhap stolen was a better word. Xavian’s lips curved, finding satisfaction in the theft. But as much as he relished the blow to his former master, thankfulness took precedence. Qabil hadn’t been with the bastard long enough and still possessed the wonder of innocence, and despite himself Xavian was grateful the lad had been spared.
Xavian glanced over his shoulder, dipping his chin to ac-knowledge the call. With a flick, he undid the buckle in the center of his chest, slid the double harness from his shoulders, down his arms, and handed the twin swords he favored to Qabil.
The lad blinked, alarm darkening his eyes. “But—”
“Hold them,” he said, not wishing to explain he didn’t want to frighten the woman or her child. His presence—his size and strength—would do that well enough without being armed to the teeth. The fact he was rarely without the weapons made him itch to strap them back on. He felt exposed without the curved blades on his back, though it meant naught in the scheme of things. He needed her occupied, unsuspecting while he made his decision.
Wide-eyed, Qabil’s hands shook as he hugged the weapons to his chest. “What if the hunters track us here?”
“Quick in. Quick out,” he said, understanding the lad’s fears. Halál’s hunter assassins were naught to scoff at when they came in packs. Less than a full day’s ride wasn’t enough distance. Xavian knew it—so did Qabil—but he couldn’t leave the woman. Not now. “Keep the horses ready.”
Xavian waited until his apprentice lowered his gaze and nod-ded before he turned his attention back to the cottage. Tension coiling in the pit of his stomach, he listened to the boy’s footfalls fade, then said, “Cristobal, you’re with me. The rest of you spread out. If she runs, I want all escape routes blocked.”
Like the ghosts they’d learned to be, Cristobal and Razvan shifted out of shadow while Andrei and Kazim dropped from swaying tree limbs above. They landed on silent feet behind him, not a whisper of sound to indicate their presence. Faded beech leaves scattered across the turf as his men moved to flank him. Dressed in black from head to toe, their clothes were designed with precision in mind and mirrored his own. Each of them lived in the dark, thrived on silence and the spaces between, the ones devoid of emotion and lined with simplicity. None of them liked ambiguity and sure as hell didn’t accept hesitation in the role they’d been forced into playing.
Cristobal raised a brow. “Uneasy?”
“Nay.” Xavian shook his head. “Merely undecided.”
“The plan?” Andrei asked, the richness of his French accent alight with purpose.
“Reconnaissance.” Pushed by a gentle breeze, the dark leaves of the beech murmured as he admitted, “I wish to know more.”
The least bloodthirsty of their group, Razvan nodded. “I don’t like the bastard…He lied.”
“Mayhap,” Xavian said, unconcerned for the moment about Vladimir and his motives. His focus was on the lass and the mystery of her circumstances. He couldn’t deny his curiosity, a novel prickling sensation he didn’t often experience. “Liar or nay, his coin is still good.”
Kazim snorted, amusement alive in his dark eyes.
Acknowledging the humor with a shrug, Xavian palmed the dagger he kept snug against the small of his back. The blade rasped against leather, the whisper sounding loud in the silence. A crease between his brows, he set the point to his forearm, to the wound left by the former comrade he’d sent to the devil but days ago. He fisted his hand, inhaled sharply, and with a flick, opened the gash. A red rivulet, heated by life’s essence, tracked south across the back of his hand as he left his men to move into position. Eyes on the cottage door, he strode toward the inevitable, blood dripping from his fingertips.
CHAPTER TWO
Her heart ached. It always did when she thought of Bianca. Sitting at the rickety wooden table spoon-feeding her sister’s daughter proved no exception. Sabine, with her golden hair and gentle soul, was like her mother in every way but one. The eyes. Bianca’s had been dark, carrying wisdom beyond her nineteen years. Sabine’s were mismatched, one green, the other blue. The fact her sister wasn’t here to see their beauty, the subtle shifts in color, was all her fault.
Afina Lazar’s throat tightened, the guilt so thick she found it difficult to swallow. She was failing…at everything. Motherhood, the healing, the promise she’d made to Bianca on her deathbed. A death Afina had failed to stop, been helpless to stall, to ease the pain as her sister slipped away. She stroked her little one’s hair, murmuring encouragement as she took another spoonful rich with rabbit meat.
They were lucky to have it. The summer game had proved more crafty than usual, avoiding her traps and homemade arrows with little difficulty. Sabine’s growling belly most nights spoke to the truth. She needed some luck to get them through. Was a little divine intervention too much to ask? Couldn’t the goddess of all things afford them their fair share? Afina hoped so. Otherwise the coming winter might not only turn harsh, but deadly as well.
What would she do if she couldn’t fill their winter stores in time? She couldn’t go home. Nothing but certain death lay in that direction, no matter how plentiful the food supply. At least here, she held some small chance of survival, of fulfilling her role as protector to the Amulet of Orm. As she spooned another mouthful into Sabine, her attention drifted to her satchel—the one that carried her healing supplies. The stupid amulet, bane of her existence, a curse upon the women of her line. She wanted to rip it from its hiding place beneath the leather lining and toss it into the nearest ditch, but knew she never would. High priestess to the Order of Orm, her mother had died doing her duty, saving the wretched thing from Vladimir Barbu…the murdering swine.
Afina rubbed her aching temple, wanting to forget, wishing for another way. But none existed. Her mother had made a fatal mistake, and now Afina was left to pay the price. Vladimir needed her to complete the ancient rite—the ritual that would crown him Lord of Transylvania. She must stay hidden and out of his greedy grasp: to protect her people and her daughter and honor the goddess she served.
A promise made was a promise kept.
She needed her word to mean something, and her sister’s death to mean more. If she abandoned the cause now, after two years of running, she was as gutless as her mother had accused her of being.
The memory of harsh words lashed her.
Tears pricking the corners of her eyes, Afina turned her mind away and scraped the bottom of the wooden bowl, scooping up the hearty gravy for her child.
Sabine’s small fingers grasped hers, her tongue peeking out to touch her bottom lip. “I do it, Mama. I do it.”
Her little cherub. Afina smiled. The tightness banding her chest eased as she relinquished the spoon. “All right. Would you like a little more, love?”
Even knowing she needed to ration the rabbit stew over the next few days didn’t keep her from asking. She wanted to make sure Sabine was satisfied. It had been so long since they’d had any meat, and if that meant eating less so her babe got her fill Afina was happy to go without. Mayhap tomorrow, were they lucky, she would snare another.
Fortifying herself with hope, she left her stool and headed for the hearth. The heat from the fire wrapped her in a warm embrace as she reached for the ladle. A sharp rap sounded on wood. Afina flinched, her heart stalling as she spun toward the door, wooden spoon raised in defense. White knuckled, she stared at the wide grey planks, alarm fighting logic for supremacy.
It couldn’t be Vladimir…it couldn’t be. The swine wouldn’t knock. Kicking down the door was more his style. The thought calmed her a little, but not enough. She didn’t want to answer. It was late and intuition warned nothing but trouble waited outside. Silence hummed, the vibration loud, stretching her nerves tight. “Go away,” she whispered, unable to take the echoing hush. She hoped voicing her wish aloud would make it come true, would chase the unwanted visitor into the coming night.
“Go away.”
“Door, Mama. Door!” Sabine bounced on her stool, eyes bright while she tapped the spoon against the side of the bowl.
Afina leapt the distance between them to grab her daughter’s hand. Placing her index finger against her lips, she mouthed, “Shh, love.”
She held her breath and counted to ten. Nothing. Not a whis-per of sound from the other side of the door. Eleven, twelve, thirteen…A second knock followed the first. Oh, goddess. Whoever was standing on the threshold didn’t plan on going away. Afina swallowed and, ladle raised, moved toward the entrance, acutely aware it also served as the only exit.
“Mistress?” The voice, smooth and deep, rolled through the rough-hewn planks in a warm wave, sucking away her tension like sand in an undertow. Afina fought the pull and tightened her grip on the impromptu weapon.
“W-who…” Fingertips brushing the pitted wood of the door, she willed strength into her voice. “Who’s there?”
“The priest in the village told me to come, mistress,” he said, his tone full of gentle reassurance. “I’m in need of a healer…have come seeking your care.”
She closed her eyes and lowered the ladle. Father Marion, the parish priest, had sent him. Thank goodness. She might not be part of his flock, but the priest had always been kind. Could even be relied upon to send her ailing parishioners from time to time.
Afina lifted the bar, cracked the door, and came nose to sternum with a wide, very male chest. She blinked, startled by his size, and stared at the pitch-black leather jerkin. A moment passed before she allowed her gaze to climb over well-set shoulders, a strong neck, only to collide with ice-blue eyes set in the most incredible face she’d ever seen.
Handsome didn’t begin to describe him. Lethal appeal, strength tempered by charm. Cropped short, his hair was shot with gold threads, a bronzy color that matched the hammered coins she’d once taken for granted. A mistake she knew not to make with him. His intensity said it all. He was a warrior wrapped inside aristocratic features.
She tensed, guard up, instincts screaming for her to slam the door in his face. His unusual eyes holding hers, he slid his foot between the door and the jamb as though aware of her intention. “I will pay, mistress.”
Catching a flash from her periphery, Afina’s gaze strayed to the gold coin perched in his fingertips. By the goddess, it was more money than she’d seen in two years. Enough to secure their future, not only for the winter, but in the years to come. She bit her bottom lip, her mind compiling lists and tallying costs. She’d be able to buy a goat, warm clothing, the extra seeds for their garden, see to the repairs, and still have plenty left over. And the only thing standing in her way? Giving aid to a man who radi-ated aggression and gave new meaning to the word frightening.
Could she do it? What if she disappointed him? She wasn’t the best healer. In truth she was a terrible one. Everything she knew she’d learned from Bianca. The healer in their family, her sister had made sure Afina understood the basic principles before her death. On the run, their survival had depended on presenting a united front, but she’d only ever been a helper. And were she honest, not a very willing one. She didn’t possess the stomach for it, shying away from injuries she knew she couldn’t handle. But she couldn’t afford to do that any longer. Sabine needed her to be strong. Otherwise they would starve to death.
She met his gaze then shied, looking away. “Y-you’re hurt?”
He nodded, raised his arm, and held it out for her inspection. Blood dripped in a steady stream, leaving droplets on the edge of a wooden floorboard. Without thinking, she reached for his hand, cupping it with her own. He stiffened. Unease forgotten in the face of his pain, she ignored his reaction to her touch and admonished, “Why didn’t you tell me you were bleeding?”
Bumping the door aside, she tugged on his arm, wanting a better look at his injury. He hesitated, resisting the gentle pull as though uncertain he wanted to cross the threshold. She tugged again, her focus on the nasty gash bisecting the outside of his forearm. “Come into the light, sir. I cannot see the extent of the damage if you remain out there.”
He inhaled. The slow, deep breath alerted her to his tension, signaled nervousness of some kind. Afina knew the emotion well, fought to contain it with every breath she took. Day in and day out, she struggled with worry, an edginess she wore like a scent. He wore it too, though it smelled different. Lean and hungry with a touch of rebellion. Aye, under all the lovely bone structure was a man in need of repair and the soothing touch that went with it.
Empathy stole into her heart, and all of a sudden, she wanted to make him feel safe. Absurd—completely laughable—considering she doubted anything made the hard-faced warrior afraid. Add that to the fact he scared her witless and the notion made her think she’d lost her mind. But if she was to tend his wound, she needed him to trust her.
Squeezing his hand, Afina deployed a technique that had served her well in the past. She put them on familiar terms. “What is your name?”
He gave her a strange look and let her pull him past the door-frame. “Xavian.”
“I am Afina,” she said, infusing her tone with warmth she didn’t feel. “And that wee cherub is Sabine, my daughter.”
Forever friendly, Sabine gave him a toothy grin, rapped the spoon against the edge of the bowl, and chirped, “Hello!”
Afina dropped his hand and gestured to a stool before turning to retrieve her healer’s satchel. “Sit. I will gather my things and tend you at the table.”
Again he hesitated, but in the end obeyed and took a seat, as far from Sabine as he could manage. Afina hid her smile. A grown man afraid of a wee lass. ’Twas inconceivable, but true. She’d seen it many times. Observed men hardened by battle and hurt by war fairly run in the other direction when faced with a child. When she encountered someone like that, she knew they’d forgotten joy, had no idea how to handle an energetic bundle filled with nothing but merriment.
Curbing the inappropriate burst of amusement, she grabbed her bag and the large bowl from the shelf above it. Hands full, she turned and nearly jumped out of her skin. Another man, dark to Xavian’s light, stood in the open doorway. Her breath stalled as his black gaze swept her then the tiny confines of her cottage. The door swung closed behind him with a click, and her grip tightened on the satchel. Leather groaned in protest as alarm knocked around inside her head.
Xavian studied her expression then glanced over his shoulder. “Relax, mistress. ’Tis only Cristobal. He’s with me.”
“Oh,” she said, resisting the urge to pound on her chest to restart her heart. She took a shallow breath. No matter how much she disliked having two large men in her home, she must stay calm. Xavian required her skill, such as it was, and she needed the coin he offered to secure their future. She pushed past fear and set the bowl along with her bag on the tabletop.
Sabine greeted the newcomer in her usual fashion. “Hello!”
“Salutari, little one,” Cristobal said, a smile in his voice. Hooking a stool with his foot, he sat across the table from her daughter.
Sabine grinned.
He grinned back.
Afina blinked, amazed by the exchange. Fierce-looking men didn’t generally engage her two-year-old in conversation. Neither did they reach into the pouches at their waists and offer her toys. But as Cristobal rolled the dice across the table to Sabine, she forced herself to reconsider, to remember a lesson long forgotten. Never judge another by appearance alone.
“Cristobal enjoys children.”
Xavian’s deep voice stroked along her spine, leaving pin-pricks of heat in its wake. Afina flinched and dragged her attention from the strange pair. She collided with his ice-blue gaze, wondering what that meant, exactly. Enjoy in the way a wolf does a lamb or a child his favorite playmate?
An image of razor-sharp teeth and lupine eyes flashed through her mind. She cleared her throat. “Towels. I will fetch them then begin.”
She forced herself to move at a steady pace and, with quiet efficiency, gathered the rest of her supplies. Xavian tracked her movement. She felt his focus keenly, registered his gaze as prickles exploded across the nape of her neck in a warm rush of sensation. The tingle of awareness frightened her, made her tense with the need to rush him out the door. Something about him wasn’t quite tame. She got the sense the only rules he followed were the ones he made for himself. And for a girl who needed the rules to feel safe, that wouldn’t do.
Afina set the small kettle she carried on the table. Iron bumped against wood. The uneven thump sounded loud in the stillness, an unanticipated announcement of her ineptitude. She paused, waiting for the accusation, any sign he understood the cryptic message. He said nothing and waited, patient in her moment of hesitation. In a flurry of movement, she placed the folded towels to one side then flapped one square open and spread it on the wooden planks. Without being told, Xavian placed his fore-arm on the linen and, with the flick of his fingertips, gestured for her to begin. She quelled the urge to run in the other direction, wanting to scoop Sabine up and head for the hills so badly the impulse made her mouth dry.
The rattle of dice and Sabine’s giggle rippled, joining the crackle of fire in the hearth. Grateful her daughter was occupied, she flipped her bag open and extracted a small vial of liquid. Lightning quick, Xavian encircled her wrist, his grip just short of bruising. Air rushed from her chest in a puff, and her gaze shot to his. The instant she made contact, he raised a brow, a clear question in his eyes.
She swallowed. “Distilled witch hazel. I must clean the wound before I stitch it. Otherwise you will suffer an infection.”
He held her captive a moment more then uncurled his fingers, releasing her from the calloused shackle. She drew a soft breath and, spreading the liquid on the linen, shifted closer. His heat reached out, wrapping her in warmth scented by male and something more. Rich and earthy, he smelled fresh and clean, like the forest after a summer storm. Afina inhaled and dabbed at the wound, sifting like a bloodhound through the complexities of his scent, wondering how he’d come by it. Did he use a special soap? What blend of herbs would create an aroma so full of woodsy delight? She leaned toward him, nose twitching, brain working to unravel the mystery ingredients.
He shifted, and she flinched as the backs of his fingers brushed the curve of her cheek. Unaccustomed to being touched, she stayed stone still, afraid to look at him while he pushed the hair that had fallen into her face over her shoulder. His hand hovered close, and hers stopped above his injury, a stunted breath tangled in her throat.
His tone soft and even, he murmured, “There, now you can see what you are doing.”
Afina nodded her thanks and straightened on a shaky breath. Her gaze averted, she reached into the satchel and pulled out a fine bone needle. “I’ll stitch it closed then apply salve and wrap it.”
His chin dipped, and he angled his arm to give her better access. Fighting queasiness, she imagined Bianca, pictured her steady hands, replayed every instruction her sister had given her, and set needle to flesh. Her stomach clenched, rolling in protest. She inhaled through her nose, ignoring the slight tremor in her hand and, with steady precision, closed the gash with tight, narrow stitches.
“You’ve a gentle touch,” Xavian said, his voice mild and full of approval. “You are very good at this.”
Afina almost snorted. Good at it? Was he soft in the head? The man obviously hadn’t been hurt very often. She wasn’t stupid enough, however, to correct him as she tied off the threads. If he wanted to believe she was an accomplished healer, so much the better. His ignorance walked her one step closer to the gold coin. Hmm, she could almost taste the goat’s milk.
“You’ll need to keep it dry,” she said. “No water or soap on the wound.”
Slathering thick ointment over the injury, Afina peeked at him from beneath her lashes, wanting to be sure he paid attention. The goddess preserve her, he was well put together, much too appealing for his own good. Good thing he frightened her. Otherwise she might be tempted to talk with him awhile, to make him stay a little longer.
She gave herself a mental slap. What was the matter with her? She didn’t have time for a man, never mind the inclination. No matter how compelling, Xavian needed to go…and go quickly.
Bandage in hand, she wrapped his forearm, tied a knot just below his elbow and, tone brusque, instructed, “Change the bandage every day. The stitches need to remain for ten days then you can cut them out one at time. Be very careful about it. You don’t want to reopen the wound.”
“Many thanks, Afina.”
Her name rolled off his tongue as though he were tasting it, a predator savoring his next meal. A shiver chased dread down her spine, causing a visceral chain reaction. She’d done as he asked and tended his wound, but the idea he wasn’t finished with her grabbed hold, clanged inside her head until instinct coiled, pre-paring her to flee. Muscles tense, she shifted, moving away from him and toward Sabine a fraction at a time.
“Ram?” Cristobal’s voice cut through the haze of fright, momentarily interrupting her tension. Something about his tone caused her to pause and take stock of the question embedded in the summons. The chill of Xavian’s eyes moved from her to his friend. Time slowed, altering perception as Afina watched Cristobal reach out and grasp Sabine’s small chin. With a gentle touch, he turned her daughter’s face toward Xavian and said, “The eyes.”
A muscle jumped along Xavian’s jaw as his hand curled into a fist on the planked tabletop. “Hell.”
“Aye,” Cristobal murmured, clearly understanding the meaning behind the expletive.
Her gaze swiveling between the two, Afina struggled to breathe. What did they want with Sabine? The question sank deep and panic rolled in. She exploded around the edge of the table. Something was wrong. Very, very wrong.
She needed to reach her child…now, this instant. “Sabine, come—”
Xavian struck, reaching out so fast she didn’t see him move. The heat of his hand shackled her wrist. A moment later, he hauled her up and back, away from Sabine. Her throat clogged and instinct surged, unleashing the ferocious need to protect her child. Xavian was talking, but she didn’t hear him, too focused on getting to Sabine as he continued to draw her toward the door. Using the momentum of his pull, she rounded on him, teeth bared, feet and fists flying. He cursed and yanked, spinning her until she landed, back to his front, shoulder blades pressed to his muscled chest.
Sabine whimpered.
Afina screamed and bucked his hold, heart breaking, tears pooling in her eyes. One hand wrapping both of her wrists, he cupped her throat, fingers searching.
“No,” she said, her voice weakening as he applied pressure to a sensitive spot on the side of her neck. “Let go…let me go!”
“Easy, Afina.”
“Please! P-please don’t hurt her…d-don’t hurt my baby.”
Tears streaming from the corners of her eyes, the black void of unconsciousness beckoned. Afina fought the pull, fear for Sabine anchoring her in the light. Xavian murmured, mouth close to her ear, his low tone reassuring, but she knew better. He was the angel of death, right hand to the devil.
Continued….
Click here to download the entire book: Knight Awakened by Coreene Callahan>>>
As the only girl on all guys hockey teams from age six through her college years, Coreene Callahan knows a thing or two about tough guys and loves to write about them. Call it kismet. Call it payback after years of locker room talk and ice rink antics, but whatever you call it, the action better be heart stopping, the magic electric, and the story wicked, good fun.