by Marsh, Anne
The fourth morning she came back over to his side of the cell, a woman on a mission.
“You’re still here.” She dropped to the floor and crossed her legs, leaning against the wall like some kind of princess. Since werewolves shredded their clothing when they shifted, someone must have given her replacements. Not that the torn black leggings and wedge sneakers were going to do anything to keep her safe and protected. She still wore the same filthy USC T-shirt however and, when she bent forward and did some kind of yoga stretch to work out the kinks in her legs, she flashed him with a hot pink thong.
He didn’t say anything. She still talked enough for both of them.
“Where are we? You never answered that question. I want answers.” She moved closer. Another two feet and he could reach through the bars and snap her neck. Which would be a waste. Sooner or later the pit keepers would pit them against each other and he’d have to kill her then. He’d probably do it, too. He ignored the small pang of something that speared his chest. Emotions—like dying—were for the weak.
Instead, he told her the truth. “We’re in the holding cells for an underground fight ring.”
She nodded, like maybe she was finally ready to believe him, and pointed to the shallow gash on his arm. “What happened to you?”
“I was slow. There are four pit matches each night.”
“That’s a lot of fighters.” She craned her neck, like she could see through the walls surrounding them and get a head count. “Where do they keep them all?”
“The fights are to the death.” Long-term housing was not an issue.
“You kill someone each night?” Her face paled as she processed the fact that she was sharing air space with a killer. He itched to remind her she did the same thing.
The first few nights after he’d been imprisoned here, he’d considered deliberately losing or simply refusing to fight but it went against every instinct he had. He was Viking. He fought. The poor bastards in the ring with him had made the same decision and he’d honor it. Kill or be killed. The rules of his world were brutally simple. Princess here, however, clearly had a different set of operating orders.
Popping her happy bubble was easier than he’d expected.
“You must fight better than you look.”
“Excuse me?” She shoved to her feet, pushing up against the bars to get in his face. She was so easy to bait. And…she still smelled good, which was a small miracle given the lack of facilities in their prison. His keepers turned a hose on him after a fight and then sent him to the cell. Soap and hot water were unspeakable luxuries. “I don’t fight.”
“You do.”
She poked him in the chest and he was too surprised to do anything. She hadn’t touched him there before. He was nearly naked, clad only in the loincloth and leather gauntlets that amused the pit’s keepers. They both stared down at her errant finger. Fuck it. She was smart. She had to know he was no gentleman. He wrapped his hand around hers, trapping her in place. One hard tug moved her closer to the bars, her mouth kissing distance from his, so close he could feel each breath she took.
“Where do you think you go every night?”
Her pulse picked up, banging out a frantic rhythm against the soft skin of her throat. “I—”
By being ruthless, he was being her friend. She should thank him—although he knew she wouldn’t.
“You shift into your wolf form and they throw you in the pit.”
“I don’t remember what I do.”
“You will.” He ran a thumb over her fingers. She could deny it all she wanted, but the blood underneath her nails spoke volumes.
“And there’s no way out?”
For her, the answer was no. She’d fight and she’d die. Eventually, she’d come up against one of his brothers and they wouldn’t hold back. They’d look at her and they’d see only a werewolf who needed exterminating. They wouldn’t see the woman.
“I’m getting out,” he vowed. No cage could hold him forever.
“Take me with you,” she said, her words one hundred percent demand. For a brief nanosecond, his thoughts flashed elsewhere. Would she be that certain in bed? It didn’t matter. He couldn’t free a werewolf. All he could do was make her death a swift one.
So it didn’t count that part of him—and not just the boner he’d been sporting for the last half hour—wanted to give her exactly what she wanted.
He couldn’t give her a fucking happy ending or roses or a goddamned candlelit dinner. Even if they’d been kicking up their heels on the Vegas strip, free to go about their lives, he wasn’t the kind of man who dated or had relationships. He came, he fought, he left. It was in his job description and what the Vikings had been doing for centuries, with a side of pillaging.
“I can’t,” he said, knowing they both heard the regret in his voice. “Let me kiss you, okay?”
He didn’t wait for her answer, because part of him had been waiting for this moment since the pit guards had tossed her into the cell next to his. She didn’t pull back and she didn’t say no, so although he wanted her chanting his name and demanding more, more, more, he’d take what he could get.
He covered her mouth with his, angling his head to accommodate the bars between them. Threaded his free hand through the tangled hair at her neck, shifting her face until he could kiss her deeper.
Her lips parted beneath his—surprise, indignation, need…he had no idea. Heat hit him hard, a sweet, bright bolt of pleasure he’d never expected from such a simple touch. Her breath shuddered out of her mouth and he drank her in. Swept his tongue lightly over her bottom lip and stroked deeper.
She tasted sweet and desperate. He, on the other hand, was far too fucking old and used up. He tore his mouth away from hers and backed the hell away. Six inches. That was as far as he got, although he’d intended to put the entire cell between them.
“You—” She got the one word out, but then faltered. That made two of them who didn’t know what to say. He ran his thumb over her lower lip roughly where her mouth was wet from his kiss. This was the last time he’d touch her. It had to be.
“Shouldn’t have done that,” he growled.
Who knew they’d finally agree and over a kiss?
1
Twelve months later…
“Worthless bitch.” Ake’s steel-toe dug into Tyra’s ribs, retreated, then slammed hard against the bone. Oh, sweet baby Jesus. Pain radiated through her body until she couldn’t even manage a scream. The sobbing whimper that forced its way through her teeth was almost as humiliating as her position at the werewolf’s feet, facedown in the Arctic snowpack. This new feeling of helplessness was even worse than waking up in a fucking cage and discovering that not only was she a werewolf, but she was someone’s expendable fighting bitch. Too bad her tough girl act these last twelve months had been just that—an act. She’d had it with pretending and she’d wanted to be the real thing. Instead, she’d cracked as easily as her ribs.
“Get out.” The rougher voice belonged to Frey, the Pack’s second-in-command because her Alpha, Leif, couldn’t be bothered to evict her himself. He’d collected her from the pits because he’d bitten her and that made her his responsibility—to kill, to breed, or to keep—but apparently he’d tired of her presence. Frey’s face wavered through the tears burning her eyes. She never cried. Or begged, whined or submitted. When his hands gathered her up, fisting the front of her thin T-shirt, air leaked out of her lungs and made short work of her defiance. That last kick had broken something.
Never beg.
Negotiate. Demand.
Big boots pounded closer and Ake’s roar of pain as a bigger, meaner werewolf schooled him was followed by Even’s rough growl. Reinforcements—of a sort—had arrived.
“Since when is put her out code for half kill her?” Even bellowed the question, but didn’t wait for an answer. Instead, he laid into Ake and Frey, dealing out a punishment of his own.
She’d always liked Even and, if she’d been fucking Sant
a Claus, she’d have put him down on the nice list. He wasn’t precisely savior material, but he didn’t want her dead yet. Her instincts said he was going to challenge their Alpha before long. Too bad she wouldn’t be here to see it. She’d have enjoyed watching Leif go down.
She laughed, although oh look the broken sound wasn’t fooling anyone. Pressing down on the snow, she managed to turn her head, welcoming the small bite of cold in her cheek as she swiped at the blood trickling from her mouth.
She’d protested when Leif had started laying out his plans to take down Odin. Because a flat-out assault on the god was such a good idea. The entire paranormal world had it in for the werewolves because of the damned prophecy predicting the wolves would kill Odin and set off Ragnarök. She didn’t have any particular feelings about Odin, but going after the man when the entire world was watching for it was suicidal. Leif’s grandiose plans would destroy her Pack. Saying as much, however, had made Tyra persona non grata because Leif didn’t want anything but blind obedience to his master plan and Tyra had never learned how to submit anyhow. So, okay. She’d work with what she had. Stupidity and defiance.
She shoved her palm against the snowpack, ignoring the red-hot pain in her wrist. Bone grated on bone, but got the hold-you-upright job done. It was barely dawn now and her kind could only shift at night, leaving her a good seventeen hours of sunlight to enjoy her injuries before her nightly shift healed the worst of her wounds. The closer they got to the summer solstice, the longer the days grew. Now in May, with the sun rising at five a.m. and setting at ten p.m., the midnight sun was her friend.
“Let’s make a deal.” Other Packs might exist out there somewhere, but this one was hers. Leaving sucked. She shoved her hair out of her face and mentally debated the feasibility of trying to stand up. She didn’t crawl in front of men. Ever. Not surprisingly, Even looked like he hoped she’d reconsider her stance on begging, but too bad, so sad. Leif had taught her that the first rule of surviving Pack life was never backing down from a battle. If she eased up now and pulled out the tears and the pleading, she’d spend the rest of her not inconsiderable life span beneath the boots of Ake and Frey. Not to mention their dicks and their bodies. Nightmare. A gal had to have standards. Leif’s bite might have erased most of her memories of life before the Pack, but she knew that much about herself. She had standards.
Even cursed and moved between her and the other two men. He’d always had a hero complex. If it didn’t get him killed, he’d make a damned fine Alpha. Life in the Pack might even be tolerable under his protection. Usually, he was a big, rough man who didn’t say much, although right now he had protective written all over his face. Still, she wasn’t his type and he already had a female in his keeping, breeding. He’d let her go because he couldn’t afford to take on Leif today.
“We don’t deal with outcasts.” Frey cupped his balls, massaging the package like his manly parts were some kind of prize. Wrong. “Unless you’re asking for a final farewell fuck.”
So, okay, there was plenty about the Pack she wouldn’t miss. In her twelve months here, she’d never learned to submit and it looked like today wasn’t her day to start. She waved a middle finger at them, a picture being worth a thousand words. Ake’s angry rumble started up, right on cue, reminding her that obscenity had probably not been her smartest move but sometimes a girl had to make a stand.
“Inside,” Even snapped to the Alpha’s muscle men, jerking a thumb toward the collection of turf huts and tents that made up their lair. Any passing human would take one look at the motley collection and decide arctic research station. More than clever cover on Leif’s part of Leif, the tents were the unexpected bonus of his violent takeover of the camp from their previous occupants. The original researchers were now polar bear food, the Pack moving into their place and barely surviving themselves, relying on subsistence hunting and the occasional burglary to get by.
Ake and Frey weren’t bright. Brawny, yes, which guaranteed them a decent place in the Pack’s hierarchy. They were Leif’s enforcers and more than happy to do his dirty work. They actually hesitated, clearly debating whether or not the two of them could take down Even. The answer to which was: hel, no. Even, for all his good guy outside, was a vicious fighter. Ake and Frey came to the smart conclusion, turned, and stomped back toward the tents.
Good riddance. Her last glimpse of the unhappy duo was of their parka-covered asses disappearing into the biggest, baddest tent, where Leif had set up court. Leif wasn’t rocking a Four Seasons either, but his tent had been a relatively safe spot to lay her head. Unfortunately, she had a taste for luxuries—and Pack life meant sleeping bags, Coleman lanterns, and peeing behind a bush. The lack of furnishings made it easy to move around their territory but she’d kill for a bed.
And that was clearly out of the question tonight.
“Shit, girl.” Rough affection leaked into Even’s voice as he squatted down beside her and handed over a pack and a parka. Thanks to him she wouldn’t freeze to death before nightfall. April in Greenland was still colder than shit, even if spring had finally started making its presence known. Next time, she needed to get bitten by a tropical werewolf, one from Tahiti or Hawaii.
She rolled to her feet, allowing his big hands to guide her upright. “I meant what I said.”
Even shook his head. “Alpha won’t negotiate on this. He said go and that’s your only choice.”
At least he pretended it was her choice and not an ultimatum.
“Then it’s a damned shame he’s the Alpha.” When she met Even’s eyes, his brief, terse nod said he got her subtext. He’d work it out and fight for the Pack leadership, but not in time to help her today. The glaring white expanse of flat snowscape was downright pretty with the sunlight bouncing off the ice-crystals and lending the illusion of warmth, but she knew there was nothing but predators out there. If a polar bear didn’t chow down on her ass, she’d freeze or starve.
“Ragnarök’s coming, no matter what Leif does. All of the Norse Gods will be riding our asses hard, out for blood.” Ragnarök, the Norse Armageddon, had been prophesied millennia ago. The seers claimed a werewolf would kill Odin, bringing about the onset of Ragnarök. That legacy had become insta-excuse for the rest of the Norse world to enslave her people. The wolves, however, were certain they’d get the job done and they’d seen signs of an impending (and successful) assassination. Not only had Leif bitten her and changed her into a werewolf, but he’d pitchforked her into the losing side in a cosmic game of office politics.
Even looked unconcerned by what might or might not be coming down the political pipeline at the Pack. Of course, he had his own power play to effect, so he probably didn’t give piss-all about their gods. “Odin’s not dead yet, for all Leif’s scheming.”
True enough. She was still appalled that their Alpha actually believed he could take on the god and win—let alone trigger the end of the world. She chewed on that while she zipped and buttoned. “Not yet doesn’t mean not ever. You and I both know it’s coming. It’s going to be us or them. All hel’s going to break loose.”
“Pretty much.” Even tugged the hood up over her head. “You know where you’re headed?”
That was when she had her light bulb moment and realized she might actually have found herself an escape clause. “What if I brought back help?”
Even shook his head. “I fight my own battles.”
She wished Leif could witness the hard glint in Even’s eyes. There was definitely a challenge in their Alpha’s not-too-distant future.
“A second lieutenant,” she suggested, scrambling for the sell. “Not to take down Leif, but some bad ass muscle to help us stand against the gods and anyone else who thinks it’s open season on the wolves because Ragnarök must be averted at all costs and yadda yadda?”
“Who?” Even sounded downright unconvinced. He’d always preferred to work alone. “What fighters do you know in the other Packs, sweetling?”
Of course, they also both knew that he
r mouth tended to get the best of her. She never knew when to shut up. But…this could work. She knew it.
Think.
“My mate,” she said, pulling the words out of thin air and desperation.
“Uh-huh.” This time, Even didn’t bother to hide the skepticism in his voice. “And he would be?”
“A Viking. A Berserker.” She didn’t know too much about the near-immortal berserkers, but the little she did know from her pit-fighting days said the males were the perfect warrior breed to stand by her side and help her kick some Alpha ass. After all, her Viking neighbor had won every single pit match during their Vegas days. She didn’t remember too much of her own fights, but she’d heard that he’d been paired against the most vicious and deadly fighters. Plus, everyone knew that Odin was downright scared of the crazy fighters Loki had created. He’d been testing them, or so the grapevine claimed. He wanted to know for certain whether or not they were hot-blooded, unstoppable killers without an iota of mercy in them. She was fairly certain she knew how those tests had turned out.
The Vikings had a kill count that made the werewolves in her Pack look like lapdogs.
Even smoothed her hair away from her face and pressed his mouth against the bruise on her cheekbone. Sweet warmth followed the dull ache of pain. That was life. Everything had a price—and a side of hurt.
“The Vikings don’t work for free and I’ve never met one who’d do it for love. Who’s going to pay their price?”
“I am.” Somehow. No idea, honestly, but something would come to her. The universe owed her that much. Her Viking’s face flashed through her thoughts. He’d been helpful, with a side of surly. Maybe she could convince him to do it again…
Even stepped away from her, crunching over the snow toward the row of snowmobiles lined up on the outer edge of their camp. Keys flashed as he tossed her a set. Their Alpha would take that act of generosity out of his flesh later. She couldn’t afford to regret the ride, however, as it was her only hope of making it to the berserkers’ keep. Their particular corner of Greenland came with no roads and no public transit, which was undoubtedly why the Vikings hadn’t bothered to conceal the presence of their keep. Covering the four hundred miles between the Pack’s lair and the Vikings’ keep would have been impossible on foot.
