by Kate Pearce
Good for them and pass.
Calder wasn’t interested in finding a mate of his own. He had plenty of opportunities for sex and mayhem without resorting to happily ever after and a wedding band. The loony look on Pure’s face announced that Vikar would always have a home and a homecoming with her—and Calder could admit that was one hell of a promise, even if it wasn’t one he himself had any intention of making to a lover.
He was happy for his brother, he really was. Even if weddings made his feet itch and his eyes roll back in his head. Calder fought the urge to bang his own head against the keep wall and waved off the drinking horn headed his way. Once he got the horn in his hands, he’d be honor bound to drink the damn thing down to the bottom. Getting drunk off his ass would certainly put an end to this wedding for him personally, but driving would also be off-limits then and he had escape plans to put into motion.
Going a-Viking had never looked better.
“You plan to be the next?” Rad elbowed him hard, grabbing the horn and upending it. Apparently, getting shitfaced figured prominently on the other Viking’s agenda.
While Rad swallowed and the others chanted encouragement, Calder considered his options. He had no need of a wife. Weddings had been contracts when he was born and a means of forging alliances. Back then, a man could have two or three wives, in addition to bed slaves. And, unless he was interested in a widow, a woman’s consent to the marriage hadn’t been required, although only a fool who wanted to wake up minus his cock would be that shortsighted. Courtship was also quick, brutal, and bloody if the man took too long in making his proposal. Viking women weren’t known for their patience.
“Calder hasn’t found himself a girl yet.” The blonde-haired Valkyrie perched cross-legged on the banquet table snatched the horn away from Rad and drained off the rest of the mead. His brother’s new in-laws were trouble. Despite the indisputable pretty factor of Pure’s sisters, the girls were also downright deadly. Calder had no doubt that this one—whatever her name—was every bit as lethal as Pure. She simply looked innocent and looks were indeed deceiving in this case. So what if she’d divided her long blonde hair into hundreds of braids that made a man fantasize about fisting the mane? She had gorgeously dark, smoky eyes, and a pair of soft lips that lured a man into a kiss…while the Valkyrie attached to the mouth sliced off his balls.
Or wedded him.
Which option was worse?
The Valkyrie closest to him unkinked her booted legs and rested her heels on his lap. She’d apparently decided that appropriate wedding attire meant leather pants and a corset top with wicked strings that crisscrossed her chest. It was the kind of get-up that one good pull would undo.
And yet he didn’t want to make a move on her.
What the hell was wrong with him?
He risked another look at the bridal couple. Var didn’t seem to mind his current predicament. As the assembled guests roared their approval, he angled a hand in his new bride’s hair and kissed her. He didn’t look like he’d be sharing, either, which was too bad. Whether the other Valkyries would be up for some good times likely depended on whether or not they’d traded in their virginities. A virgin Valkyrie was fated to serve Odin in the god’s mystical hall. Pure had snapped those particular chains, however, when she’d invited Vikar into her bed and Calder got the impression that her sisters were also in the market for similar trouble. The Viking keep definitely had strange guests these days. Next thing he knew, they’d be inviting Fenrir and his lupine children into the place as well and the neighborhood would finish going to hell.
“Remove,” he growled, flicking the offending boots with his fingers.
The Valkyrie snickered. “You going to make me, bad boy?”
“Not tonight.” He was bored. And antsy. Once he got outside and got moving, he’d be fine.
“Oooh, promises.” Her moue of regret said she’d happily find someone else to play with if he wasn’t in a playing kind of mind.
He shoved to his feet and pointed his boots toward the door. Something shifted in the shadows as he moved. Some kind of dog? Mayhap he’d had more mead than he realized. Instincts on high alert, he slid a hand to his knife. Golden eyes glared briefly at him from the dark edges of the hall. They kept no dogs.
Hel.
Dawn was upon them and the light could play tricks on a man. And yet…he would have sworn he’d seen a dog. A large dog. There was nothing there in the shadows, however, which simply underscored his unspoken belief. He was a fool. He wouldn’t admit it out loud, but the truth hung out in his head, laughing at him. With a wave of his hand, he headed for the door.
“You’re leaving?” Brent didn’t sound concerned. He had a lapful of Valkyrie, which was a different kind of problem altogether.
“I’m going a-Viking.” That felt like the right decision. He didn’t jump at shadows and imagine four-legged beasts where there were none.
***
Of course the fucking Vikings maintained a near-impregnable keep on a private island. Getting there had been a bitch—Tyra had been forced to abandon her snowmobile at the water’s edge and steal a boat—but the place had hardly hung out a welcome mat. The volcanic action that had formed the island’s hills had created dramatic swoops and lines of harsh, unbending black. Small icebergs floated in the chilly waters, seeking out the precariously thin aluminum sides of her borrowed kayak with deadly accuracy. It was the kind of place reached by snowmobile, chopper or dog sled. How convenient for her that she’d exercised Option A and got here just before sundown and her shift.
She’d slipped inside the keep still in her wolf form. When she’d glanced at the sky on her way in, she’d estimated she had maybe a half hour tops before the sun rose and she shifted back into her human form. The good news was that most of Frey’s parting gift damage had been healed by her shift. The bad news was that she’d be naked. In a keep full of hostile, hopefully lecherous Vikings.
She was still holding out for the Four Seasons, but this place wasn’t bad. It was, in fact, light years more comfortable than the tent city her Pack currently inhabited. Despite a forbidding exterior that shouted fuck off and keep going, the inside was warm. Deliciously warm. She’d been cold for so long that she’d forgotten there were places like this. Someone had clearly been shopping since the Dark Ages (or, knowing these guys, had boosted a department store or a few shipping containers). The place was man cave extraordinaire, all leather couches, big screen T.V.s, and thick throw rugs.
The best part, however, was the man selection.
God, the Vikings were a sexy bunch. Her wolf slinked closer to the banquet hall where the Vikings were making merry, sticking to the shadows as she staked out her prey. It went without saying that they were big, brutal men. Loki hadn’t been fucking around when he created these bad boys to serve as his warrior pack. None of them clocked in at less than six feet tall and apparently broad shoulders, ripped chests, and raw, naked power were part of the standard package.
So naturally her wolf acted like a kid in a candy shop, picking and choosing men like she could handle one. Two. A half-dozen. From the look of the Valkyries’ faces, they shared her fascination.
Or her frustration because, she had to face it, her sex life in the Pack had sucked. She’d been at the bottom of the Pack hierarchy from the get-go and her own inability to submit and shut the fuck up had sealed the deal. And, hello, that had meant instant sexual starvation so the man candy choices currently on display were all too tempting. Her pulse banged in her ears as heat swept her body.
All she had to do was take a Viking and make him her mate. The option was far better than freezing or selling herself to the pit fighters, plus she’d never be powerless again. From the looks of things, the Vikings were having themselves a wedding, so that took one of her choices off the market. She wasn’t an idiot. No one kept a mated Viking away from his bride and she wouldn’t doom her mission from the get-go.
Never mind too that the Vikings would likely kill her
on the spot for being one of Fenrir’s. Eeenie meanie miney…
Mine.
Mr. Surly had come to the wedding after all. Her memories of her life pre-Change faded more and more with each passing day and although her new female Pack mates had assured her the mental erasure was a blessing—since Pack life didn’t compare well—she’d discovered that meant her new replacements memories took up disproportionately more space in her head.
And her Viking was a very, very large memory indeed.
Part beast, part man, he was perfect. The wolf recognized a potential mate when it saw one—and whined to stake a claim. Even with his clothes on, she still recognized him. He’d passed on the wedding tuxedo wear business for a biker boy gone bad look that made his large body look like it had been gift-wrapped for her pleasure in black leather pants and some kind of soft shirt. A leather jacket hung on the back of his chair.
His eyes slewed toward the door, a faint air of desperation on his face. His hands flexed, grabbing the edge of the banquet table. She wanted to tongue each inky tattoo on those forearms. Lick him from head to foot and everywhere in between. And not just because he was the most drop-dead gorgeous male she could remember. Shit. This part of being a werewolf was downright inconvenient. She stared at him and her body heated as she imagined a thousand decadent pleasures. His tongue licking her honeypot and stabbing her rear hole. His fingers plugging her deep as he rode her hard. She liked—craved—the raw edge of violence, the dark, dirty need of Pack sex. She wasn’t a nice girl, couldn’t be demure, submissive Pack female—unless her lover made her…and her Pack lovers hadn’t been interested in what she wanted or needed.
He looked up, his gaze unerringly finding her.
She was good. She was careful. Given the skills she’d learned during her stay with the Pack, it was flat-out impossible that he’d made her.
And yet…
He shoved to his feet, his gaze holding hers.
The sun came up as she glared back at him, daring him to come and get her. Even though she couldn’t see the light, she knew the precise moment the sun crossed the horizon. Tremors shook her body, her bones breaking and muscles re-shaping as she shed her wolf and became human again. She battled the clashing instincts and bolted for the cloakroom she’d spotted on her way in.
Behind her, her berserker was earning no points for subtlety. He left the banquet hall as loudly and, from her retreat, she heard him declare his intention of going a-Viking when one of his companions asked him where he was headed. If he left the island, she lost him. There were plenty more Vikings inside the keep but…she wanted him. Had been hoping to find him here when she came shopping for a Viking. One of his companions bellowed curses and farewells and the profane tirade gave her a name. Calder. They hadn’t even traded names in Vegas. How sad was that?
She finished her transformation and lay panting on the floor. She’d come a long way from her first mindless shifts in Vegas. Now, even in her animal form, she knew what she was doing—and remembered when she shifted. Unfortunately, she’d yet to uncover some secret werewolf trick that would let her clothes shift with her. Instead, she lay naked on the floor, shivering as her bare skin pressed against the cold tiles. Her one souvenir of her twelve months with the wolves was the black and gold rune patterns tattooed down her spine and over her belly.
Freya’s tits, but the Vikings’ keep was cold. A gallon of ice cream wouldn’t melt in the cloakroom and she was buck-ass naked and well on her way to hypothermia. Fortunately, her hidey-hole came with a modest selection of winter outwear. She rifled quickly through a rack, but most of the jackets clearly belonged to the Vikings themselves and proved to be miles too long. Someone had left a suitcase in the room, however, and raiding it proved more promising. Given that the case was bright red plastic with a sassy Valkyries ride you harder bumper sticker plastered on the outside shell, she had a bad feeling she’d just robbed one of the bride’s guests. If she was lucky, she’d be off the island long before the other woman realized her loss.
Her only semi-feasible option turned out to be a blue mini-dress with white feathers. The thing was too froufrou for her taste, but beggars couldn’t be choosers. She’d stashed her pack with her snowmobile on the shore before crossing to the Vikings’ island. The Valkyrie had even been thoughtful enough to stash a supply of panties in the side pocket with—thank God—the tags still on. After twelve months of Pack life, her standards were lower than she’d ever believed possible, but even she had to draw the line somewhere. She shimmied into her finds while looking for boots. A pair of sneakers. Hell, she’d take four-inch stilettos at this point if it meant not crossing the keep’s courtyard on her bare feet. Unfortunately, her victim had disgustingly small feet, though—no shoes for the thieving werewolf who wore a size ten.
The keep door slammed. Finite amount of time here so keep your mind on the job, Tyra. Giving up on finding footwear, she scanned the hallway. No Vikings in sight, oh heavenly day. From the sounds of things, the wedding banquet would continue for most of the day and probably all night as well. The Vikings definitely knew how to throw a party. Calder, however, was still as much of a buzz kill as he had been in Las Vegas. He stomped toward the garage on the other side of the keep’s main courtyard, clearly planning a getaway.
“Fucking cold.” He sounded about as happy as she was. Yay for having things in common. “I’m going a-Viking in the South Pacific.”
Yeah. She seconded that motion. The cold sucked.
Her feet were icicles, but a last glance around the cloakroom turned up no magically present size ten boots. Judging by the weak sunlight filtering into the keep, she still had more than a few hours to convince Calder to play for the werewolf team.
Once she shifted back? Game over.
2
The keep was too goddamned crowded. The garage where his brothers stored their snowmobiles, on the other hand, was blessedly empty. Cursing, Calder yanked the cover off his machine. Vikar might have brought home a mate, but his Valkyrie chosen came with plenty of feminine baggage. Laughing, talking, teasing feminine baggage.
He’d ride, he decided. Go back to his place on the far side of the island and plot out a course to go a-Viking. He’d never be like Vikar, settling down, happy to stick to one place, one bed. One woman.
Truly, he was okay with that.
And if for one insane, suicidal moment thoughts of a pretty white wolf flashed through his head, he wasn’t admitting it.
“Viking.”
His head jerked around like a very female someone had him on a leash. The smoky feminine voice greeting him from the shadows was the sexiest thing he’d ever heard, low and sensual. Sure. Familiar. He’d met this woman in the same place Vikar had met Pure—in the paranormal fight pits hidden beneath Las Vegas.
For a moment, he figured he was hallucinating, her voice simply part of his aberrant thoughts. No way his little werewolf had made it all the way to Greenland on her own—or onto his private island. So he might have flipped the latch on her cell when he’d followed his brothers out of the pit, but that had been as much help as he could give her. He’d certainly never expected to see her again.
She smiled like she was goddamned happy to see him and that made him suspicious. He hadn’t been nice to her. The weak died and the pit ate the nice for dinner. Anyone there could kill—it had simply been a question of would. Strangely, he hadn’t wanted to see her go down fast. He’d wanted her to fight. And then Vikar had spotted a weak link, an opening in the pit keepers’ guard, and the Vikings had busted out.
To be here, she’d snuck onto the island, breeching all of the Vikings’ defenses. She hadn’t gone knocking on the front door. She hadn’t announced her presence. Sneaky meant one thing and one thing only.
Enemy combatant.
He pinned her against the wall before she could get another word out, his knife at her throat. She curled her fingers around his wrist, stroking the tattoos on his forearm rather than pushing him away. When she gave a li
ttle wriggle, cradling his misbehaving dick between her hips, he leaned into her harder, giving her his weight. She was a werewolf and an enemy combatant. So what if he might have cracked the lock on her cage in Vegas?
He pressed her into the wall. She escaped if—and only if—he said so. “Why are you here?”
“I’m here to be your new boss, Calder.” She spoke the words with confidence, tipping her head back and letting her throat graze his blade.
Her time in the Vegas fighting pits had driven her crazy. Pity. Now that he had her up close and personal, he was certain she wasn’t on his island as one of Vikar’s wedding guests. Her barely-there blue mini-dress skimmed the tops of her thighs and the way it plunged in the front made it clear that she was all but buck-ass naked beneath. Little white feathers stuck up along the edges of the vee, brushing the pretty skin of her breasts. There was no accounting for taste, but she was beautiful. On the other hand, her body didn’t precisely melt into his, so she didn’t share the pleasure he felt pressed up against her. Instead, she tensed beneath him, like she truly didn’t know if he’d fuck her or kill her.
Well, shit. How much trouble was she in that she’d come here, not knowing that?
“You’re not in charge here, sweetling.”
“No? And my name is Tyra. Not sweetling or sugar or honey boo.” She made the words a challenge.
He pressed his leg between hers, forcing her legs wide around his. She met his challenge by hooking a foot around his waist. Her foot was cold. He wrapped a hand around the chilly arch and rubbed, drinking in her whimper of appreciation.
