Savage Want (Wicked Wants, #3) (11 page)

“What has happened to Rhion?”

Torsten’s hand tensed around mine before releasing me from what had been a comfortable grip.

“Died a death of honor. In battle, just before this past winter. Took his band that long to ride back to me with word. A handful of men pitifully starved and injured out of thousands.”

“My brother is dead?”

“This is why you must consider carefully. You are responsible for more things than you’ve ever dealt with before.”

So, I was in love with a prince of savages who would someday become jarl himself. My head swam with the idea. I knew little of his culture, did not even speak their language and I would be this kingdom’s
queen
?

Torsten scoffed. “If you do not accept my choice, then let someone else lead.”

“No!” The word flew from my lips before I could stop it and I covered my mouth with my hands.

“I love this woman. Before her, all that mattered was that my cock was warm in some cunt or another.” He took my hand in his. “She has seen the beast and was not afraid.”

The men’s stares made me uncomfortable. I wanted to back away and sit by the fire while they discussed my future. But I stayed there and faced his father’s disdain at choosing a woman from a land the Northmen had invaded rather than partaking of perhaps any woman his kingdom would have to offer.

“Enough,” the jarl said. He raised his hand to signal for his guards.

“Bring back a fresh kill. A large stag. And something to get this collar off the lady.”

The guards, two burly mountains of men, nodded in assent and strode off to begin the hunt.

Another guard grunted behind me to follow and, with one last glance at Torsten, who nodded, I acquiesced.

I was bade to lay upon a rather large flat rock as my liberator smashed at the lock with a sharp stone. After a few blows, the lock gave and my neck was relieved of the terrible weight.

As commanded, the two other guards returned shortly with a freshly-killed stag. With a rather jovial tone, they went to work on the animal and concocted a meal befitting a royal outfit stranded out in the woods. Cloth was spread and a cask of wine was opened for us all to partake in, though Kolla cautioned Torsten from drinking out their rations. We ate and were content with full bellies and heads warmed with wine, even as the night air brought the cold upon us.

Eron struck up and tended a fire, seeing that the majority of Torsten’s new enemies lay dead in the prison bailey, while the men talked of their home. I did not bring my query to their conversation, rather it came about naturally.

“And what of my exile then, father? Have you forgotten so quickly, or did I impress you that much?” Torsten sat across from his father, each on makeshift seats hewn from fallen trees.

From my vantage point at Torsten’s side, I could see the striking resemblance Torsten bore to the king. Both men possessed the wide, meaty hands with long fingers capable of palming another man’s skull with no trouble. Both brandished thick forearms, only the jarl’s skin was dotted with many more designs than his son’s. Torsten had a noble mane of dark hair, like smoked wood, whereas Jarl Kolla’s hair was mostly white. It was impossible to discern the king’s true age and I was beginning to realize that the Northmen’s idea of time differed greatly from what I’d come to understand during my lifetime.

“You were not in control of your powers yet. But I can see that it was me in the wrong and that you were never as terrible as I made you out to be. I had hoped to raise Rhion to glory. I had to protect the people from your temper and the last time you transformed...I was left with no choice but to send you away.” He hung his head and his golden crown caught the fire’s glow.

“And now?”

The jarl nodded his head once. “You’ll need to find a way to control yourself. Just as I did. I will show you ways.”

Torsten dropped his gaze to the fire. I did not touch him but stayed by his side as he seemed to contemplate memories, perhaps.

“Would have Rhion not died, this chance would never have been offered.” His voice was laced with venom. “You would have me out here in the world, battling in your name, content that I was kept occupied.”

“Revelations come in many forms,” his father reasoned. “Do not hold it against me. I see what you’ve done and who you’ve become.” Kolla wore an expression closest to a smile I’d seen yet.

“Your mother awaits your return. The witch has argued my ears off for years.”

Torsten snorted. “So she lives still.”

“I gave her a keep of her own. Grew tired of her incessant nagging about her only son.”

“The only son that is now the
only
son. May Rhion drink with the gods in glory forever and ever.”

“There is a keep for you as well.” The jarl stood and removed a leather cord from around his neck. On it dangled a key.

Torsten raised an eyebrow.

“Well, stand up,” the jarl growled.

Torsten complied and the jarl hung the key around Torsten’s thick neck. The key was immediately engulfed by his braided beard. Torsten looked down, then at me. He pulled the string off again and put it around my neck.

“In the North, this is an honor. When man gives his key to woman, they are then married.” His brows lifted in a gentle expression. “If the lady will accept.”

A giggle bubbled up in me and I stifled it, aware of the solemnness of the proposal. “You have no ceremony? No ring?”

“Would you have one here in the woods? Shall I carve you a ring from a tree? Woman, I ask you to accept.”

I did laugh then, as did he. My fingers closed around the rather large key, as long as my hand. The edges dug into my skin, but not like the collar had. I wanted it there. I wanted him there, by my side, for the rest of my years. Tears brimmed in my eyes and I blinked to clear my vision. Magus and Eron looked on, as did Kolla, seemingly amused that his son would make his commitment then and there.

With tears streaming down my cheeks, I smiled. “It’s best that I keep this for you. You might lose it.”

“You are as evil as my mother,” Torsten said with a grin. He kissed me, cupping my face in both hands tenderly. “I shall never tire of it.”

A
nnice Sands is a writer/editor/admin that lives and dreams in Austin, Texas. She collects dragons, pirate ships and books, and wishes she had her own TARDIS. When not writing or reading, she indulges in history documentaries and financial planning. You can follow Annice on Twitter
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