Storm of Fury: Dragon Shifter Romance (Legends of the Storm Book 4)

by Bec McMaster

  “With him? Or with her?” Haakon muttered savagely.

  Bryn pretended not to hear him.

  The Blackfrost curled his lip. “You will come,” he told her. “And Marduk will pay you what he owes. But you will not interfere in our quest, you will keep your head down and your mouth quiet, and if you so much as think about crossing us, I will fly you over a volcano and drop you inside it.”

  Bryn swallowed. “I won’t interfere.”

  She had to trust that Solveig would handle the Blackfrost when the time came.

  Or could.

  “Now,” Haakon turned toward the southern road. “Let’s go find our precious little princeling.”

  “And a lake,” Tormund said, staring pointedly at the Blackfrost. “Otherwise he’s going to have to fly downwind.”

  The song on the wind called to him.

  It gusted through icy mountain passages and whispered across the snow-covered expanse of barren plains. It haunted his nights and could be heard fluting through the enormous pines that soared toward the skies.

  Marduk didn’t know who sang it, but the song had been whispering at him ever since he was born, and curse him for a fool, but he needed to know who it belonged to.

  “Who are you?” he sent into the void, whenever the singer’s thoughts tangled with his own.

  “Who are you?” she whispered back, one cold and lonely night.

  That night had been months ago, luring him toward the east.

  And it was only now, watching steam plume from a nearby mountain that he sensed its owner’s nearness.

  He was so close to finding her.

  And nothing was going to stop him.

  Marduk hauled his mortal body up a rocky cliff face, gritting his teeth as the strain of gravity dragged at him. He didn’t dare fly in his dreki form, not here, in territories belonging to another dreki clan.

  Nor did he dare answer the summons his elder brother and sister sent to him, for fear another would sense his psychic thoughts.

  He was so close to finding the source of the song.

  The others would have to wait.

  Five

  Bryn paced in front of the badstu behind the tavern, her breath fogging the crisp night air. Every inch of her ached from a hard day’s journey and fight, and she itched to remove the day’s grime from her skin.

  Giving way to impatience, she hammered her fist on the bathhouse door. “Are you finished yet?”

  “I’m a big man,” Tormund bellowed back. “I take a bit of scrubbing.”

  He’d been in there for a good half hour.

  “I swear, if you don’t get out of the bath within the minute, I will kick this door down.”

  “Then kick it down,” he said with a laugh. “Or you could simply use the handle. I didn’t lock it.”

  She paced. “You have ten seconds.”

  “But I’m all soapy.”

  It was becoming easier to understand why the Blackfrost wanted to push him off a tall cliff. “You… are the most frustrating man! I want to wash. I am filthy, and sore and—”

  “Then join me,” he called. “The tub’s big enough for two.”

  Bryn stared at the door.

  I will murder him.

  Slowly.

  “If you think I won’t call your bluff,” she growled, shoving the door open, “then you don’t know me very well.”

  Heat and steam enveloped her the second she entered the room. The steam room was to the right and she could scent the smell of birch.

  “If you think I’m bluffing, then you don’t know me at all.” The words came from the corner of the bathing room where a large shadow lingered in the enormous wooden tub. Water churned as Tormund sat back against the side of the tub, splaying both arms along its rim.

  The only light came from a small brazier of glowing coals.

  But it was enough to trace every inch of muscle on him with her eyes.

  She’d long thought herself immune to the lures of men. She’d carried great warriors from the battlefield to Valhalla’s golden halls. She’d enjoyed her fill of those who’d sought to seduce her, and she’d even dreamed of love, once or twice, before she’d consigned such foolish thoughts to the depths of her consciousness.

  Love was a fool’s pledge and a ploy for liars to take advantage of. She’d seen it too many times.

  That didn’t mean that Tormund didn’t get under her skin like a splinter.

  It was the twinkle, she told herself. The twinkle of humor in Tormund’s eyes, and the sudden white flash of his smile.

  It stirred her as nothing else would.

  And she realized she was staring.

  “Want to wash my back?” He lazed back against the tub.

  “Want me to drown you?” Bryn dumped her leather travel bag on the chair beside the tub. “You’ve been in there a good half hour.”

  A shrug. “Water’s piped in from a hot spring. I keep meaning to get out and head to the steam room, but then I feel a brisk chill from the breeze slipping under the door and my balls threaten to tuck tail and run. You can always join me.”

  “Would you make your cousin join you?”

  “Of course. Only… I wouldn’t want to embarrass the poor lad.”

  Bryn stared at him.

  Tormund stared back.

  “You’re talking about the size of your cock, aren’t you? Men always have to brag about their size, though I find they frequently overestimate themselves.”

  “Oh, Bryn.” He laughed. “You’re a hard woman. But there’s room enough for two, and I won’t take it askance if you want to test my claims.”

  How typical. “I’m sure you won’t.”

  He closed his eyes, dropping his head back against the edge of the wooden tub. “Climb in. I won’t look. And I won’t touch.” His lips curved in a dangerous smile. “Unless you ask it of me.”

  Bryn eyed him suspiciously, but he made no move to peek. “Chivalry? I thought such a notion long dead.”

  Tormund swished his fingers back and forth, as if enjoying the water. “My mother would cut my eyeballs out with a spoon if she thought me the kind of man to force a woman into an uncomfortable situation. And I’m not the sort of man to push my attentions where they’re not welcome.”

  Music swirled through the timber walls of the bathhouse as Bryn considered the proposition. Inside the tavern, half the village had gathered. But out here, steam curled off the water, beckoning her with wispy tendrils. Every inch of her ached—a curse of this half-mortal body she wore. She’d never so much as strained a muscle before she was cast from Valhalla and her Valkyrie side was suppressed.

  And she stank.

  “If you lay a single finger on me,” she warned, “I’ll do worse than your mother could ever dream of. And I won’t be so kind as to go for your eyes.”

  “Understood.”

  She eased the laces of her boots loose and slipped out of them. Trousers, socks, and braided leather body armor went next, and then the tight linen she bound her breasts with.

  Tormund never so much as moved.

  Stepping over the edge, Bryn sank into the tub. The hot water enveloped her aching body. Frigg’s mercy, but it felt nice. And the tub was big enough for four, so she had no fear her foot would brush against his.

  Sinking up to her shoulders, she glared at him. The man had her at odds and ends. He brushed off her jibes with a shrug and laughed when she called him an idiot. He’d made it clear he was interested in her physically, and he didn’t even seem to care if her braid was bedraggled with blood or she wore half a day’s sweat.

  “You’re staring,” he murmured.

  “You said you wouldn’t peek.”

  “I haven’t. I can feel you looking at me.” He swam his arms back and forth, sending ripples across the water. The lump in his throat bobbed. “Like what you see?”

  An exasperated laugh escaped her. “Do you never admit defeat?”

  “Defeat? Never heard of the word.”

  “
Nor humility either, I’m sure.”

  A dangerous smile. “What is to be humble about? The gods granted me the body of a warrior and the hands of an artist. I’ve never had a woman complain.”

  She couldn’t help examining the truth of his claims.

  Water gleamed off his broad shoulders. He had the kind of physique that drew the eyes. With her height and breadth, she’d never so much as glanced at a man who wasn’t strong enough to handle her, but Tormund dwarfed her in all aspects.

  And though she’d never been partial to beards, his was well-groomed, and his smile so blinding that a part of her wondered what that beard would feel like against her skin….

  “You can open your eyes.” She was well covered.

  Tormund gave her a lazy-lidded look as he blinked, as if coming awake from a thousand-year sleep. “You’re not a very trusting person, are you?”

  “I’ve known a lot of men in my time.”

  “You’ve never known one like me.”

  Bryn snorted, but he stole a smile from her. “I’ve met men like you. You think yourself quite the gallant, don’t you? A silver-tongued rascal who can win his way into any bed.” Though she conceded a nod. “One who prefers to use wiles, rather than force.”

  “It’s called charm.”

  “It’s called pointless.” She submerged her head, almost moaning at the feel of the day’s dirt and grime sluicing from her hair. Scrubbing water from her eyes, she told him, “I will never share a bed with you, big man. You’re wasting your breath.”

  “Who said anything about a bed? I don’t intend to let you sleep.”

  She smashed a fistful of water at him and he laughed, before holding his hands up in surrender.

  “Truce,” he offered. “No more teasing.”

  “Now I know you’re lying. You live for teasing.”

  He laughed at that, then examined her, though not in the way a man examined a woman. “You fight well. Exceedingly well. I could barely breathe when you were flying through the air toward that foul creature. You were glorious.”

  Though the compliment soothed her, this was another conversation she didn’t particularly wish to have with him. “You’re not so bad yourself. All brute strength and bravado, but you’re fierce enough that it would be difficult to break through your defenses, weak as they are.”

  “Weak?”

  She enjoyed the twitch of his brow as she reached for the soap and started lathering her arms. “You’re aggressive in combat and fight with no care for yourself. You’re large enough and strong enough that when you attack, your enemy is usually on the back foot. Today that didn’t work—the draugar feel no fear, and they were bigger and stronger than you are. You nearly died. Should you face a foe with greater experience and little fear, you would be in trouble.”

  His eyes narrowed. “I’ve faced a great many enemies over the head of my axe, and not a one of them is still alive today.”

  “Luck. As I said, you have the advantage in terms of strength and reach. If you and I fought, it would be a different matter.” She considered him. “You would charge. I wait until the last second, as you swing your blow down, and then I slip beneath it and”—Bryn made a sharp gesture with her hand, from sternum to hip—“right through there. Instant death, even if it takes you a while to realize it.”

  He stared at her for a long second.

  And then he laughed.

  “Tomorrow we will fight then. And you will teach me how to strengthen my defenses.”

  She didn’t know how to feel about the offer. Most of the men she’d encountered didn’t like to be told they owned any weaknesses. Tormund’s words stroked her pride, though she called herself a fool for even thinking warmly of him at all.

  But there was a large part of her that did want to fight him.

  His strength pitted against her cunning and speed.

  A thrill lit through her veins—the thrill of a challenge she couldn’t resist.

  “Tomorrow then,” she said, in the kind of voice usually reserved for the bedchamber.

  “Mmm.” He shivered. “Why is it that of all the things I’ve said, the offer to fight me is the one that makes your eyes melt.”

  “Because it’s the only sincere offer you’ve made.”

  Tormund shifted closer. “Trust me, sweetheart. That wasn’t the only sincere offer.”

  Bryn set her foot to his hairy chest. “No,” she said, quite loudly and distinctly. “You and I are never meant to be.”

  He clasped her foot, but he did nothing more than bite his lip in frustration. “Why?”

  The question threw her. “Why not?”

  He nodded.

  Bryn’s gaze dipped, and she stirred the steaming waters. “I’m a mercenary, Tormund. I go where the coin is good. And I don’t form connections. I’m not a nice person. And you would be wise to reconsider this foolish attempt to seduce me.”

  “I’ve never been wise,” he said in a silky voice, his lashes spiked together with water. “And we don’t have to part on bad terms. It could be just a little bit of fun between two people who are attracted to each other.”

  “How do you know I am?”

  He shot her a roguish smile. “Because I know, woman. I know when your gaze lingers on me. I know when you get that little bit of pink in your cheeks when our eyes meet, before you brusquely look away. And I know because you look away all the time. You won’t let me close. You won’t let yourself linger. And yet, you can’t resist the urge to go sword to sword with me.” He leaned closer. “Tomorrow, I am going to meet you in the yard and we are going to spar, and there’s going to be no holds barred. It’s going to be hard and fierce, and we’re both going to end up sweaty and sore. And there’s a little part of you that doesn’t know who will win. It makes you wet and I know it.”

  She licked dry lips.

  Stared at the foot she had planted very firmly in the middle of his chest. “Fine. There’s an attraction there. I’ll admit it. I like big men.”

  His hand returned to her foot, and he dug his thumb under the arch, rubbing soap across her toes. “Then you’re in luck, my love. I’m big all over.”

  The stroke of his hands wooed her. Bryn leaned her head back against the bath and shut her eyes as his fingers caressed the lines of her foot, massaging her toes.

  “We would be glorious in bed,” he continued. “But I’ll warn you: You may be able to beat me with a sword in hand, but if I get you in bed, then you’ll be on your hands and knees, Bryn, and you won’t be in control.”

  Her eyes jarred open, and she was a little shocked by the surge of heat that went through her at the thought.

  Tormund slid her foot up his chest, biting the side of it. Their eyes met, and then he suckled one of her toes into his mouth.

  And she could sense her control of the situation slipping, sense herself falling into a deep, dark hole from which she couldn’t return.

  She yanked her foot free, offering him a warning arch of the brow. “As tempting as it sounds, I meant what I said. It’s not wise to form any sort of attachment when gold is involved.”

  His smile held a thousand sins as he leaned back against the tub, and though she’d denied him twice, this time she knew he was aware she’d hesitated. “Now I know you’re not talking to me. Try to be wise, Bryn. But if you’re ever feeling unwise, my blankets are always warm and my arms are always welcoming.”

  She shivered.

  Dangerous. Very, very dangerous.

  She’d given an inch and he’d taken a mile. And now she’d let him glimpse the attraction she felt, he’d be twice as hard to dissuade.

  “So your mother is a fierce woman?” she murmured, mostly to change the topic.

  “She was, yes.” He scrubbed a hand through his beard.

  “Was?” Bryn faltered. He’d spoken of her as though—

  “Was.” The vaguest hint of grief darkened his eyes. “She died when I was nine, of a fever we couldn’t fight, and I will never forget her or besmirch
her name.”

  Nine.

  The same age she’d been when her mortal father tossed her from his keep and told her to beg for her mother’s mercy.

  The same age she’d been the first time she nearly died, lost in the snows and starving, but determined to find the mother who’d left her on her father’s doorstep as a baby. All she’d had of her mother’s was the locket of a falcon, though that had been poor comfort in the freezing snows.

  She’d found Sýr then.

  Or perhaps the merlin had found her, ghosting across silent snows to land on her back, and pecking at her shoulder until she roused from unconsciousness.

  She’d forced herself to her feet as Sýr flitted from tree to tree, leading her to… salvation.

  Or so she’d thought.

  It felt seared into her memory.

  A small fire, and the woman standing with her hand on the hilt of her sword as she called out, “Who’s there?”

  It was like seeing the Goddess of War come to life, and Bryn had staggered out of the darkness, her stomach growling at the smell of the rabbit cooking on the spit. Starving. Ravenous. Barely caring about danger until she had a mouthful of that hot, half-cooked meat. It was only when she’d filled her belly that she realized the woman was watching her like a hawk—or staring at her locket, more to the point.

  “Who gave that to you, girl?” the woman had asked, stroking the little merlin’s chin.

  “It was my mother’s,” Bryn had told her fiercely.

  “That locket belongs to Kára of Valmar. And she has birthed no child.”

  Those words should have been warning enough, but she’d been curious then. Desperate to know the mother who’d abandoned her.

  And why.

  “Bryn?” Tormund’s rumble of a voice dragged her out of the reverie.

  She shook off the memory, hardening herself against sympathy. They’d both lost parents young. It didn’t mean anything. She couldn’t allow herself to soften now, when she was so close to regaining all she’d lost.

  “I’m sorry for your loss,” Bryn told him. “Your mother raised you well.”

  “As well as she could,” he told her with a shrug.

  Bryn grabbed the soap and began to wash the grime from her hair. “I’ve heard the others’ names before. Haakon Dragonsbane, a man so cold the arctic wind slips right over his skin without piercing it. And the Blackfrost, the brutal warlord of the north who makes grown dreki tremble. But I’ve never heard your name mentioned before.”