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

couldn’t see but knew was there.
    “Xavian?” She kept her voice soft as she looped her arms around his neck. Startling him wasn’t a good idea. He was wound too tight, and she was too vulnerable...within striking distance. Not that she thought he would hurt her. But honestly? Better to be safe than sorry. “Please, stop.”
    He slowed, the echo of his footfalls fading as he halted in the middle of the aisle. She held her breath, listening to the thump of his heart as he tightened his grip under her knees and turned his face into her hair. Each one of his breaths whispered over her temple, the hot rush sweet with a hint of mint.
    Not knowing what else to do, her hand stole to the nape of his neck, seeking, stroking to ease his tension. He murmured, pressed closer, curling around her as though he needed her touch as much as he needed to breathe. A small pang echoed in the center of her chest. Something was terribly wrong. He was hurting. The strong, brave warrior was in pain, and she couldn’t stand it. Couldn’t let it continue. The healer in her wouldn’t allow it.
    “Please, tell me what is wrong,” she whispered, fingers playing in his hair, sifting through the thickness. Good goddess, it was a wonder, the softness. She’d never imagined a man could have such beautiful hair. Not that she was noticing. No, not really. She touched to reassure, not to—
    Drat. Now she was lying to herself.
    She ordered her wayward hands to still. When neither listened, she returned her attention to Xavian. “Let me help you.”
    A fine tremor racked his large frame.
    She tightened her grip. “Put me down so I can help.”
    “Nay,” he said, his voice half-growl, half-groan before he shuddered and moved forward, continuing into the interior of the stable. “You’re mine.”
    Mine?
Or rather,
his
? What the devil did that mean?
    “Ah, Xavian, I think mayhap...” She trailed off, catching a glimpse of movement in her periphery. Three stable lads, pitchforks hanging from limp hands, gaped at them, mouths wide open. Wonderful. Now they had an audience. She glanced at Xavian, knowing he wouldn’t approve. He was having some sort of breakdown, and no man worth his weight would relish witnesses for that.
    Afina hung on as he took a sharp right at the end of the aisle. Two strides later, and he’d walked them through a doorway and into the tack room beyond. Sacks of grain occupied one corner,fat companions to the array of bridles hanging on the chamber walls. The long leather strips hovered above saddle horses, some in use, some patiently awaiting the weight of their next charge. With little room to maneuver, Xavian stopped in the center of the room and, one arm still around her, dropped her feet to the floor.
    As she found her balance, he murmured, “
La dracu
, you feel good...so warm.”
    The whispered words tickled the side of her neck then rolled like a dark wave down her spine. His voice was decadent. The resonance one of perfect pitch; deep enough to tie her up, light enough to make her want to relax and trust and give. But two years of running—of Vladimir—had ruined any chance of that.
    Her hands flat against his chest, she pushed, needing distance. He tightened his grip, shackling her against him while he inhaled, burrowing deep to press his lips to her pulse point.
    The contact—mouth to neck, skin to skin—hit her like a thunderstorm, and heat gathered with an alarming rumble. “I, ah...Are you all right?”
    “I’m so cold inside...so cold.”
    Cold? Afina frowned and rubbed his upper arms. Odd, he didn’t feel chilled. He radiated heat, a pleasant warmth that roped hard muscle and enlivened the surface of his skin. A fever mayhap? That would explain his strange behavior. She’d seen it many times. The crazed look in glazed-over eyes, the chill deep inside a person even though they burned with sickness. A terrible fear gripped her. Was Xavian’s infection out of hand? Was this the beginning of the blood