by Kira Brady
Ishtar be merciful.
He seized her hands and pinned them over her head. His aggression sent a thrill through her. She tried to move her hips ever so slightly. Friction. She needed friction. But he wouldn’t budge. “Is this what you want, Grace? A little brimstone to scorch the sheets?” His hold tightened.
Her breathing hitched. Yes. No. Maybe. This was it. In about five minutes, she wouldn’t have to play this game ever again. They could scratch this thing out, and then she would be free.
“I know you’re thinking of my brother,” he growled, breath hot against her crown. “But I’m not him.”
She hadn’t been thinking of anyone other than the gorgeous, angry man on top of her. He smelled so good.
“The thing is, Grace, you don’t hate me. You want me—”
She could say no, but they both knew that would be a lie. Her nipples hardened.
“—and you hate yourself for it.”
She hated the needy way he made her feel. He slid her defenses right out from under her. She was happy being alone, independent, until he came along and ruined it all. He made her want dreamy, impossible things. He made her start believing in fairy tales again, and they didn’t fucking exist. Not for her. Not for anyone.
Dragons existed. Monsters existed. But true love and happily ever after? Like her parents had? Like Kayla and Hart?
It hurt too much to believe in.
She was always strong except when it mattered. Weak for those gorgeous, lying, bastard Drekar. Manipulated.
Suddenly she was sixteen again and Norgard was whispering sweet nothings in her ear, and she couldn’t take it anymore. “Get off!” She pushed at his chest. Asgard didn’t budge. His hard body pressed her down into the soft comforter until all she could see was him.
“I am not my brother.” His voice held power. It reverberated through his chest, sending waves of desire down her breasts to the crux of her thighs. “You don’t have the courage to take what you want, and I won’t take it by force. Not even if you asked me to.”
“I don’t want—”
“Either you tell me you want it as badly as your body does, or nothing. There will be no half-truths. A part of you wants me to hold you down, just so you can say it wasn’t you. I am not that man.”
“Asgard—”
His body left her abruptly, leaving a chill in its place. His anger drove him across the room. The ache between her thighs intensified. Don’t go.
When he reached the door, he turned to look at her over his shoulder. A thin shaft of light from the window illuminated his gorgeous hair. It was a fiery halo around a face carved from stone. She’d never seen him so focused. “You will come to me willingly or not at all. I won’t wait forever. My name is Leif. Use it.”
He slammed the door on the way out. A crack broke in the door frame and ran up the wall and across the ceiling. Pieces of plaster rained down.
Grace couldn’t move. There was so much want, but she clung to the shreds of her hatred. Why? It wasn’t like her to deny herself. She knew life was short. She had to face it: she was afraid. Her hatred protected her, and Leif wanted to strip her bare. What would be left of her once he’d uncovered her vulnerable core? What if she wasn’t strong enough on her own to hold herself up?
He’d slipped out of the iron box she tried to stuff him and her feelings into, and he refused to go back in.
“Leif,” she tried the name out. So personal. So exposed.
The gold bands on her upper arms burned. They could never meet as equals as long as he owned her soul. She would always be his blood slave and he, her master.
She had already been through the relationship wringer. She had built up her daydreams and offered over her fragile teenage heart on a platter. Norgard had crushed it, after he’d sucked all the life out of it. She didn’t believe in love anymore. Two people could never meet as equals.
What if Leif did the same thing? If, after she submitted to him willingly, he laughed in her face? She didn’t want to stop hating him, because deep down she suspected he was everything she’d ever dreamed in her silly little girl fantasies.
Leif was hotter than Thor, smart, and honorable.
Norgard had never been able to break her, but Leif was different. If she let herself fall for him, she was done for.
Chapter 18
After swinging past Thor’s Hammer to pick up Bear and her bike, Grace went home. It wasn’t home to her anymore, of course. It hadn’t been for a long time. But when things got bad and she needed to think, she always came back here, to the little yellow house overlooking Lake Washington, where on a clear day she used to watch the Mountain stretching into the sky.
She would climb into the apple tree when no one was home and imagine the bulbs her mom always planted pushing their way out of the rich dark soil between the roots of the old tree. The branches creaked in the wind, and she remembered her father tying a swing onto the strongest limb, her mother scolding the whole time about how he was going to fall to his death. But the smile he gave when he finished and they both watched Grace swing for the first time made the whole effort worthwhile.
She liked to remember them that way, her father’s arm encircling her mother’s plump waist, her mother in her black slacks and no-nonsense square-rimmed glasses letting herself lean into his embrace.
Not how they were at the end. If their ghosts hadn’t passed on to whatever afterlife they believed in, she knew they would be here, where their happiest moments had been.
The house stood vacant. One wall had collapsed in the Unraveling. The family who’d moved in after the bank had seized the house had disappeared. The paint peeled in places, showing the dull brown undercoat that her mother had hated.
Grace sat in the swing and listened to the comforting creak of the branch overhead. She turned her back on the house, letting it brighten in her memory. The wall built itself back up. The yellow filled in like a paint-by-number picture. Wooden slats grew over the gaping holes. Glass filled the windows once again. White lace curtains blew through the open casement in her upstairs bedroom. She could almost hear the grand piano as her mother plucked out Beethoven and transitioned into a Mozart sonata. Her father would be in the kitchen making gnocchi and cracking Godfather jokes. A phantom sun shone on the scene behind her, warming her back. At her feet pansies, lavender, and zinnias twined up from the ashen ground.
The cat rubbed himself against her legs. “You would have liked Mom’s music,” she told him. A dark front blew in from the south, sending whitecaps across the surface of the lake. Ash snowed softly across her vision, and she blinked away the moisture in her eye.
“She didn’t like pets, but she would have liked you. You’re both a little prickly.” Bear rested and licked his paw, seeming to say he didn’t care for the comparison. “She liked people too, but pretended not to.” Her mother liked to complain about crowds and entertaining, but she basked in the glow of an audience. Her music would light her up, some hidden ingredient making her fingers fly over the keys.
The wind whistled through holes in the empty shells of neighboring houses. Grace pretended it was the sound of her mother practicing scales. How many times had she sat out here and listened? The appetizing smell of sizzling tomatoes and garlic wafting out from the kitchen. The laughter of neighborhood children playing in the yards. The everyday ordinariness of it all. She’d thought it would never change.
“I wanted something bigger than this,” she whispered. “But only because I didn’t know how good I had it. I wanted to be a Somebody.” She laughed softly to herself. “Important, you know? And now look at me.” She was the Reaper. Not something her mother would have bragged to her bridge club about. She could imagine her mother tucking a strand of straight grey hair behind her ear and asking why she hadn’t found a nice man yet.
“You took the last one, Mom,” she whispered.
In her imagination, her mother clucked her tongue. You haven’t been looking hard enough.
“I’ve
been a little busy.”
Her mother only raised her eyebrow in that look she had. A successful surgeon, virtuoso pianist, mother and wife. Gardener, bridge player. The only thing her mother hadn’t done was cook, and that was a godsend. She was a tiger mother, and Grace had never had a chance of keeping up.
Her mother had talked to the dead, too. Her dead grandmother, to be exact. The two had had extensive arguments, and as a kid Grace had always thought her mom a little crazy.
“Grandma is dead,” she used to say.
“That doesn’t mean she can’t still nag me,” her mother would reply. And maybe she’d had it right.
Hindsight, and all that.
Bear stared at her.
“So I met this guy,” Grace started. She could see her mom’s ears perk up. Her fingers paused on the keys, only a breath before she transitioned into a soft waltz.
And? Mom would ask.
“You wouldn’t like him,” she admitted, but had to stop. Maybe, maybe not. They wouldn’t have liked Norgard, for certain, but Leif was different. He seemed . . . honorable, as hard as it was to admit it. Her parents were very big on honor.
And does he treat you well? her dad asked.
“He drives me crazy. Orders me around. Tries to wrap me up in cotton. I can’t breathe!”
Her mom nodded. He’s a good one then.
“Dad never coddled you.”
He knew what was good for him. This boy will too, you just have to tell him.
Use your words, her dad said. You Kim women never say what’s on your mind. You expect a guy to use telepathy.
Humph, her mother said.
Grace agreed.
Bear passed her again, rubbing around her legs. She reached down and scratched his head. The wind picked up, cold fingers from the north scattering the ghosts from the overgrown yard and across the deserted street.
“It’s easier to talk to dead people,” she told Bear. “Or you. You don’t talk back.”
The cat gave her a flat look.
“But I guess I can still understand you.” She pushed up from the swing and turned back to the decaying house. It was always a shock. She tried not to look at it straight on, because the memories didn’t squeeze her chest quite as hard. “Good-bye.”
Grace pulled herself together before stepping through the brass doors of Asgard’s laboratory. She had to do it quickly. Her chickenshit feet wanted to turn and run in the other direction. There was no turning back from this. The point of no return wasn’t this act of stepping across the threshold; it had been crossed long ago. She couldn’t pinpoint it exactly. When Asgard had first kissed her? When he’d ridden in on his white horse that first day in the alley with the aptrgangr? Or maybe in the council chamber, when she’d seen him sitting calmly in the hot seat while an angry mob called for his blood. He’d seemed so proud and aloof then. Like he thought he was better than the rest of them. A god among men. Gorgeous. Haughty. Cold and collected.
She had wanted to take him down at the knees just for spite.
He had worn her down with his kindness. Chipped away at her defenses with his honesty and openness. Shamed her with his generosity when she’d closed her heart to others. He wasn’t what she had expected.
Leif had added ten tables with metal suits of armor since she’d been in his lab. He bent over one of them, goggles on, a smudge across his forehead. Wielding a blowtorch, he burned a large rune in the center of the suit’s chest. He heard her enter, but pointedly didn’t look up.
She didn’t know what to say. “I’m sorry” seemed less honest, somehow, because she was still angry. But her anger was directed inward. The tangle of lust and irritation itched inside her.
She let her curiosity carry her forward. That current had always been too strong to swim against. She leaned next to him against the worktable. His scent was musk and fire. The muscles in his back and arms flexed as he directed the heavy torch.
Leif finished the rune and pulled the goggles off his head. He studied the etchings, a furrow in his brow.
“You’re doing it wrong.”
He glanced up then. “Can I help you with something?”
Ye gods, he was going to make this hard for her. Maybe he didn’t feel the same heat she did. Maybe he really was ice inside. She was surprised her heat didn’t turn him into a puddle. “Raidho, but it’s right side up. You want it reversed.”
“What do you want, Grace?” His voice was tired. He put down the torch.
She turned to face him. Great sky gods, he towered over her looking like one of Lucifer’s angels. Muscle and sweat and deliciously tousled hair. Take me, she thought. But still he didn’t touch her. Did she have to throw herself at him? “What do I want? What do you want? You’re always telling me what to do: Take command. Make up my mind. Then when I finally do, you act obtuse!”
“Are you coming on to me?” One eyebrow rose. “A soulless lizard with all the emotional depth of a rock? We wouldn’t want that.”
“I never said—”
In an instant, his icy calm dissolved. Lightning heat flared in his eyes. He lunged forward, pinning her between the mechanical suit and his hard, hot body. Her ass hit the edge of the table. His muscled legs pressed between her thighs, spreading her. Cold metal against her back. Burning man against her front. Her breathing ratcheted up. “Is this what you want? Tell me. For Freya’s sake, tell me yes now or run.”
“Yes.”
“Gods.” Her affirmation loosed a wild thing. He kissed her. Hot, wet, and out of control. He claimed her mouth like he would devour her. Ravenous, insatiable. Sensation rippled across her body. She couldn’t think with his tongue down her throat and his body consuming every spare inch of her flesh. His mouth found her neck, sending shivers down her spine.
She moaned. Freya, yes. This was what she’d been waiting for. This was what she needed. Why had she held out for so long when all this heat waited to banish every last dark thought from her mind? She could drown in him.
His hands skimmed beneath her black sweatshirt and found her corset. “Damn it, Grace. I’m going to have to liberate you from these confining gender roles.” Overwhelmed with the feel of his teeth and lips against the sensitive hollow beneath her ear, she almost didn’t notice when he ripped her corset down the front.
“Hey!” Her nipples peaked in the sudden chill. Her breasts sprang free from the binding fabric. He had uncovered her runes. They twisted across her skin like a circus freak.
He didn’t seem to mind. If anything they turned him on. He kissed each one as he explored her chest and shoulders. “I’ll buy you new clothes. A hundred. In silks and lace and leather, if you want. Gods, I’ve wanted to touch you like this.” His hot hands covered her breasts. His clever thumbs circled her areolas, narrowing in on her raised peaks. She was one spark away from a lit fuse. Her core clenched and unclenched, wet and desperate with need. She clasped her thighs around his solid legs, grinding herself into him.
“You are so beautiful,” he rasped. His graceful fingers plucked her nipples, while his mouth did wicked things to the delicate skin where her head met her neck.
“A little less talk, Asgard—”
That brought him up short. His hands froze, and she wanted to cry from the sudden deprivation. He raised his head. “I don’t think so. I told you; I won’t be a nameless fuck.”
“Leif.”
His slow grin brought to mind a tiger. A feral, hungry edge that made her basest instincts say Run, and her womanly instincts pant in heat. “Leif, what?”
“Leif . . . please.”
He slid one hand down her belly to the inseam of her pants. But there he paused.
She wanted friction. She tried to wiggle closer to those clever fingers, just an inch away from easing this aching need. His legs held her at a distinct disadvantage. A slave to his mercy, she had no leverage. “Damn it! Move your hand!”
“Say my name.”
“I already did!”
“Again. I want to make su
re I didn’t imagine it.”
“Leif! Leif! Move your damn—ughnn!” His fingers pressed through her pants to the ball of electrified nerves at her crux. Yes. Here. Finally. Move.
His hand slipped away again. “Not like this.”
“This is fine. Don’t stop—”
But he seemed to have gotten over giving her control. She’d finally stuck her hand in the dragon’s maw, and now she was in the jaws of a master. He had the power to do what he wanted with her.
Picking her up, he set her on the table so that she leaned back between the brass legs of the suit of armor. Her breasts hung free. A welcome breeze from the open air ducts high in the ceiling cooled her heated skin. He hooked her knees over the machine’s legs, one on each side, spreading her for him. The position left her open as wide as she could go, uncomfortably tight, splayed to his mercy.
He drank her in, and the hungry look in his eyes stopped her from protesting the neglect of her more sensitive areas. His look was a touch all of its own. The lust-soaked wonder in his eyes brought something small and fragile skipping to life in her breast. She didn’t want this vulnerability. This was just about sex. Nothing more.
The look on his face said he might not agree. No one had ever looked at her with such wonder.
It scared the bejesus out of her.
She tried to rekindle that fire of a moment before, but her emotions were all tangled up inside her breast. Sex and need and unrequited lust and blood and sacrifice and slavery and friendship. She didn’t know where one stopped and another began. Could she have sex without giving up her sense of self? Would she still like herself in the morning? Her brain automatically tried to extract all emotion out of the act. To protect her. To break this down moment by moment until it could be dissected and dismissed as easily as taking a piss.
“I’ve lost you,” Leif said. “Come back to me.” He stood back and ran a hand through his hair.
She didn’t want him to go. “We can still do this.” But it sounded weak even to her ears.
“Damn right we can.” He began to unbutton his shirt. Inch by golden inch, his chest came into view, his long fingers working magic on those buttons like Michelangelo’s chisel called David forth from marble. His chest gleamed, pecs defined and stomach hard, a sleek body with a panther’s grace. He unrolled his shirtsleeves and pushed the shirt off his shoulders.
