Taming the Alpha

by Mandy M. Roth

  With what? Shyla looked around for a weapon, any weapon. She didn’t own any guns. Her kitchen knives would have done about as much damage as a toothpick to this guy. She took the camera off and threw it, praying.

  It bounced off Skrymir’s shin and rolled to the floor.

  Well, I’m fresh out of ideas. Shyla knew she was the worst cosmic fighter in history.

  Skrymir seemed to know this. He grinned at her, his teeth a motley assortment of shapes and sizes, the colors ranging from brown to yellow. His breath was ghastly cold and just as malodorous as the rest of him. “Some Queen of the Valkyries you are proving yourself to be, daughter of the mountain.” He sneered. An icicle booger oozed from his nose. He snorted it back. “Yum. Tastes like goat.”

  Shyla tried not to gag. Then thought, Queen of the Valkyries? Is that what they want me to be?

  The Giant’s laughter shook the building. Shyla and Rig grabbed hold of each other to keep their feet.

  “Do you want to know what I see when I look at you?” Skrymir taunted. “What everyone sees? An ugly little girl who scares children on the street with her horrible disfigurement.”

  Shyla’s heart squeezed into a knot of shame.

  “You’re a monster, Shyla Roth. You’ll always be known as that photographer who had her face melted off in Antarctica—”

  Rig grabbed Shyla’s shoulders and shook her. She hadn’t realized it, but she’d been swaying on her feet. “Look at me, Shyla. Look at me!”

  She did. Through her tears, meeting his vivid Azurite gaze, she was able to come back to herself.

  “Can you see me?”

  She nodded.

  He hurriedly divested himself of his coat. Beneath it, he wore a form fitting, black tee shirt. Despite the crazy circumstances she found herself in, she couldn’t help but admire his physique. “Look at my scars. Do they make me a monster?”

  His arms were covered in what looked like ritual scarring. Etched tattoos of runic symbols, designs reminiscent of those she had encountered in various places throughout the world.

  Skrymir guffawed. “Those puny little scratches, Aesir? You can hide them away from the world—Shyla must always bare her ugliness to the gazes of all!” He appeared to think for a moment. “Or she could wear a mask.” He howled with laughter.

  Shyla cringed, the Jotun’s glee so loud it almost drowned out the sounds of people screaming in the surrounding apartments.

  “Hurry, Shyla,” Rig urged her. “We can’t be caught here like this.”

  “Or you can come with me,” Skrymir said helpfully, his vile teeth flashing behind a wide smile. “Utgard is pleasant this time of year. Well, no, that’s a lie. It’s never pleasant—at least not for humans. Too cold, I think. But if you come with me, I’ll leave these mortals be.”

  Shyla ignored him. Her eyes had fallen on their salvation. Muninn’s claws dug into her shoulders as if to say, “Yes, yes, there is your weapon.”

  Shyla’s fingers itched the second her gaze fell on that strange, bladeless hilt in Rig’s belt. Without thinking twice, she reached for it, grasped it in her hand…

  Rage swallowed her whole.

  ***

  In the very same instant Shyla gripped the hilt of his sword and pulled it free, Rig was seared in place by a blistering heat and shimmering light that roared out of her skin. Every pore blazed with golden fire.

  Hofund was in her hand, awake, the blade gleaming like a shimmering silver star.

  “That’s not possible,” he rasped. His throat was as dry as desert sand. “Hofund is mine alone to command.”

  But he could not deny what he saw with his own eyes. The gods must think her strong enough to entrust the use of his sword—or they were fools, forgetting in their haste what Hofund could do to its wielder—because Shyla swung the weapon and leapt for Skrymir. A contrail of heat followed her, scorching splinters of wood, melting bits of plastic.

  She sliced her way up Skrymir’s massive foot and the Jotun roared. The earth shook with his rage. He grabbed for her and missed.

  Rig shadowed her, praying he did not burn to death in her wake or fall prey to a flailing Giant’s fist. If he had thought her agile or fast before it was nothing compared to how Shyla moved now, infused with the power of the Valkyrie Queen and Hofund.

  Every time her foot landed upon the Enemy she left a spreading mark of blistering fire. It ate into the cold and frost that was the Giant’s greatest armor. She was fighting Fire against Frost. It was an ingenious strategy. However, Rig did not think it was on purpose. He knew too well the power of instinct once the gods’ gifts sang through the mortal form. He prayed Shyla could reign in the aftermath of victory.

  If she lived to see it.

  Skrymir was not to be defeated so easily as with a few stabs of an enchanted blade, even by one so blessed as the Valkyrie Queen. His next blow slammed into Shyla and sent her soaring.

  She screamed, landed against a buckling support with a dull thud and was silenced.

  Skrymir laughed and stomped his uninjured foot, breaking through the floor. Rig and the Jotun plummeted.

  Rig rode the foul smelling bastard down several stories, through concrete and glass. He held tight to a frozen tuft of Skrymir’s hair and when they landed, used it to swing up and kick him in the eye with his steel-toed boot.

  His foot took out the eye, sent it out like a ball, and Skrymir screamed in raw, agonized rage. He grabbed his empty socket, trapping Rig in his freezing, hairy palms as he clutched his injury.

  Rig grabbed a dagger he kept in his boot and stabbed deep into the tender webbing between the behemoth’s thumb and forefinger. A river of freezing, cold blood splashed him in the face. Skrymir jerked in surprise and opened his hands.

  “Foul Aesir, you bit me!” He cried, comically shaking his hand. Great round barrel loads of blood splashed from the wound.

  Rig fell, rolling down the behemoth’s legs and feet. He landed flat against a pile of rubble, what might have once been a bathroom wall. Dazed, he watched as the monster’s blood crashed in icy pools around him.

  A light descended behind the Jotun’s filthy head.

  For a moment it looked like the Enemy had a golden halo.

  Shyla landed on Skrymir’s head and Hofund sang through the air with a graceful sweep of her arm. The blade came down, sank into skin and sliced through bone. It cut through cleanly in one stroke. Shyla spun, jumped to Skrymir’s shoulder and surfed down the icy slopes of his arm before landing on the floor by Rig.

  The Giant’s one remaining eye widened in disbelief and with a slight wobble his head rolled backward. It landed on the ground, shattering into a thousand pebbles of ice.

  Skrymir’s remains froze over until the corpse resembled arctic snowcaps. Rig was beside her at once. The heat and glow around Shyla was already dissipating, leaving Rig cold. There wasn’t much time to intervene. He reached for Hofund.

  Before he touched the mischievous blade, the mountain of ice shattered, pushing them back. Snowflakes fell about them in a lazy flurry of white and Shyla cried out and fell to her knees with the hilt of the sword clutched in her hands. Her knuckles were white, the tendons in her hands straining.

  “Oh shit,” Rig said. He bent and took her in his arms. He held her tight. “Hang on, angel. I’ve got you.”

  Chapter Nine

  Shyla didn’t know if she wanted to kill Rig or screw his brains out and because she couldn’t tell the two emotions apart—psychotic bloodlust and fiery, carnal lust—she was terrified.

  The feel of his arms around her was pretty amazing, though. So she went with that. It seemed the sanest course of action.

  While the sword burned into the palm of her hand, flashing all sorts of crazy colors—some she’d later swear didn’t exist—she turned in his arms and offered her lips to his. Their mouths met in a kiss that consumed even as it healed.

  Oh yes. This is exactly what I needed.

  Shyla’s terror abated and in its place her libido roared to a
we-inspiring life. Every ache and pain, bruise and scrape she’d sustained in the fight, disappeared. Nothing mattered else in that moment.

  The taste of him was hot in her mouth. He was pushing at her clothes. She was tearing away at his. The building was falling apart around them and Shyla couldn’t have cared less if it landed on top of them, so long as he landed on top of her first.

  Snow fell on their sweat-dampened skin, sizzling. Their flesh was finally naked against each other’s. A pocket of silence enveloped them. This was their world, their moment.

  An amulet, some charm he wore on a bronze chain around his neck, tickled her face as he moved over her. It was sexy as hell.

  His fingers knew where to touch her. His lips knew where to press and nibble. His tongue was wet, licking fire that darted out to tease her nipples to hard, stinging points.

  Shyla panted for breath and his scent was there, in her nose and mouth, filling her lungs. He was in her blood like a fever. She shivered, imagining him turning beneath her skin, as if he’d crawled into her and nestled there.

  His fingers slipped into the wetness between her legs. That touch alone was worth more than any orgasm she’d ever experienced. She thrashed beneath him. Rig growled at her throat and she knew a thrill of danger. He was deadly and she reveled in that.

  She ran her hand over him, sensing the barely leashed power in his muscles and the sinuous movements of his body as he moved over her, learning her shape and form.

  Rig kneaded her breasts. Teased her nipples to aching points. Kissed her belly until it quivered. Breathed deep her scent and released it with a growl that rattled her bones. Rig wasn’t just a pretty face; he was the whole package, reveling in every nuance of her, openly enjoying her. He was a sexual lush. In turn everything about him aroused her. Skin, hair, breath, stubble, torso, cock—all that he possessed became a tool for seduction that he used with wicked skill.

  When he spread her legs wide, hooking her knees over his hips, Shyla was moaning so loud her voice was straining. Her hips undulated, seeking a deeper joining. Rig was positioning himself against her, giving her exactly what she wanted.

  He leaned over her, looked her in the eye and said, “I’m going to be the best you’ve ever had.”

  With one powerful thrust of his pelvis he shoved himself into the heart of her. Shyla didn’t moan, she screamed. Earth shattering orgasms ripped through her. Shyla’s body split open, mended and rent again. Rig milked every ounce of pleasure from her and demanded more.

  Tremors moved through her, squeezing Rig’s cock, and she melted around him like caramel in the sun. Her hips moved fluidly, as if they had a mind of their own, heightening her pleasure, until tears seeped from her eyes. She matched his pace, moving with a grace she’d never possessed before now. He made her body dance. Shyla met him thrust for thrust, taking the power of his demands, returning it with some power of her own. Silken sweetness eased his way between her legs, smooth and slick. Her body wept, wet with ecstasy.

  They fit together as if made for one another.

  He lasted just a few more deep, slow thrusts and then he, too, found release. He spoke at her ear, his voice deep and husky. She didn’t understand the language but whatever he was saying made her heart speed up faster.

  The intricate designs on his arms began to glow a vibrant blue, the exact shade of his eyes.

  She put her arms around him—realizing she was still holding the sword, she let it go—and clutched him to her. She put her legs around him and held on tight, listening to him murmur as the last of her body’s tremors played out.

  His breathing eventually slowed. Hers matched his, she realized. The glow in his skin faded, but she couldn’t get the beautiful, swirling designs out of her mind.

  The scrape of his stubble scratched her jawbone and he pressed a sweet kiss to her ear. Her body pulsed with tremors of pleasure. Rig’s hands moved down the length of her body, repeatedly stroking her, soothing her.

  God, he’s amazing! Shyla was putty under him, relaxed as she’d never been in her life.

  Something crashed to the floor nearby. Rolled close. Reality was intruding.

  No. No, lets stay this way. She tensed and gripped him again, tight, as if that would keep the world at bay.

  It didn’t. Siren’s wailed in the distance.

  “We have to go,” Rig said. He pulled away, leaving her cold. He went to retrieve whatever it was that had landed so close to them. Shyla was speechless when he handed her the camera—more so to find it unscathed after all that had happened.

  Rig seemed to understand her shock and gathered their clothes in silence, giving her time to process the impossible. Shyla—again—had to get past the enormity of a major life shift that had happened in a very short a time and move on. Fast.

  “Damn it,” she murmured.

  “What?” Rig snapped to attention, glancing about for a threat.

  “I didn’t get any photos of my house falling down!”

  He gave her a look of utter incredulity. “Seriously?”

  She shrugged and accepted the clothes Rig brought her. She dressed in record time, putting the camera strap around her neck where it belonged. Still, she paused to watch him put his sword into a loop on his leather belt. It was etched with weird symbols.

  The palm of her hand stung. She looked down to see a fresh, raw mark, one matching the style of the symbols in Rig’s belt. The last of her post-coital glow faded. “What the fuck?”

  Rig took her hand in his. He had a long, thin splinter in his hand. He didn’t give her a chance to protest, he stuck the splinter into her flesh and drew a design around the mark. Her skin flared with pain and fresh blood welled.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Shh. Watch.” He said.

  Her blood spilled past the edges of the design he had drawn into her flesh, then flooded over the mark. Her pain eased some. Rig used the edge of his shirt to wipe her blood away.

  She gasped. “Where did it go?”

  “Better you ask where it came from. It came from using Hofund.” He gestured to the hilt in his belt. “Don’t ever use it again. I may not be able to protect you so easily in the future, understand?”

  “Protect me?” Shyla caught the forbidding look in his face and steered clear of her questions, nodding in agreement. “I was just doing what Muninn wanted me to—”

  “I don’t care if Odin himself tells you to take up my sword. The price is too steep.” He led her out of the debris, into the last remains of what might have been a hallway and out into the open air beyond. The bright light of day hit Shyla’s eyes like railway spikes.

  She squinted. The building was a wreck. Basically a ruin.

  Rig continued, “Our brethren will provide you with a weapon, if you decide to fight at our side. You won’t need to use Hofund again.”

  She knew her lips were stretched around a mad grin. “Hell yeah I’m going fight beside you, are you kidding me? What a rush! My God, did you see wha—”

  Rig skidded to a stop and rounded on her. “Consider carefully before you decide, Shyla. There is a cost for that rush.”

  “Oookay.” She drew the word out, confused. Wasn’t he supposed to want her to take up his little cause? “What’s the cost?”

  His expression, so full of concern and maybe even a little anger, suddenly closed down. Blanked out. “I can’t tell you.”

  “Can’t?” She prodded.

  “It is different for everyone. I shouldn’t have said anything.” He hedged, turning on his heel to lead them onto an open sidewalk far away from the rubble and emergency personnel.

  Shyla grabbed his arm and yanked, forcing him to slow. She dug in her heels, but he wouldn’t stop. “Does it have anything to do with my becoming the Queen of the Valkyries?” She yelled.

  That froze Rig in his tracks.

  “Ha! So Skrymir wasn’t lying.”

  Rig took her by the shoulders and backed her up against a brick wall. “Don’t say his name aloud again
.” He hissed. “You may have slain him on this plane, but do not assume for one second that he’s gone. His kind aren’t like mortals, they don’t just die. You’ve merely set him back and when he’s recovered, he’ll be back. Saying his name will only make it easier for him to find you.”

  Shyla bristled. “But he did call me Queen of the Valkyries—”

  “Which you are not.”

  Was that relief in Rig’s azure eyes? Even after mind-blowing sex with him she couldn’t read this guy. “So what do they want me to be in Ragnarok?”

  Rig thrust his hand through his hair, tousling it rakishly. Shyla let her fingers curl and tried not to wish it was her hand doing the tousling.

  “You’re not making my job easy, angel.”

  “What exactly is your job, Rig?” She snapped. “Jerking my chain? One second you’re in my face, staring at my scars, the next you’re boning me like I’m one of your pretty girlfriends—”

  “When I first saw you in the bar last night I had no idea why you were so pissed off at me. Now I realize you thought I was staring at your face—and I was. But it had nothing to do with your scars, you stupid creature.” He growled.

  “The first thing I noticed was how vivid and alive you are. It drew me to you in a way none of those women ever could. Gods! I saw your beauty and your fire and I wanted it for my own. Those tracks in your skin are so far down the list of things I noticed, they don’t even deserve a mention.”

  “But you did notice them.” A soft voice interrupted their tiff.

  Rig let out a long-suffering sigh and turned to face the speaker.

  Shyla looked past him to see a broad shouldered, gray haired, surprisingly well groomed, hippie.

  He was dressed in a tie-dyed shirt and pressed jeans. His hair was pulled back into a ponytail, a crow’s feather sticking out of the queue at a rakish angle. His salt and pepper beard was trimmed close to his face. He wore surfer bracelets on both wrists, perhaps a dozen, made of rope, hemp and leather. There was a bronze hoop through one ear and a matching charm in the shape of a Nordic hammer on a leather necklace around his neck.