“The wolf form is almost as tall as Val-hall’s roof,” I said. It was a bit of a stab in the dark, as I usually saw Fenris shift forms in the darkness of the Ironwood with no real frame of reference nearby.
Óðinn frowned and pressed his lips together in a tight, white line. Damn. Perhaps I should have said Fenris was smaller. I laced my fingers around the knot of the bread bag as I waited for Óðinn to say something. And waited. The silence between us pinched until it became almost painful.
“Well,” I finally said. “I’d better get going. We’re meeting at dusk.”
Óðinn’s pale eye snapped up to my face. “Týr,” he said, making my name sound like a curse. “Don’t get attached.”
My fist tightened around the laces of the bag.
“I’m not!” I snapped. “I don’t get attached. I’m a warrior, not a fucking poet.”
I pulled the bag of bread over my shoulders and marched out of the kitchen, giving my father a very wide berth. Oddly, Óðinn followed me as I went. His footsteps thudded behind me for several paces. I swallowed hard.
Val-hall’s mead was kept in the main feast hall. The barrels lined the wall; Óðinn made sure they were always full, and always in view. The mead cured hangovers and war injuries, both of which were common enough on Val-hall, but I knew their ready availability was about more than just their curative properties. Bread and mead are instruments of control, as my father had just said. And who would ever want to leave the plentiful mead of Val-hall?
I took a deep breath when I reached the last barrel and closed my eyes to focus on the strands of magic humming through Asgard. Magic doesn’t come easily to me. Unlike my brothers Baldr and Thor, I have to fucking work at it. But a full barrel of mead was far too heavy for me to lift by myself, and no one dared accompany me to the Ironwood, so I needed to use what magic I could muster to float the damn thing.
Unless. Shit. Óðinn had followed me all the way from the kitchens. Was he planning on following me into the Ironwood tonight? The feast hall suddenly felt cold. I lost my tenuous grip on Asgard’s magic and huffed in frustration before turning to face Óðinn.
“Yes?” I asked. “Is there something more?”
My father was still scowling as if he had some further reprimand in mind. His mouth moved behind his closed lips, almost as though he were chewing his words instead of spitting them out.
“You meet him in the woods?” Óðinn finally asked.
“Yes, of course,” I snapped. “And I’m supposed to be meeting him right now. So, unless you have any further comments—”
“Don’t scare him away,” Óðinn said.
I stopped, my mouth open, my mind scrambling to make sense of his words.
“Act like his friend,” Óðinn continued. “But don’t push him. I want the monster dependent on us. On you. I don’t want him bolting from the Ironwood.”
“Fine,” I said. “I won’t push him. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a monster to feed.”
Óðinn raised his hands in front of his chest and stepped back. It looked like surrender, but I knew my father better than that. The All-father of Asgard never surrendered. He just lulled you into a false sense of security.
Still. My heart rattled against my ribs, and my clothes felt clammy with sweat. That had been damn close. I closed my eyes again and willed myself to breathe slowly, to focus on the magic, to lift the damn barrel and get out of here.
Because I wasn’t meeting Fenris in the forest.
Not tonight.
TEMPTING FENRIS WOLF: CHAPTER TWO
I felt like I didn’t exhale until I was on the Bifröst, surrounded by the cold, swirling mists of that bridge between the Realms. It had taken me a long time to control the magic enough to lift the barrel and, by the time I’d wrestled it this far, I was as exhausted and soaked with sweat as if I’d tried to carry the damn thing. Fucking waste of time. If my father hadn’t been hovering over me, I might have tried to carry a half-empty barrel instead. It’s not like Fenris actually drank more than a few mouthfuls of the stuff, as far as I could tell.
Fenris. My grip on the magic slipped, and the barrel wobbled precariously. I bit my lip, trying to steady myself. Just a few more steps, and the woods outside Evenfel would jump to life from the darkness surrounding me.
Technically, I supposed we were still meeting in the Ironwood forest. Evenfel was at the very edge of the Ironwood, the fringe of civilization, where men could still travel the roads without fearing for their lives. As long as they traveled during the daylight.
Fenris said he’d never been to Evenfel, although he knew where it was. I remembered the way his face had twisted into a grimace when I mentioned the city, although I was certain it was the most beautiful little town in all of Jötunheimr.
The thought made me grin. Fenris could never hide what he was thinking; his face gave everything away. He could not have been more different from his sire Loki.
But. I frowned, and the barrel wobbled again. Fenris had been different these past few months, ever since the night I got stupidly drunk around his fire and woke to a screaming hangover and a fogged memory. Ever since that night, I’d been cursing myself as I tried to remember exactly what had happened. I might have said something stupid, the stars knew that happened often enough, but I was damned sure I hadn’t done anything untoward. I’d stumbled a bit, falled down once, but at least I hadn’t acted on the stars-damned magnetic pull I felt to Fenris’s lean, muscular body. The sons of Óðinn know how to control themselves, even when they’re drunk.
And, fuck me, I couldn’t remember a damned thing that had been out of place that night. We’d eaten and laughed, and I’d tried to escape the black mood that followed me from Asgard by diving into the mead. Fenris had been himself; naked, relaxed, his lips curved into a wry smile.
But I’d come back the next month, and things had changed. After that one damned night, our interactions had shifted as surely and quietly as the summer flees before the advance of fall. Fenris had grown cagey. His body seemed to hum with a nervous energy, and he’d rock back and forth on the balls of his feet or pace before the fire instead of sitting next to me.
A month after that, he began wearing clothes. For all the years I’d known him, Fenris met me as naked as any other beast of the forest. I did my best to keep my eyes on his face, and not linger on the muscular ridges of his chest or the soft curve of his gorgeous ass. His naked body was, for years, as open and easy to read as the rest of him.
But then he came to the fire wearing dark, mud splattered pants. They were too big for him, and he spent the night yanking them up as he paced beside the embers or ran his hand through his thick curls. His conversation was short and clipped, and he drank more mead than usual.
I returned to Val-hall upset in a way I would have found difficult to put into words, had anyone bothered to ask, and I spent the next few days downing my own ocean of mead as I turned my friend’s strange behavior over and over in my mind.
Was Fenris upset with me? I hadn’t done anything to shift our relationship, that much I knew for certain. If Fenris had been just another one of my father’s idiot warriors, I would have acted on this intense pulse of desire. But I didn’t want to risk losing my nights in the woods, my monthly chance to escape Asgard with its mess of expectations and brutal political machinations.
So, what else could explain Fenris’s odd, restless energy, his cagey answers, the way he’d stopped meeting my eyes when we talked? Was he unhappy? Did he want something more, some remnant of his former life in Angrboða’s castle?
What would I want, I wondered, if I lived by myself in the woods? I raised my head to stare blearily at the feast hall laid before me. Fenris had bread and mead. He could catch and kill any type of meat he wanted. What else would he want? What could he be missing? Shit, what would I miss?
My lips curled as I watched a burly bare-chested man stand and issue a deafening belch. I wouldn’t especially miss Val-hall’s company. At least, not most
of the company. My eyes drifted down the length of the feast hall and snagged on a tall, lithe warrior with long, dark hair. As I watched, he bent down to kiss the woman next to him. Their lips met with a ferocity that rivaled the battlefield; she sank her fingers into his hair, and he crushed her body to his. My cock twitched against the laces of my pants as I watched them leave the feast hall together, their hands intertwined, their eyes locked on each other.
Of course. There was one thing I would miss if I happened to live by myself in the Ironwood forest.
The next month, I’d brought a small purse of money as well as mead and bread. I’d tossed the coins to Fenris, who’d flinched as if I’d hit him with a rock.
“What’s this?” he’d asked.
“It’s for you,” I’d said. “In case you want to visit an inn. Have a good meal, maybe a pint of beer.”
His face had furrowed into the same frown that had haunted him for months. “Why would I need a meal?”
I’d hesitated. There was another thing Fenris might purchase, the one thing I’d decided I would miss if I were in his place.
“Or some companionship,” I’d said, plunging ahead.
Fenris had smiled at that, but it was a sad smile, half hidden in the shadows of the flickering firelight.
“You think I need companionship?” he’d said.
“I don’t think you need a damn thing. But you might want some companionship. Some, uh, intimate company. You can almost always find a comely tavern maid if you look hard enough. And that’s more than enough coin.”
Fenris had glanced at me, a sharp, quick look which darted over my chest and face, before turning to the shadows.
“Tavern maids,” he’d said, slowly.
The bag of coins had shifted in his fingers as his chest rose and fell. He’d seemed to be weighing the bag, perhaps wondering what town to approach.
I had settled back against a tree and drained my flagon of mead as I silently congratulated myself on finding exactly what Fenris needed.
TEMPTING FENRIS WOLF: CHAPTER THREE
“How were the tavern maids?” I’d asked the next time I saw him.
Fenris’s brow had knit with confusion, then smoothed as he’d given me a shy smile. “Oh. Right. The money.”
Damn. My heart had sunk at his guileless smile. “You didn’t use it, did you?”
Fenris had glanced down at his feet. He’d been wearing the same pair of muddy, ill-fitting pants, and they made him look ridiculous. Stars, what had I been thinking? Of course he hadn’t tried to go to an inn dressed like that. They would have taken him for a beggar, or a madman.
“I’m not really interested in...tavern maids,” he’d said, rocking back and forth on his toes.
I’d tried to meet his eye, but his gaze shifted away. My mouth suddenly felt dry.
“You don’t like women?” I’d asked.
Most of the men I knew were like me, happy to bed a comely woman or a handsome man, but there were always those who preferred only one gender.
Fenris had shook his head, sending his auburn curls flying. “No. I mean, yes. I like women. I just don’t like tavern maids, I guess.”
Of course. I could have hit myself in the forehead. Why would I think Fenris would want to approach a woman on his own? The man had chosen to live by himself in the Ironwood; he was obviously painfully shy. How fucking insensitive of me to just throw a bag of money at him and assume he’d want to seek out society on his own, after decades of living in total isolation.
Shit. Getting Fenris laid was going to take some work.
“Fenris, have you ever heard of Evenfel’s Strawberry Festival?” I’d asked.
THE GROUND RUSHED UP beneath my feet, jolting me backward. I gasped as my hold on the magic wavered, and the barrel of mead sloshed beside me. With a grunt, I managed to regain my grip on the magic and tug the barrel back into line as the mists vanished, leaving me standing in a clearing in the woods. I took a few deep breaths to steady myself. Solid earth always came as a bit of a shock after traveling the Bifröst.
Had I come out in the right place? Gently and slowly, I sank the barrel to the ground and rolled it into the deep shadows beneath the low spreading arms of a fir tree. Then I stretched my shoulders and sighed with relief. Stars, I hated having to use magic. It left my entire body aching and enervated. As the irritating hum of the magic receded, the chirp and trill of night insects rushed in to fill the emptiness. It was a warm night, and the golden glow of the full moon was just reaching the tops of the trees. Tiny spring leaves spread out against the night sky, defiant and beautiful. I was on Jötunheimr, then, and this certainly felt like the Ironwood. But was I close to Evenfel?
Somewhere behind me, an ebullient shout drifted over the trees. It was followed by another cheer, and then a random burst of song. Oh, thank the Realms. That definitely sounded like the drunken merrymaking of the Strawberry Festival.
“You’re late.”
I spun on my heels and saw Fenris stepping from the shadows that pooled beneath the tall pines. His long hair swirled around his bare chest as he grinned at me.
“I’m sorry. I was held up.”
“I was hoping you’d changed your mind about this,” Fenris said.
I grinned at him. “And miss my chance to introduce you to the loveliest, horniest women in Jötunheimr? Never!”
Fenris ran his hand through his hair and rocked back on his heels. He looked nervous. Well, shit, of course he was nervous. The poor guy hadn’t been around other people in ages. But he was here; he’d held up his side of our plans. I tried to tamp down on my own jittery anticipation and gestured at the enormous barrel of mead.
“Is this a good place for the barrel?”
Fenris nodded. “No problem. I’ll get it afterward.”
I shrugged the sack of bread off my back and turned it over on the ground, feeling for the secret pocket I’d sewn into the fabric before pulling my knife from my belt and slipping it over the stitches. For a moment, I remembered the look in Óðinn’s eyes as he followed me from Val-hall’s kitchens, and the blade jumped. I waited until my hand was steady before slicing the rest of the threads.
“For you,” I said, coming to my feet as I re-sheathed my knife. “Not that there’s anything wrong with what you’re wearing, of course. But this might be closer to Evenfel’s current fashions.”
Fenris’s smile widened, and I shook out the fabric I’d hidden in the sack of bread. It was nothing fancy, just a passable shirt and a pair of comfortable pants no one in Val-hall would ever miss. I hoped Fenris would be able to wear them without having to pull them up every time he moved.
“What? You don’t like these?” Fenris said, gesturing at what he was wearing.
His pants were even more ragged and dirt-encrusted than last month; he held a fistful of fabric tight at the waist to keep them from falling down. I caught the smile on his full lips, and I had the sudden urge to tell him he’d look much better in nothing at all.
Stars, no! I had to stop that line of thinking before it could go any further. Fenris hadn’t shown any indication that he was attracted to me, and blundering into a stupid compliment like that was just liable to fuck things up between us. Don’t scare him away, Óðinn had said.
I tossed the clothes to him, and Fenris turned them over in his hands. The moon gleamed behind him, casting delicate shadows across his broad shoulders and strong arms. This would have been so much simpler, I thought with a sort of hopelessness, if he weren’t so damned attractive. Or if he never shifted out of his wolf form.
“Wait!” I said.
Fenris stopped, his muddy pants still clenched in one hand.
“Let’s see your wolf shape first. Then you can change.”
Fenris shook out his hair and grinned. He was proud of his wolf shape. Damn, I supposed I would be too. I’d never seen shapeshifting magic like his, and my father was one of the most powerful magic users in the Nine Realms.
He set the clothes I’d brought ge
ntly on the grass before him and then stepped out of his filthy pants. He turned his back to me, and I had the exquisite torture of watching the moonlight cast shadows across the sculpted curves of his hips and ass before a swirl of golden sparks rose in the air between us, obscuring his body.
I swallowed hard as the sparks rose higher and higher into the night sky. Too late, it occurred to me just how close we were to the walls of Evenfel. If anyone was still sober enough to keep a watch, they’d see those sparks for miles. Not to mention the dark shape slowly taking form inside the magical storm.
The sparks dissipated, and I turned my head up. And up. A vast darkness rose before me, blacker than the night sky, blotting out the gentle light of the Strawberry Moon.
“Like it?” the beast growled as he turned to look at me with luminous, pale eyes.
Had I said Fenris’s wolf shape was almost the height of Val-hall? Stars, was I wrong! He was at least the height of the hall, and half as tall as the trees around us.
Something cold settled in my gut, sinking into me with the bite of winter’s sharp teeth. They already feared the Fenris wolf, Óðinn and his warriors. Even my brothers feared him, and they’d never even seen him. If Fenris were to show himself like this, a monster risen from their darkest nightmares, an enormous creature seething with destructive potential, the Æsir and the Vanir of Asgard would be terrified.
And they would be dangerous. Fuck, Fenris had no idea had much fear that monster shape might inspire, or how brutal and swift Óðinn’s warrior could be. I ground my teeth together as his dark form shifted and churned against the sky.
Stars damn it, I had to keep him a secret.
“Great,” I called to Fenris. “You’ve gotten even bigger!”
His great maw swung down and his lip curled back, revealing a row of white teeth longer than my sword. “I’ve been practicing,” he growled.
“Okay! Well, you can come down now—”
The Complete Fenris Series Page 2
