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instincts of a raptor—a bird of prey so vicious it took apart its prey while still alive. He refused to become his next meal, regardless of the power that sat behind the old man. The Teutonic Knights could go to hell, along with Al Pacii, the covert death squad they financed.
    “The next will be more skilled and better prepared.”
    “No doubt,” his friend said, sighing as he tipped his head back. “Henrik, mayhap?”
    Jesu, he hoped not. “’Tis possible.”
    “We’ll be ready.”
    Xavian nodded but said naught, the idea of fighting Henrik riding him hard. Of equal skill, the fight would be difficult in more ways than one. His heart wouldn’t be in it.
    Hell, ’twas an understatement.
    He had no desire to kill a man he considered his brother. But reality came knocking. Halál wanted him dead for deserting Al Pacii. The old man hated the fact he hadn’t broken him, couldn’t control him. The defeat signaled weakness, something Halál never accepted. The bastard would send assassin after assassin until they accomplished their mission—took his head and those of his men.
    His brow furrowed, Cristobal crouched and picked up an acorn. Staring at the nut, he rolled it on the pads of his fingertips. “One other thing...’tis about the woman.”
    “She is not to be touched.”
    “Your interest has been noted. None of the men will bother her.” Balanced on the balls of his feet, a smile tugged the corners of his friend’s mouth. He lobbed the acorn over a shrub and into the forest. “The question then becomes...will you?”
    The traitor in Xavian’s trews twitched, relishing the suggestion.
    The tip of his knife stilled against wood and his attention strayed to Afina. Jesu, he would love to bother her, each morning and every night. He swallowed, an image of her under him, legs wrapped around his waist, spine bowed in supplication while he suckled her nipples ripped through his mind. A fine tremor rolled through him, his arousal so strong he ached to lay her down and love her into oblivion. Taking a deep breath, he tore his gaze from the beauty across the clearing and, reaching for self-mastery, drilled Cristobal with a glare.
    “Why not, Ram?” he asked, his brow raised in challenge. “You deserve happiness.”
    He shook his head. Nay, he didn’t. No one knew that better than Cristobal. They shared the same curse, the one that blotted the soul, leaving a stain so dark ’twas impenetrable. Too muchblood had been spilled, and no amount of wishing would wash his hands clean. Afina deserved better than a man God would never forgive.
    “Xavian,” Cristobal said, his quiet tone pushing for an answer.
    “Happiness belongs to other men. ’Tis too late for that...for me.”
    “
Ma rahat.
That’s yak shit, and you know it.” Dark eyes intent, Cristobal pushed to his feet, his attention on Afina. He watched her stir the pot perched over the fire, helping Qabil prepare their meal. “If you will not do it for yourself then consider this...take a woman of your own and the men will follow suit. Drachaven needs families, not assassin-monks if it is to become what you want. Lead by example, my friend, and the rest will follow.”
    Xavian tensed as the comment struck. Jesu, a direct hit. He wanted Drachaven to be something different...something more. He longed for a home; a place where children played and laughed. Where they were safe, not brutalized by war, tortured by others, or forced to kill to survive.
    He raked a hand through his hair, struggling to banish the memories. One by one, he forced taut muscles to unlock, vowing to make his dream a reality.
    Cristobal was wrong. The men would do as he said, not as he did.
    It wouldn’t be difficult to persuade them to take women of their own and raise their families at Drachaven. He could have what he wanted without visiting his sins on a lass and any child they created together. Leadership meant directing others, giving them a greater purpose, not abandoning what