The Viking Wants Forever (7 page)

From that day forward, he’d never allowed his guard to slip with another woman again. For the right price, their hearts would easily swing to another.

“Why are you in such a sulk, Bjarni? You’re ruining my fine wooden floors with your virulent pacing.” Eirik had never seen his childhood friend in such a state of angst except before battle.

Bjarni stopped his pacing, did an abrupt about-face, and stalked up to him. Taller than most men, including Eirik, Bjarni always performed this tactic as a means of intimidation. Considering they’d known each other for more than twenty-five summers, it didn’t have the same effect.

Sensing this, Bjarni hesitated before he spoke. Both knew the better warrior, despite the half-a-head difference in height.

“I want the woman, Eirik. If you do not give her back to me, then ready yourself for
holmgang
.”

Eirik remained his cool. Inside, his life’s essence pounded through his veins, preparing him for battle. “But you refused.”

“I did not!” Bjarni countered. “You did not give me a chance to accept or refuse before you kidnapped her and took her to your private chambers. Do you know how you made me look in front of my men?”

So, this was all about how he looked in front of his men? Eirik straightened to his full height. “You had ample time to answer my challenge before I carried her back to my hall, Bjarni. If this is about your reputation, I don’t give a fuck. But if you want the woman, choose your weapon.”

“B-but we must observe at least a three-day waiting period!” Bjarni protested.

“Nay, I have already tasted her and am eager to bed her. So I will not wait three days to do so. We either do this now or never.”

A myriad of emotions crossed Bjarni’s face as he warred with himself. And then...he raised his chin stubbornly.

“There is no turning back. You issued the
holmgang
and I accept.”

E
irik dispatched several servants to prepare the dueling area. As they scurried off to do his bidding, he led Bjarni out of the hall to the training field, located directly behind the keep.

“Here’s your sword and shield.” Eirik accepted the weapons Thoren held out to him. “I’ll hold the other two shields in ready for you, but I don’t think you will need them. Bjarni knows he’s bitten off more than he can chew. He’ll be flat on his arse before you lose a shield.” Eirik grunted, but didn’t refute his brother’s vote of confidence.

Several thralls bustled about, staking a piece of ox hide, fifteen feet long on either side, to the ground. A series of three lines, each a foot apart, were drawn around the exterior of the hide, followed by four hazel posts, which were driven into the ground to mark the outermost border.

Once this was completed, Eirik stepped onto the hide to address the crowd, which —upon seeing him —ceased their excited chattering. “The challenged shall strike first, followed by the challenger, and then each in turn. The
holmgang
is over with the first draw of blood, or if one of us steps outside the boundary. We each are allowed three shields and one weapon. To the winner goes the spoils. Do you accept the conditions, Bjarni Torkensson?”

A sliver of fear passed over Bjarni's face, before it was quickly blanketed.

Eirik chuckled to himself. Bjarni had a reason to fear him since, for several summers following Oona’s betrayal, he had lived the life of a berserker, wandering wherever his boat took him —looting, plundering, and killing indiscriminately. His last voyage had led him into Germanic lands where he’d come into possession of a mine that produced precious stones. The discovery had proved so fruitful he’d hadn’t gone a-viking in three seasons.

Finally, Bjarni nodded his head in agreement.

“Good, then let the
holmgang
begin!”

A deafening roar erupted from the spectators, startling a flock of roosting seagulls. Eirik shut out the ruckus as he waited for Bjarni to advance. After a moment’s hesitation, his adversary finally stepped onto the ox hide.

Eirik gripped the hilt of his sword, bracing himself for the first blow.

Despite his earlier hesitation, Bjarni quickly closed the distance between them. Erik was somewhat taken aback by his full on assault.  For a seasoned warrior he engaged carefully, which allowed him to read his opponent’s first move.

Perplexed by Bjarni’s strategy, yet maintaining his composure, Eirik lifted his right arm to shield himself from his opponent’s sword. At the point of contact, he pivoted to his left, so as not to take on the full brunt of Bjarni’s downward thrust. As he stumbled past him, Eirik used the flat edge of his sword to swat his friend’s buttocks.

“You’re playing with me!” Bjarni roared, swinging around to face him. His even features were now blotchy and red.

“We have to at least make this entertaining! Plus, I haven’t enjoyed a
holmgang
in three summers, and I want to savor it.”

With a battle cry reminiscent of a wounded bear, Bjarni advanced on him. This time Eirik’s opponent kept his sword low and close to his body. When they were only a couple of feet from each other, Bjarni feinted to the right. Thinking he was going to strike his right flank, Eirik over-corrected himself as Bjarni suddenly pivoted and lunged forward, aiming to gut him.

Caught by surprise, Eirik staggered backward as he parried Bjarni’s thrust with his sword, but it became entangled and then twisted out of his grip by the momentum of the other’s counterstrike.

Eirik watched his only weapon spiral through the air to land outside the boundary of the ring. Yet, despite his predicament, he shook his head at Thoren, who had moved to pick up his sword. The rules allowed for three shields’ defense; they did not allow for more than one sword. The rules had been declared at the beginning —there could be no deviation.

“Play is for children, Eirik the Fair,” Bjarni crowed with satisfaction, temporarily giving up his guard.

That proved to be his folly.

Eirik slipped his forearm from his shield straps. He grasped the solid wood by both hands, twisted his body around, and smashed the converted weapon into the other man’s jaw.

Eirik
almost
took pity on Bjarni as he staggered back in surprise and stepped off the ox hide, stopping just short of the first drawn line. When he finally righted himself, he touched his hand to his jaw, his dark eyes boring into Eirik’s. For several moments, they stared at each other, and then he threw his sword and shield aside in disgust.

“Ha! He’s bleeding!” Thoren yelled at the top of his lungs. “Eirik has drawn first blood!”

Ignoring Thoren’s sideline caterwauling, Eirik threw down his shield. He walked over to his childhood friend and held out his arm. 

“Brother?” he asked, his voice now solemn.

Without hesitation, Bjarni took Eirik’s arm and clasped it. “Brother...”

In high spirits, and unwilling to savor his victory with a bunch of men, Eirik barreled his way through the throng of well-wishers. There lay a sweeter prize in his private chamber.

* * * * *

R
eese paced back and forth in front of the fireplace. She’d been holed up in Eirik’s private bedchambers long enough. Long enough to rifle through his things in search of the tourmaline, which she hadn’t found, and even to grow concerned for Eirik’s safety.

Before she drove herself crazy, she flung herself down on the bear rug in front of the fireplace. Unable to sit still, she tore at her cornrows. Once she set her hair free, she then tackled the tightly wound curls with a whalebone comb, until it floated around her shoulders like a soft cloud. So preoccupied with her thoughts, she didn’t hear the bedchamber door open and close.

“Blessed
Valhalla
...”

Unmindful of her nudity, Reese jumped up from the rug, ran across the room, and threw herself into his arms. “I thought you weren’t coming back,” she lamented, and not minding how he crushed her to him. “I was going crazy with worry.”

“I like the way you worry.” His hand crept over her left butt cheek and squeezed. Her libido bubbled like a pot of water on high. “So you are happy I won?”

Reese couldn’t prevent the smile curling her lips. Despite the less than stellar circumstances in which she had been dumped, the whole idea of him fighting over was just so...so freakin’ hot!

He squeezed her again. “Are you happy?”

“Very happy.” Liking her response, he planted kisses along her collar bone at the same time walked them toward the bed. Her heart rose in her throat, threatening to cut off her breathing with its wild palpitations.

He stopped at the foot of the bed, and suddenly released her. Concerned, she asked, “You aren’t hurt, are you?”

“Not even a scratch.” He began to untie the laces of his pants. “Wait for me on the bed.”

Obedient, Reese did as he commanded. As he stepped from his trousers, her eyes devoured him. Tall and sturdy, his legs were muscular from exercise. His bare chest and arms were just as mouthwatering, and coursing with thick veins. When he took a step toward the bed, she noted he was unsteady on his feet. He’d tied his hair back in a low ponytail, which called attention to the ruddiness in his sculpted cheekbones.

He drew closer, and Reese stayed him with a hand on his chest. “What took you so long to return?”

His hand enclosed her wrist as he climbed on the bed beside her, sending goose bumps racing up her arms. And for the briefest moment, Reese forgot her question.

“I needed to cool off before I came back to you.” Cocking his head awkwardly, he nipped at her bottom lip. “If I had not, I would have come back here and rutted in you like a wild animal. Would you have liked that?” he asked, spanking her backside.

Reese bit her lip. The idea of him doing just that excited her. Reaching up, she grabbed both of the white-blond braids hanging on either side of his face and wound them around her fingers. With a gentle tug, she pulled his head down until their lips were level. She stuck out her tongue and traced his bottom lip. He tasted like honey...and beer. “You’ve been drinking.”

“
Ja
...I did not want to hurt you.” He fell onto the bed, and brought her with him. His hair had popped free of his tie and fanned around them like a gold silk. “So I had a pint of mead or two...or four.” Yawning, he pulled her into his side. “My fair Reese...hiccup...you deserve better.”

Heart in her throat, Reese choked out, “Are you letting me go?”

He curved over her, a beautiful hulking beast with his luxurious hair framing his face. His gaze burned into her. “Not before I’ve tasted
all
of you. Tonight, I grant you a brief reprieve. No more lessons until the morrow.” With a loud sigh he rolled onto his back, one arm flung his arm over his eyes the other still holding her tight. A moment later he was sound asleep.

Little did he know his pardon felt like more of a punishment than actual amnesty.

* * * * *

“E
xcuse me, miss. I’m looking for the October issue of
Viking Special Ops
?”

Did anyone else work around here?
Grimacing, Reese shelved the latest installment of
Saga
and then turned around. Greeted by a wall of muscle, she looked up, and up and up. Gorgeous and insanely built, he flashed her a megawatt smile from behind a pair of Buddy Holly glasses. The dark rims helped to draw attention to his pale blue eyes. A bushy, golden beard concealed what would surely be a strong jaw line, and his blond hair was pulled up in a messy man bun. Reese almost purred. He was a wet dream come true.

“A unicorn.” Like the mythical creature, hot guys were rarely seen inside the walls of The Comic League. 

“Excuse me?”

Her brain lurched back into action. “Do you need help?”

“I’m looking for
Viking Special Ops volume 7.0
.” He ran his hand over the yellow thunderbolt on his chest and his biceps strained the tight sleeves of his t-shirt. Reese ached to push her hands beneath the thin cotton to see if he possessed six- or eight-pack abs.  

Knowing a guy like him was out of her league, and used to mediocrity, Reese shelved her wishful thinking. “We have a couple of copies left. Back of the store, on your left,” she said, pointing him in the right direction. Pretending to forget him, she turned back around and fiddled with a few of the books. A stickler for uniformity, she tended to straighten the inventory constantly, earning herself the moniker The Fixer.

“Can you show me, Reese?” he asked, startling her. She pivoted around and once again she lost her breath at the sight of him.

“How do you know my name?”

Smiling, he reached out and fingered her blue nametag. His touch in such a sensitive place rippled through her. Before she invited him to a dry hump in the stock room, and made a complete fool of herself, she asked him to follow her.

She felt his gaze on her. It was as palpable as if he’d touched her because her stomach was quivering madly and her knees felt like they were made of Jell-O. Not wanting to be anyone’s fan girl for any other reason than the fact he was gorgeous, she couldn’t wait to dump his fine behind in the Swords and Ammo section.

When they reached their final destination, she almost sighed in relief. “As you can see, we have volumes one through seven, even a special mini issue published two years ago. When you’re ready, bring your stuff to the check-out counter and Allen will ring you up.”

Reese couldn’t get away fast enough. She didn’t get far. Spinning on her heel, she barely took a step when his hand shout out and grabbed her wrist. A shiver ran through her, followed by a gnawing ache between her thighs as she imagined them dabbling in cosplay. He would look fantastic in nothing but a loin cloth channeling Tarzan, Man of the Apes. 

“Stay,” he entreated. His voice was deep, blessed with a rasp that made her think of hot, sweaty sex. Spellbound, she allowed him to back her into the corner.

“Wh-why?”

“I want to fuck you, Reese.”

Umm, okay.
She should’ve been offended, but his words stirred an alarming yearning inside of her.