Dragged

by Kendall Grey

  Though she wears a cap and a drab tan uniform like the other cleaners, she looks like a queen—a real one, not the drag variety. Her short black locks are cut in a pixie-style bob that splays in a sharp fringe under the hat. Her olive complexion is flawless, and her angular, liquid bronze eyes beam at him.

  “I saw your performance the other day,” she says, leaning on her broom like a prop. Her voice is husky—sultry as exhaled smoke. If I wasn’t already dancing in the pants for Gunnar Magnusson, I’d offer to take her for a spin in my world. But my heart—broken as it is—beats for him. I glance at my Viking protector. He’s gawking at the woman too. I can’t even be mad at him.

  Darryl Donovan strides to the edge of the stage and squats down before the worker lady. He looks as if he’s been knocked off his feet with nothing but her smile.

  “What did you think?” he asks, his voice low and swoony.

  She twists her hips playfully and scuffs the floor with the toe of her sneaker. “Not bad. Though you could use a little help with your footwork.”

  Darryl Donovan quirks a brow. “Oh? You some kind of expert in matters of feet and working?”

  Her saucy grin deepens. “You could say that. The name’s Stephanie. You’re Shay-Shay Le Tigre, if I remember correctly.”

  Darryl Donovan jumps down to the main level and stretches to his full height in front of her. And just like that, a perfect couple is born. His dark skin and her lighter tone complement each other. He’s tall. She’s short. His muscly bulk offsets her lithe curves. And the electric energy singing between them just … fits.

  “I prefer Darryl. Shay-Shay and I are business partners. Nothing more.”

  Stephanie beats her lashes twice and takes a long, tall drink of him with her mesmerizing eyes. “You need some help with your routine?”

  “You offering?” he asks.

  “Depends on what the job pays,” she says and passes her tongue over amber-slicked lips.

  I edge forward, eager to see how this interaction plays out. The sparks bandying between these two are nuclear-hot. They look like they belong together, and every eye in the room knows it.

  “What do you propose?” He leans against the stage.

  She pokes his chest teasingly with her index finger and tips her head back to look at him, exposing her neck. The slender arm peeking out from her rolled-up sleeves is jampacked with muscle. I follow her hard lines down the jumpsuit. Damn, the woman is tight as a pin from bow to stern.

  “If you won’t tell on me for slacking at work, I could show you some moves,” Stephanie says.

  Heath Saxon interrupts. Apparently, he’s the only person in the place who didn’t notice the beautiful woman’s appearance on the scene. “The rules are vague. I’ll have to speak to my supervisors about tightening the language if we do this again. As I’m reading it, there’s nothing to stop you from combining acts, though I’d advise against it.”

  I turn up the charm juice, swipe Heath Saxon’s smooth cheek with my knuckles, and say, “You’re adorable. You know that?”

  He blushes. “Thank you, Miss Jones.”

  Stephanie climbs onto the stage, shakes out her arms, executes a few stretches, and busts into a jaw-dropping dance routine that makes my eyes pop. This woman is a walking top forty hit, the human embodiment of music and movement, a ballin’-ass kinesthetic feast for the senses.

  Everyone in the auditorium—including Stephanie’s coworkers—explodes into applause when she finishes.

  “That was unbelievable,” Darryl Donovan exclaims. “You’re hired!”

  Stephanie grins and swaggers up to him. “Not so fast. We haven’t discussed payment for my generous offer of service to you and your friends.”

  “Dinner. You pick the place,” Darryl Donovan drawls.

  Stephanie seems to consider it. “Make it dinner and drinks afterward, and I’m in.”

  Darryl holds out his right hand. “Deal.”

  The two shake, and Stephanie transforms from a common sweeper into a tornado of dance moves.

  Three hours later, she and all five members of the Rune Protectorate settle on the edge of the stage, swinging our legs, laughing, chatting, and carrying on about the awesome turn our individual routines have taken with the merger.

  “Know what would make this even better?” Freddie says. He points to the rig overlooking the stage. “Aerials.”

  I watch as Gunnar Magnusson follows Freddie’s line of sight. A shiver passes over him.

  “Yes!” Darryl Donovan says.

  “That would really up our game,” Alex agrees. He glances furtively at Stephanie and Heath Saxon. “And Astrid has experience. She could give us pointers. Remember that thing she did at that place that time?”

  He’s referring to my adventures in bungee flailing at Nine Realms Resort and Casino. The newcomers don’t need to know I was behind the structure’s destruction.

  “Alex, Gunnar, and Astrid could swoop in on wires at the beginning of the song like birds,” Freddie says.

  Darryl Donovan laughs. “What the hell are you talking about?”

  Freddie flaps his hands excitedly. “No, listen. Using the existing aerial rigging, I can set this up so easily,” he says to Darryl Donovan. “They fly in, announcing our presence to the world. Like heralds. They could even blow horns. You and I would zip in behind them. It doesn’t get any queenier than that.”

  “I love that idea,” I say. I really do. It’s bold and ballsy and brilliant. But I won’t force Gunnar Magnusson to confront fears he’s not ready to face. “We just don’t have enough time to practice such a complicated addition. If we had a week to prepare, maybe. As it is, it’s probably best to stick with what we’ve already done and amp it up a bit.”

  “Party pooper,” Freddie says. “I guess you’re right. Darryl, let’s go through our part once more.”

  Gunnar Magnusson’s tight shoulders loosen, and he expels his held breath in a long, steady stream. He nudges me gently. “Thank you,” he whispers.

  Keeping my focus on Freddie and Darryl wiggling their arses and stomping their feet to the music, I murmur, “For what? All I did was draw attention to the clock.”

  I feel him smile beside me. It warms me from the inside out.

  “We could legit win this contest,” he says. Sweat glues his blond hair to the side of his handsome face.

  Kenaz wakes up and smells the pheromones.

  “You’re a pretty good dancer for a big guy.” What I wouldn’t give for a one-on-one demonstration of his horizontal dance moves. I lick my lips.

  “And you’re not so bad for a former god,” he teases. “Whether we win or not, when this is over, we should celebrate.”

  My ovaries spring to attention. “Are you suggesting date number two?”

  “Why, Loki, I’d love to,” he says, laying a palm over his chest.

  Laguz vibrates a violent warning at my hip.

  “I’m crushed.” Damien Drakkar’s voice crashes our private party. “I thought I’d have the luxury of your company this fine afternoon, Miss Jones, but it seems you’re commiserating with peasants.”

  I look up. Damien ambles toward us without a care in the world, exuding his irresistible scent. A tingle roots deep in my stomach and sprouts to life, spreading like a crack in glass and growing to an unwanted crescendo betwixt my thighs. I clutch my legs together and grit my teeth to stave off the threat of another earth-quaking climax.

  I hate that I can’t resist him. I hate it even more that Damien has this effect on me with Gunnar Magnusson sitting so close. It’s a betrayal of the worst kind.

  I don’t want Damien. I want Gunnar Magnusson.

  I clasp Gunnar Magnusson’s hand like a lifeline, seeking grounding, distraction—anything that’ll shield me from the snares of Angrboda’s magic.

  Gunnar Magnusson turns to me and cups my cheek with his free hand. Our eyes lock. My heart pounds.

  “My timing is terrible, but before he comes a step closer, there’s something you ne
ed to know,” Gunnar Magnusson whispers in Old Norse.

  The tension holding my body for ransom eases, and hope takes the reins. Damien Drakkar floats away like smoke from a snuffed candle, already forgotten.

  “When I look into your eyes, I see the universe, Loki, Laufey’s son. You’re wild and uncontrollable and damnably frustrating, but you’ve changed the way I view the world and made me a better man. No matter what happens with him,” he jerks his head toward Damien but doesn’t let go of my gaze, “I’ll stand beside you. I would fight a Norn for you.”

  The knot of muscle behind my ribs chugs harder, but it’s not because of Damien’s pheromones or spells. This is all Gunnar Magnusson’s doing.

  He presses his forehead into mine and whispers, “We’re Vikings. We don’t settle arguments with words. We cut off body parts first and take inventory later. Now go handle that asshat and make me proud.”

  I belt a laugh at his change of heart. He’s giving me permission to chop off Damien’s finger? Hel yes!

  Suddenly, Angrboda’s magic doesn’t mean a whole lot to Kenaz. My sex drive shifts gears, and in a blink, it’s back to gunning for Gunz, as Brianna the Queen Skin-Flaying Torture called him.

  I’ll bet Damien didn’t see that coming.

  Neither did I, but thanks, Kenaz.

  “How disappointing to see my lover smeared over a thuggish dolt such as this.” Damien gestures with a flick of his wrist to Gunnar Magnusson. “For Baldur’s sake, my dear, you’ve stooped before, but never this low. Now, wash your hands and face. I don’t want to get any of that on me.”

  Taking his rudeness as a challenge, I pointedly keep my sights on Damien as I lean into Gunnar Magnusson and kiss him like it’s the end of the world. For all I know, it is, and I’m not going down without a final smooch from the guy who gives me shivers in the nethers, no sex magic necessary.

  Damien sighs disgustedly, crosses his arms, and looks away as if bored. Once I’ve tripped his jealousy trigger, I close my eyes, enjoy the warmth of Gunnar Magnusson’s gentle lips, and freefall into the glorious, bottomless essence of him.

  Appreciative claps and whistles rock the sound barrier around us.

  I kiss him harder.

  Darryl Donovan whoops with giddy delight. “Get it, girl!”

  Deeper.

  Someone whistles long and high.

  Fuller.

  Alex shouts, “And that’s how you spell true love.”

  My cheeks heat at the mention of the L-word. Still not sure I’m there yet, but it’ll be fun finding out, assuming I live long enough.

  “Get out of here,” Damien Drakkar bellows to the workers. His voice rattles the windows. “All of you plebs. Out!”

  I snap my lids open and break the kiss. Gunnar Magnusson’s hands remain curled around me, protective. Kenaz feeds off his touch, drinks it in, stores it for future use. He’s my drug now, not Damien.

  Damien stands a few feet away, his eyes bloodshot, fury rolling off him like steam from a hot spring. “OUT!” The word echoes through the auditorium, scattering the cleaners and Heath Saxon.

  Her face pinched, Stephanie pauses long enough to make eye contact with Darryl Donovan. A message I can’t decipher passes between them, and she scurries out with her coworkers. Darryl Donovan’s lips part. Anguish lines his brow as he tracks her to the door.

  He spins toward Damien. Glimmers of Thor’s rage strike like Mjolnir jonesing for a Loki snack. Glad he’s not mad at me for once. “The fuck, man? What’s wrong with you?”

  A shadow that shouldn’t be there darkens Damien’s face. “How dare you peons challenge me?”

  A laugh scoots out of my mouth. I can’t stop it. If he knew who he was talking to, he’d be running for the door now too. The idiot.

  “You think you’re the only one with power here?” I ask, glancing around to verify it’s just us Asgardians. “You’re sorely mistaken.”

  “I’m the one who controls the power.” Damien’s tone is calmer now.

  Gunnar Magnusson and I exchange glances. We jump down to the floor. He nods me forward, holding on to my hand until the last second, and giving it a squeeze before he lets me go.

  Without his touch, my control fades as Damien’s scent billows, whisking my thoughts into jumbles.

  Focus on Gunnar, Laguz says. Remember his lips. He’s your protection.

  Not protection, I think. He’s my salvation.

  Pushing down the urges, I tap into memories of Sigyn and the countless times she saved me. She was as true to me then as she is now.

  “Ready to go to Valhalla?” Damien asks, his irises sparkling with the green of the deep.

  “That’s a loaded question if I ever heard one,” I answer. I glance to Gunnar Magnusson. His steady expression tells me he’s with me. He believes in me. He trusts me.

  I won’t let him down.

  “I want Othala back,” I say, lifting my chin.

  Damien holds up his hand and studies the silver ring. My rune winks at me, confirming it’s the real deal, though Laguz doesn’t detect any familiar energy from it.

  What if I’m making a mistake?

  “You know what you have to do,” Damien says, offering his arm. “My place should do nicely. Shall we?”

  I mentally pat my purse, remembering which pocket I slipped Freddie’s drug into. I just need to drop it into a drink and hope Damien Drakkar’s tolerance for roofies is low.

  Gritting my teeth, I slide my arm into the crook of his elbow, nod to Gunnar Magnusson, and pray to the Norns that Freya comes through for me.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  I don’t say much on the way to Damien’s hotel, but he seems to take great pleasure in reminiscing about our past romps and revelries at the expense of my marriage. Perhaps he thinks bringing up such memories is a twisted kind of foreplay. As if I needed to feel worse about Sigyn and me. I suppose if there’s an upside to my predicament, I now have confirmation that my past behavior with Angrboda and a host of other women no longer packs the erotic punch it once did. There’s a smidge of relief in knowing I wouldn’t willingly engage in infidelity again, my current situation notwithstanding.

  When we enter his suite, he shuts the door, turns around, and gathers me into his arms. I go rigid despite the pheromones wafting off him. Resisting his magic is difficult, but I do. Progress? I’ll say yes.

  “I’ve been waiting for this moment for literally ages, Loki.”

  His hands are everywhere, like spider legs searching for purchase on a slippery surface. As soon as I bat one away, the other takes its place, roving across my body. Loathing replaces the lust from before, and I find myself on the verge of a swan dive into a #MeToo moment. I have to regain the upper hand.

  “You got anything to drink in this place?” I ask. “If I have to sleep with you, the least you can do is help me dull the memory.”

  He frowns. “You never had a problem with bedding me before. If I recall correctly, I had to throw you off a time or three. Such an aggressive god you were. You couldn’t get enough of Angrboda.”

  “Probably because I was drunk every time I screwed you. I had to be to endure it.” And horndog Kenaz certainly didn’t help.

  “No need for insults. And I don’t remember a single complaint. Perhaps your body knew something your mind didn’t.” His pupils flare, and another blast of his scent taints the air like skunk spray.

  My nose twitches. I make a show of rubbing it as I turn away with disgust.

  Spreading his arms wide, he glances down at himself. “Does this body not appeal to you?”

  I laugh. It did, but not anymore. Gunnar Magnusson’s kiss neutralized whatever desire I harbored for Damien. Now I see him for what he is: a desperate, shitty actor trying to get in my pants.

  “Sorry, all I can think about when I look at you is the mockery you make of me every time you vomit up a line on your precious little TV show. Hard pass.” Bitch.

  “My performance was designed to get your attention.”


  “Oh, so you intentionally made me look like a goat’s arse with a head shoved up it?”

  “It worked, didn’t it?”

  “I’m here,” I say. “Make that drink a double.”

  I’m gambling he’ll pour one for himself, though there are no guarantees.

  He gestures to the bar. “Help yourself. I need to gather supplies.”

  I swallow hard. Supplies? What supplies?

  Laguz says, Pour his drink, drop the Rohypnol in it, and “supplies” become irrelevant. It’ll be an Ég mun finna þig í fjöru situation for him.

  I smile at Laguz’s use of the old Icelandic saying. Roughly translated, it means “I will find you on the beach.” Or, in American: “Revenge is coming.”

  Spoken like a true Norse rune.

  Damien swaggers into the bedroom. I make quick work with the drinks, careful to keep him in my sights as I drop some of the crushed pill from my purse into his glass. I hope to Hel Freddie and Alex are just beyond the door as we planned, locked and loaded with the biggest “puppet” spell they can muster.

  When Damien comes out, he’s dressed in a black silk robe, and he looks good enough to eat. I meet him halfway as he walks toward me, my outstretched hand offering him the special medicine drinkie. He takes the glass and sets it on the nearest table, opting instead for an attempt at a kiss. I duck under his arm and spin, my hair fanning as he barrels toward me.

  “Playing shy?” he asks with a lusty grin. “How cute. Get those clothes off. I have things to do.”

  “Not so fast,” I say. “I need your word as a god that Othala is mine once I’ve delivered.”

  He huffs. “Fine, whatever. I swear I’ll give you Othala as soon as you conceive our child.”

  “Absolutely not,” I argue. “There are no guarantees I’ll get pregnant right away.”

  “But, dear, sweet Loki, that’s the arrangement. I need more children out of you if I’m to fulfill my mission. You are my destiny. Our children are our destiny. Just like old times.”

  I shake my head. “No. For all I know, one or both of us could be infertile. If I play your game, I could be stuck on a never-ending sex loop with you.”