by Kate Pearce
“Snide,” Nauma chided.
Bryn widened her eyes in agreement. “Right?”
He pinched the bridge of his nose. “Kata. Frey. Focus, please.”
She spoke slowly, as if to a toddler. A stupid toddler. “We recognize her face, but don’t know her well. That’s basically what we just said.”
His reply was in the same condescending tone. “You know her well enough to know who she’s sleeping with.”
“That was more me walking into the wrong room at the wrong time. This wasn’t something you could misinterpret either. Like full-frontal fucking.” She made a face as if she’d tasted something nasty. “Never wanted that view of Frey’s junk.”
Nauma stuck out her tongue. “The gods are always less impressive than they like to claim.”
Bryn quirked her eyebrow, but said nothing. Yes, she’d seen a few. Most were no more than average in their endowments. But that wasn’t information she felt the need to share.
Val shot from his seat, rounding on Nauma. “Exactly how many gods have you been ogling?”
“Who said it was just ogling?” She licked her lips suggestively.
His face turned purple, fists clenching, jealousy written plainly on his expression. He turned on a heel and slammed out the door.
“Nice.” Holm looked impressed. “That’s faster than I’ve managed to piss anyone off in a while.”
She wrinkled her nose. “I don’t belong to him—haven’t in a million years. I guarantee he’s fucked everything that walked.”
Ivar winked, ran a hand down his muscular chest, and appeared more chipper than he had all day. “And maybe a few things that don’t.”
“No!” Nauma’s mouth went round with mingled horror and delight. “You and Valbjorn? Really?”
“No, I’m just messing with you.” He grinned like a pirate, and she swatted his arm. After a moment, his face sobered. “I met Val after what happened with you, and I could always tell that…something bad had gone down. Seriously, truly, tragically bad.”
She swallowed, glancing aside. “He never…made any mention of caring about me. It was probably just guilt because some wimpy little princess died saving his skin.”
“Keep telling yourself that if it makes you feel better.” He flicked dismissive fingers. “I have some research to do to track down Frey and this Kata chick. Go away.”
“With pleasure.” Holm heaved himself out of his chair and sauntered off.
Erik cocked his head to the side. “Someone’s coming up your driveway.”
The distant rumble of a familiar truck reached her ears. She glanced at the clock on the mantel, found it was later than she’d thought. “My stable hands are back. I’ll go talk to them about my…houseguests. And let them know I might be leaving town soon.”
“You can trust them to look after the place?” Erik set a hand on her shoulder, support radiating from the gesture. “I know how much you care for your horseflesh.”
She fought the dual urge to shrug away from him and lean into him. Wow, she really was a hot mess these days. “Yeah, they’re good people. I’ve left them alone here before when I went on buying or selling trips. They’ll take good care of my ponies.”
The truck brakes squeaked, and with the number of extra vehicles parked outside, she knew her guys would want to check in with her first. She headed for the porch and heard Erik and Nauma fall into step behind her. After a second, she heard the whir of Ivar’s wheels rolling over the hardwood floor. Apparently, they were having a welcoming party.
She pushed out the screen door onto the front porch. Holm was lounging on one of the rails, looking like a massive lion sunning himself. There was a sight to greet her farmhands, who were approaching with surprised expressions. She couldn’t say she blamed them—she’d never had a guest here in the five years they’d been working for her.
“Tom, Greg, this is Erik. He’s an old friend. And this is Holm, Ivar, and Nauma. There’s another one around here named Val.” She came down the porch steps to join the farmhands. “Let’s head to my office—I need to discuss a few things with you. You know how you guys have been saying I should get off the farm more often and take a vacation? Well, you’re about to get your wish.”
They eyed the newcomers warily, but since they were both former jockeys, they were about 5’4 and 125 pounds each soaking wet. They had a wiry strength that kept race horses in check, but they were no match for a Viking berserker. The humans might not know exactly what they were dealing with, but they could see when a guy moved like he knew how to handle himself in a fight.
Then again, she moved that way too, didn’t she?
She waved her employees towards the barn. “Come on.”
Now she just had to invent explanations the mortals would believe. Shouldn’t be too hard. She’d been lying about this kind of stuff for millennia.
6
After dinner that evening, Bryn helped her guys settle the horses for the night. They walked back across the gravel drive together, she waved them off to their cottage, and loped up her front steps. There was no sign of anyone else, so she headed for the living room. Maybe Ivar had managed to hack some international database and locate Kata. If she was even living on Earth. If she’d remained up in Asgard, Frey could take her back and forth at will. That would hose any chance of finding her.
Bryn rubbed at her temples, trying to ward off the headache that wanted to form. If the tension got to her, the horses and mortals on this farm would notice. That would make working difficult, and it wouldn’t help her stress level. She blew out a breath, tossed her braid over her shoulder, and strode into the living room.
Only Ivar sat there, scowling at his computer screen. No need to poke the angry wolf, so she tried to back out quietly.
His silver eyes—Erik’s eyes—flicked to her, pinning her in place. He sat back in his chair. “Since we met, you rarely look me in the eyes, and you always make a run for it as soon as humanly possible. Is it the wheelchair that bothers you, or just me?”
Straightening her shoulders like a soldier under review, she met his gaze squarely. As uncomfortable as the question might be, she didn’t even consider not answering it. “Neither, really. It’s that you remind me of things I’d rather not think about.” Like another pair of silver eyes that had once gazed at her with helpless dismay, pain and terror mingling on that sweet little face. She shook the awful memory away. When Ivar appeared ready to question her on that topic, she went back to his original question. “So…since you brought it up, what’s with the wheelchair?”
“As you saw this morning, when I shift into a wolf, I don’t have any problem walking. Full mobility. A magical benefit of being one of Odin’s chosen, I guess.” He shrugged. “As a human, I was born with a very mild form of osteogenesis imperfecta, aka brittle bone disease. So I can’t use my legs, but otherwise I’m pretty normal. Back in the day, I could use a long bow and designed a kind of chariot-like wagon that let me get in the thick of battles. Viking leaders had to fight—none of this pansy-ass Monday night quarterbacking like they do now.”
“Buncha dickless wonders in charge these days.” She wrinkled her nose.
“I know, right?” He flashed a quick smile, and then patted his wheelchair affectionately. “Technology has come a long way since then. It’s much easier to get around. I do kind of miss being carried on a throne by a legion of minions.”
She stifled a short laugh. “And throngs of slave women to peel you grapes?”
“Good times, good times.” His grin turned wicked, and the look reminded her so much of Erik, she had to look away.
“I should go and—”
Ivar interrupted. “Have you ever talked to him about it?”
She didn’t pretend to misunderstand him. It wasn’t as if Erik and her history was some big secret. Misunderstood and misinterpreted maybe, but not a secret. “Some. Not everything. It’d just stir shit up.”
“Or clear the air.”
“Look, I’m no
t the type who needs to feel her feelings about every damn thing. What happened, happened.” And it would mean confessing her worst sin, baring her soul in a way she never had before. She…didn’t think she could do it. “Nothing can change the past. Let it go.”
“But you haven’t let it go, have you?” Ivar set an elbow on the arm of his chair. “I’d say Erik has done better with that than you.”
“Good for him. It’s not a competition.” Because if it was, she’d have lost. She didn’t need to say so though. The scars on her heart were no one’s business but her own.
“You still love him.” He jabbed a finger at her. “Even after everything that happened. That’s what kills you.”
Yes. The reflexive answer that sprang to her mind rocked her to her core. She felt as if the wind had been knocked out of her, and it was all she could do to stay on her feet. Having someone shove it in her face so blatantly meant she hadn’t had time to form an internal excuse. She tried never to lie to herself, but this truth had the power to rip her to bits so small there’d be no picking up the pieces again. She swallowed hard, clenched her trembling fingers. “You have no idea what you’re talking about. You don’t know me.”
He continued as if she hadn’t spoken. “You can’t forgive yourself for loving him. Still. Deal with that and maybe Nauma’s prediction will come true. Maybe it’ll save our collective asses. Think about that, all right? It’s not just about you anymore, hiding out alone in bumfuck nowhere.”
Spinning his wheelchair neatly, he rolled out of the living room and down the hall toward his bedroom.
“Pushy bastard, isn’t he?” Erik stepped from behind the wall next to the doorway.
She let out a breath. “How much did you hear?”
“All the parts you wish I hadn’t.”
Well, fuck. She almost wished a sinkhole would open up and swallow her whole. At the moment, it felt like Heimdall had gotten the easy way out.
* * *
Erik wasn’t sure if she was going to cry or punch him. Maybe both. The look on her face was guilt, shame, and anger. Anger at herself or him, he didn’t know. Again, maybe both. He took a deep breath and girded his loins to broach the topic he’d been avoiding since he’d arrived.
“There is one part of the past I haven’t managed to get over, despite what Ivar might think.”
“I’m sure.” Her face went pale, her lips compressing into a tight line.
“You killed my son. Sigmund died at your hand.” There, he’d put it into words. If there was to be any trust between them, any future, they had to excise the wounds they’d inflicted on each other. This one was like a gash that became an infection that spread and spread, but never healed.
She flinched and her expression was utterly devoid of emotion. “So the legends say.”
“Why?” He reached a hand toward her, but she stumbled back to avoid him. That hurt. He forced himself to continue. “I don’t want to hear what other people think your reasoning was—I want to hear it from you. Why? Was it just vengeance? Was it worth it?”
Her dark gaze dropped to the ground. “He would have tried to avenge you when he grew up. That meant my daughter—our daughter—was in danger. He’d unleash his wrath on her.” Her mouth worked. “I couldn’t let that happen. The endless cycle of revenge, the curse of Andvaranaut, had to end with us. With me.”
“So you threw yourself on my funeral pyre, breaking the ring’s curse and ending your own life in the process.” There was more to the story than this. He could tell she lied—or didn’t give him the whole truth. Frustration welled inside him, and he fisted his fingers to keep from shaking her. This would haunt them forever if they let it, didn’t she understand that? Look how long it had haunted them already. Avoidance helped nothing.
Her shoulder twitched in a shrug. “So the legends say.”
“Damn it, Bryn—”
Her head shot up, fire blazing in her gaze. “You lied to me, humiliated me, handed me over to Gunnar like I was…nothing. A whore you could use and discard after you’d fucked her over. So, telling Gunnar what you’d done and letting him assassinate you for betraying us both…yeah, a lot of that was retribution. Don’t expect me to apologize for it either, because I won’t.”
This was territory they’d already gone over, and it was clear she was spoiling for a fight rather than being willing to talk about the day Sigmund and she died. He reined in his temper, and forced his tone to reasonable levels. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to betray you.”
His mildness had the opposite effect he was hoping for. Her gaze sparked with fury and she jammed a fingertip into his chest. “Maybe, but you knew you’d betrayed him when you slept with me and knocked me up.”
Stay calm, Erik. Stay calm. He drew in a slow breath, let it ease out. “I didn’t know Aslaug was my daughter. How could I? There were no DNA tests back then, and she looked exactly like you.”
“You never bothered to ask after Grimhild’s elixirs wore off,” she fired back. “With the timing of Aslaug’s birth you had to know it was possible you fathered her.”
He shook his head. “Denial. I told myself she had to be Gunnar’s. Not until I met Ivar did I accept the rumor that Aslaug was mine.”
“Your delusions aren’t my fault or my problem.” She spun on a heel and made to exit the room.
He caught her arm before she could pass, knowing his grip was bruising and not caring. “It wasn’t either of my daughters I asked about—they both got to grow up and have kids of their own. It was my son I wanted to know what happened to. You’re not telling me everything, Bryn. Stop feeding me half-truths.”
“I killed your son.” She lifted one knee and yanked a knife out of her boot, the lamplight gleaming off its wicked edge. She waved it in his face. “This was the blade I used to slit his throat. Then I set his body on fire. Isn’t that enough detail for you? What kind of sick fuck wants a blow-by-blow of how his baby was murdered?”
Erik staggered back in shock, not even resisting when she ripped her arm out of his grasp and bolted up the stairs. He heard her bedroom door slam in the distance, and then the rattle of pipes as she turned on the water for a shower. Still he stood there, staring into space, unable to fit what he knew of Bryn together with a woman who would butcher a helpless innocent. She had loved his boy; everyone at court knew it. They called him her skuggi, her shadow, because when Erik was away fighting, Sigmund followed Bryn around like an adoring puppy. Even when she’d seethed with rage at the rest of royal family, she’d never taken it out on any of the children.
She hadn’t done it. No matter what she said, Erik didn’t believe her.
Perhaps it made him a fool, but every single thing within him rejected the idea that the woman he’d held in his arms, who didn’t want the human race to be wiped out, who still cared about the insignificance of a mortal’s birthday—that woman would never have murdered a boy she loved. Because Bryn felt things fiercely and always had. Even here in her isolated retirement, she was fierce in protecting that seclusion. She was intense in her passions, unstinting in her loyalty, and absolutely relentless when crossed. But her sense of justice hadn’t expanded beyond ending Erik or she would have turned her wrath on Gunnar, on Gudrun, on Grimhild. Not on Sigmund, never on Sigmund.
He had doubted before, but no longer. Whatever had happened, it had been distorted. Whatever had happened, she was letting him—letting everyone—believe the worst of her. He needed to know why.
Now more than ever, he wanted the truth, even if he had to pry the details out of her.
* * *
During her shower, Bryn managed to slam the door on the memories Erik had tried to tear loose. She locked them away where they belonged—she was good at that. She’d had a lot of practice. She wrapped herself in hard-won calm and could breathe easily again.
Then she scrubbed her bathroom until the porcelain gleamed. When that was done, she attacked her bedroom. She vacuumed, dusted, changed the bedding and took the dirty sheets to th
e laundry room at the end of the upstairs hall. She pulled a forgotten load out of the dryer and carried it back to her room to fold. Unfortunately, she dropped a sock and managed to kick it under the bed.
“Fuck.”
She knelt down and peered into the gloom. As much as she liked her modern conveniences, the dryer had a damned inconvenient way of eating her favorite socks. If she didn’t retrieve this one, she’d forget it was there and that’d be another pair she couldn’t use. If it weren’t for humans having the same dryer problem, she’d suspect a god of bewitching the machine to play a prank on her.
“What are you doing?”
She jolted in surprise, popping her head up to see Erik standing directly beside her. It was unsettling for several reasons. First, it was odd to know someone could approach so silently even her advanced hearing didn’t catch a whisper of sound. Second, her instincts usually screamed a warning long before anyone was close enough she needed to hear them. Her instincts hadn’t warned her of anything, not so much as a peep that danger was but a handspan away. What message her psyche was trying to convey, she really didn’t want to consider too deeply.
“Not that I’m complaining about the view, but…” His gaze fixed on her ass in her awkwardly bent position.
She cleared her throat and knelt up. “Looking for an errant sock.”
He tugged at a lock of her still-damp hair, then trailed his fingertips down to stroke over that sensitive bit of skin beneath her ear. Tingles shivered down her neck and she shrugged away in reflex, covering up that vulnerable spot.
He was silent for a moment. “Bryn…we should discuss—”
No. Just no. That was the last thing she wanted to do, discuss anything. Time to evade and distract. Going for the one thing that had never failed them, she reached up and boldly cupped his cock through his jeans. His breath choked off, his gray eyes going wide in shock. But his erection thickened and strained against his zipper, and she rubbed a thumb over the bulbous crest.
His throat worked. “Bryn…”
