Edge of Control: (Viking Dystopian Romance)

by Megan Crane

  She wasn’t about to cry about that annoying shit either. And it irritated her that some part of her clearly wished she could, and more than usual this past, rough month. Or maybe what she truly wished was what she’d danced around out there on the hillside earlier—that she was someone else. Some other weak, soft female who could surrender to the sharp, jagged thing that sometimes swelled inside her chest and, if it was a sob, let it out.

  But wishing was for pampered children and whiny little bitches who didn’t know how to make their own way in this doomed and leftover world, not for a warrior of the clan. Not for her. And the truth was, Eiryn had grown out of that kind of softness long before she’d learned how to wield a blade.

  She was still standing apart from the rest when her oldest half-brother Gunnar swung into view some time later, a bloodied ax held loosely in one hand, his blue eyes like smoke, and his dark braids and beard wild against his light skin. He was with Jurin, who had as many freckles on his pale face as kills to his name, and who drowned out the sound of the snapping trees in the distance with his boisterous big voice and bright red hair. Tyr, the prick of a war chief himself, strode in behind them with another captive that he added to the pile with a hard shove. Tyr was built like the powerhouse he was, shit-kicking strong from his steely dark gaze set against golden skin to his heavy muscles and warrior’s ease of movement. Every inch of him shouted out the fact he was a commander, though Eiryn still thought of him as her enemy first, and it didn’t help that he picked her out of the darkness with a single harsh glance.

  That he was as annoyed as Riordan had been that she wasn’t with the king the way she was supposed to be—if not more, given he basically lived with his head up Wulf’s ass—was as obvious as if he’d shouted it. Not that he had to shout. Tyr was the kind of man who could be heard above any racket, if he chose. His mouth flattened into a line, that hard, dark gaze of his punching into hers from across the fire.

  Eiryn stared back stonily, not so much as lifting her chin in an acknowledgment she didn’t want to give him. She didn’t care what Tyr thought, either. She hadn’t in years and there was no reason to start now.

  It was only when another man appeared from the woods some time later that she moved from her position, something sharp and greasy and uncomfortably close to guilt kicking in as she did.

  Wulf. Her blood kin. Her king.

  Her job, which she’d neglected for no good reason tonight. Or no reason she could explain to anyone’s satisfaction, anyway.

  His blue eyes blazed in the dark as he strode down the last bit of the hill toward the fire, his customary laziness that he wielded like armor entirely absent tonight. He wore a single, thick braid instead of the many braids the rest of them favored. It somehow made him appear even more regal than he already was, despite the fact his usually fair skin was streaked with blood and soot.

  He looked brutal and elegant at once, lit up from within with violence and fury. He looked exactly like the warrior king he was.

  Wulf was not the largest or brawniest of the brotherhood, but that hardly mattered. He was obviously and inarguably the king. He was a gracefully wicked blade where Gunnar was an ax, Tyr a hefty broad blade suitable for taking down packs of men in one swing, and Riordan that damned scimitar he loved so much. Wulf was dressed for battle tonight, his leather harness making him look even longer, leaner, and tougher than usual as it stretched across his broad chest. And that astonishing power he held and exuded in equal measure was like its own fire, bright and hot and unmistakable, drowning out any other flames in the vicinity.

  All the brothers fell silent, out of respect or deference or, in Eiryn’s case, because she hadn’t been shooting off her mouth in the first place.

  Wulf tossed a hard glance around the gathered group, and Eiryn was certain he was taking stock of who waited there for him. Tallying up injuries and losses in a swift instant before he drew his blade and crouched down in front of the two captives where they waited. They looked as if they would have shrunk away from him if they could, despite the fact there was nothing but a ring of fire and a set of raiders behind them—still, it was likely a more appealing choice than a pissed-off raider king.

  Wulf didn’t point his blade at them. He didn’t have to. He merely held it in a loose grip as he squatted down before them in the dirt, all of his considerable attention focused on the two brawny men with their shaved heads and their arms bound behind them. His mouth curved as he studied them, but not in any way that a sane person would call friendly.

  “Did you try to blow me up?” he asked, almost casually. Almost as if he thought it was a joke, though only a suicidal blind man would think the steel-packed fury before them was kidding. About anything. “Because it turns out I’m not a big fan of explosions when they happen in my fucking face.”

  The two captives exchanged an alarmed sort of look.

  “We weren’t after you,” Riordan’s captive hurried to assure him. “Our orders were to destroy the temple, that’s all.”

  “We didn’t expect anyone else to be here,” the second man chimed in, too quickly. “Where the hell did you come from? We didn’t get paid enough to mess with raiders.”

  “I’m touched that we command a higher price for your compromised blades,” Wulf murmured, still with that dangerous curve to his mouth. “How many are you?”

  “There were five,” Tyr belted out. “Now there are only these two douchebags.”

  Eiryn was closer to the war chief now, having moved around the edges of the group almost without meaning to, the better to put herself where she should have been already—at Wulf’s side. And it still took getting used to, that Tyr wasn’t responsible for crippling her father. That he’d done it, yes, but only at Wulf’s command. She’d spent so long hating Tyr and plotting the many satisfyingly bloody ways she’d make him pay that it was hard to let go. Her years of black hatred hung between them like the thick, choking smoke from the temple fire and maybe she liked it that way, because she didn’t do anything to rein it in.

  Tyr slid a hard look at her, then returned his attention to the grim little scene playing out before them.

  Any other member of the brotherhood might have felt chastened by that, as they were meant to do. But Eiryn had never answered to Tyr like the rest of them. Not once she’d survived her prospective period and her trial year in the brotherhood. And certainly not since she’d claimed her place as Wulf’s bodyguard.

  She might not be feeling that place any longer, but that didn’t mean she wanted to put herself back under the war chief’s command. He was a celebrated hard-ass and she’d already had enough of that from her blood—and her one goddamned mistake—to last her a lifetime.

  Eiryn knew better than to think about Riordan again, however briefly. She was incapable of not looking over at him once she did, which she knew was a mistake even as she did it. And the fact she found him in exactly one half-second in the dark, smoky night with a fire in the way was not, as she tried to tell herself, because she’d been paying such close attention to everyone and everything the way she should have been.

  It was that thing. That goddamned chain that maybe only she could see still connected them. That terrible pull that tugged at her no matter what she wanted.

  He haunted her without even trying, the asshole.

  Worse, when she found him there on the other side of the fire, arms crossed over that mighty chest of his and his legs in a fighting stance, he was looking right at her. His dark, knowing gaze was torture. It gleamed and it tore through her, and it took every bit of willpower she had to hold it a moment. To keep her face still and blank as she did. And then to look away as if she was bored straight down to her bones.

  She’d been telling herself it would get easier around him for almost ten years now. Fingers crossed that happens one of these days, she thought darkly. Any. Fucking. Day.

  “Listen,” the first mercenary was saying, his voice cracking as he spoke, which made a few of the brothers bellow with la
ughter. “We have no trouble with you.”

  “Tough shit,” Jurin boomed out, making both mercenaries flinch. “We have trouble with you, motherfuckers. That’s what happens when you try to blow a raider party straight into hell.”

  “Who hired you?” Wulf asked when Jurin’s voice faded away, his own tone mild. Faintly inquisitive, if that. He looked casual and mildly bored as he squatted there, his blade dangling from his hands as if he’d forgotten about it.

  But there was nothing but murder in his gaze.

  Maybe that was why the mercenaries—who usually tended not to be a particularly chatty group of assholes, in Eiryn’s experience over any number of battlefields these last few years—fell all over themselves to answer. It was a garbled mess of western highlands and the big one until Wulf held up a lazy hand.

  “One at a time,” he ordered them, precious little casual about him then.

  “The church,” the first mercenary threw out. “It was the church.”

  “The whole church?” Wulf sounded dubious. “That seems unlikely. This is one of their temples.”

  “No. A bishop or some shit,” the other mercenary said. He spat blood into the fire. “The head of the Great Lake Cathedral.”

  “Bishop Seph,” Gunnar growled from somewhere to Eiryn’s right. There was a low muttering from another part of the loose ring of raiders, as they all filled each other in on Gunnar’s recent adventures with the runaway nun who’d known that particular bishop back in her obedient days.

  Eiryn exchanged an unfriendly look with Tyr in lieu of a discussion and figured they both knew the story as well as anyone. No need to trot it out now like all the other, gossipy brothers who were really just looking for a reason to remind themselves and each other that when they’d first laid eyes on Gunnar’s nun, beautiful the way the church’s chosen pussy were always beautiful, she’d been stark naked save for the collar and metal chain she wore. Horny bastards.

  The mercenary frowned. “You know him? Cold, reedy fucker. That stupid landing strip beard thing on his chin, like all of them.”

  But Wulf didn’t answer him. He spun his blade between his hands and then rose to his feet, still smiling slightly as he did, and the mercenary’s voice trailed off.

  Wulf shot a glance at Tyr, who nodded as if his king had issued a set of orders, and then Wulf exchanged a longer, darker look with Gunnar. Eiryn told herself there was no reason at all she should care what sort of things her half-brothers were communicating to each other like that. Gunnar had wanted to kill Wulf a month ago, but what the hell. Things changed, apparently.

  Eiryn wouldn’t mind chipping away at Wulf a little bit herself. Not to kill him, necessarily. He was decent king. But he was a shitty older brother and it turned out there was a little sister inside her after all. A bloodthirsty one.

  Though she’d rather die than show that side of herself. To anyone.

  “To the ships.” Tyr’s voice rang out. “We’ll camp on the beach tonight. Ellis, take your thumb out of your ass and put this fire out. Jurin, do a run to see if these assholes left any of their crappy guns lying around. Gunnar can use the scrap metal.”

  But Eiryn stopped listening to the war chief and his usual barked orders, because Wulf turned to her. Making it clear he’d known her precise position all along. The look he fixed on her, his bright blue eyes electric and shocking in the dark, was as steady as it was unnerving.

  “Walk with me,” he said quietly.

  It wasn’t an invitation.

  Eiryn fell into her usual place at his shoulder without comment, one quick step behind him. Wulf walked with the same lethal grace that infused everything he did, his long strides eating up the distance and his sharp gaze moving from one dark shadow to the next, cataloguing any potential danger without any conscious thought. She knew, because she did the same.

  He didn’t speak, and that was much worse than a lecture. She could handle anything that came at her, but waiting for it to come was like splinters under her nails. She gritted her teeth and kept going, trying to figure out if it made tactical sense to speak first. To offer an apology for abandoning her post or some excuse. He wouldn’t believe either one, of course, but it might be good strategy. Then again, it might just piss him off.

  She was still mulling over the best approach when he stopped, on a flat ridge that rose up over the water. The cove where they’d anchored their ships was still a little bit down the coast. The moonlight bounced off the two sleek crafts a distance offshore, bobbing idly with the tide. On the beach, those who’d stayed behind from the temple raid had lit a bonfire and when the wind changed, Eiryn thought she smelled meat. They hadn’t brought any fresh game with them on the weeklong journey from the eastern islands, which meant someone had gone hunting while she was running down a rambling old mountain, trying to avoid incineration.

  She had no idea why that struck her as poignant. Life going on the way it always did, even in this drowned world in the middle of a botched mission and a deadly explosion, while she’d stood there debating whether or not to pretend she was dead.

  Wulf didn’t look at her. He stared out toward the dark, inky sea instead, and Eiryn told herself it was the wind that made her neck prickle. The remnants of the temple, acrid and harsh on the smoky breeze. Not the still, furious way her half-brother held himself, as if he was moments away from carrying out her execution right here where they stood. Not the pulsing temper she could see written all over his lean, powerful frame.

  “If I can’t trust you,” he said softly, so quietly she almost thought she’d imagined it, “then you’re of no use to me. You might as well declare yourself my enemy. And if you are my enemy, there’s no particular reason not to slit your throat and dump you over this cliff, is there?”

  Eiryn didn’t defend herself. There was no point. The truth was, she should have made sure he was safe and she didn’t. She’d run. The temple had gone up and she’d been gone. She hadn’t even thought about him until she’d stopped.

  And there was a time when that tone in his voice—not quite a threat, not yet—would have rocked her. Killed her. She would have done anything to prove to him that she was trustworthy. That he could trust her above all others.

  That she was nothing like their father.

  But that was gone. Smoke. Eiryn noticed the great, gaping hole inside of her where her need to please Wulf had been with a kind of distant numbness. What did any of it matter? Her whole life was a lie and her half-brother, her king, had known it. Hell, he’d perpetuated it.

  Deliberately. As if her years of loyalty bought her nothing from him, not even the simple courtesy of the truth.

  “Maybe I don’t trust you,” she said.

  It wasn’t exactly treason, quiet and yet distinct against the night. But it was profoundly stupid.

  Eiryn steeled herself as Wulf turned toward her, slowly, his bright blue eyes blazing with something hard and complicated that she couldn’t read. She saw her fate in the grim line of his mouth, but she wasn’t afraid.

  Maybe that was what was wrong with her. She’d stopped being afraid. And this was a big, bad, ruined world filled with nothing but scary things and their scarier cousins, all lined up to eat a person alive if they could. Having no fear wasn’t brave or courageous. It was suicide.

  “Then we have a problem, little sister,” he told her, and there was nothing lazy about him any longer. Wulf was steel and mayhem, all the way through, and Eiryn knew she was screwed. “We have a big fucking problem.”

  2

  Riordan didn’t watch Eiryn walk into the dark woods with a clearly pissed-off Wulf, which could very well be a walk to her death or some other severe reprimand for her behavior. He forced himself to look anywhere but at her retreating back.

  What happened out there was none of his business. No matter if tonight was the night Wulf had finally had enough of her shit. How the king of the raider clan handled one of the warriors pledged to serve him, who was moreover his very own blood sister, could no
t possibly concern or involve Riordan less.

  He slapped his trademark grin on his face and laughed at Jurin as the redheaded behemoth got ready to trudge off to gather up any stray, pointless guns left behind by the idiot mercenaries, as ordered. Because bombs could go off in supposedly abandoned temples, Eiryn could stand in a clearing with her blade drawn like Riordan was the one who’d set the charge, and still, nothing would shake the brotherhood more than if Riordan didn’t keep his easygoing mask in place.

  No one needs that much intensity, kid, Amos, the old war chief, had told Riordan years ago when he’d been thirteen years old, grappling with his guilt and his ambition and his own rapidly changing body in equal measure. He’d tried to kill himself in every bladecraft or sailing lesson, certain he’d needed to prove his worth daily for the clan to keep him around, and he’d otherwise been an odd, lonely boy who punished himself by staying aloof from the rest of the clan kids his age. Lock that shit up, put a smile on your face for five seconds, and believe me, this will all get a lot easier.

  Riordan had taken those words as gospel, and no matter the unlikely, grizzled, and potentially deeply evil source.

  He’d started grinning. Just grinning while carrying on doing exactly what he’d always done, and it was amazing how many more people wanted to talk to him, adults and kids his own age alike. He hadn’t changed a single thing about the way he’d approached his lessons or his life in the nursery, and yet, with a smile on his face, he’d been clearly enjoying himself—not overly dark and serious or worse, strange. It had been revolutionary. It was how he and the always magnetic, compelling Wulf had become friends before either one of them had been a brother, much less a king.

  “I left a few waterlogged shotguns that way,” he told Jurin now, nodding in the vague direction of the clearing where he’d taken his captive down. He kept grinning like he was at a party, and hated that once again, Eiryn had gotten under his skin. Because normally these days he didn’t notice if he was acting or not. He was the Riordan people thought he was. Except when it came to her, damn her. “They didn’t help him much.”