by Megan Crane
The redheaded dick at his back slammed the gun between his shoulder blades. Wulf knew the fucker was trying to force him to the ground. He thought about letting it happen. He really did. There was no point showing how strong he really was when it could be used against him. He really should make a big show of weakness to lull them all into a false sense of security.
But something inside of him wouldn’t allow it. If they wanted him on his knees, they’d have to cut off his legs to get him there.
The douche behind him shoved again. Harder.
Wulf didn’t go down. He kept his gaze on King Athenian.
“I don’t kneel,” he said, making no effort to strip the warning growl from his voice. “Do you?”
And then he stayed where he was, waiting for this king, who apparently needed to overcompensate with the biggest damn throne he’d ever seen his life, to condescend to address him. Just one more thing to add to the list of offenses he’d be paying for later.
King Athenian took his time. He did something with his chin that got that MAC-10 out from between Wulf’s shoulder blades, but otherwise, all he did was stare down from the august heights of his metallic swamp throne. He let his gaze move all over Wulf as if he was weighing him up and finding him severely wanting.
And Wulf understood this kind of mind game. This little shit thought that he could get inside Wulf’s head. So Wulf decided to make it look as if he’d succeeded.
He looked away. He forced his shoulders to sag—okay, maybe a quarter of an inch because he didn’t sag—and he contemplated the polished silver step in front of him while he felt the king’s creepy jubilation wash all over him as if the asshole had doused him with a bucket of filthy water.
It never ceased to amaze him, the way people revealed themselves. And so easily.
“They tell me you fancy yourself a king.”
King Athenian’s voice was amused. And very nearly indulgent. As if he’d never heard anything more diverting in all his days propped up on his monstrosity of a throne than the idea of a raider king. Wulf thought a far better diversion would be throwing himself up the steps to get to the actual seat of the throne and tearing this dickhead’s major organs out with his hands, but what did he know? He was the savage here.
“That’s what they call me,” Wulf replied. More to the floor than to the king, but he knew the asshole heard him. “Who am I to argue with the will of my people?”
“You cannot truly believe that barbarian scum such as you could walk through my gates and not be made to answer for your sins against me, can you?” This time King Athenian sounded almost friendly. Warm, even. “Surely you must have known that the penalty for even one of your offenses is death. But you—” He let out small chuckle. “You have been nothing but an irritant for twenty years.”
Wulf slid his gaze back to the king. “I prefer to think of myself as an entrepreneur.”
Another chuckle. This one creepy as fuck.
“Raiders are parasites,” Athenian said softly. Almost happily. “Little more than vermin. You live because I allow it. Is it possible you could have imagined otherwise?”
Wulf couldn’t help himself then. The fact was, he had never been any good at taking shit. Not from his drunk asshole of a father. Not from the murderous raider king his father had supported so blindly. Not from anyone—and as much as he wanted these people to underestimate him, he hadn’t gotten any better at it.
“Funny,” he said, though he shouldn’t have. Especially not in such a harsh voice. “I thought it was the other way around.”
Someone cuffed him on the back of the head, but Wulf didn’t move his gaze from the king’s. He saw a muscle clench in the other man’s jaw and knew he’d hit a sore spot. Good.
The moment dragged out, the king’s dead eyes on his, until finally King Athenian waved his hand impatiently, silently ordering the guards to let go of Wulf. And leave.
“Sire,” one of the guards said, scowling. “I must caution you—”
“You do not caution me.” And Athenian smiled in that overly friendly way of his. “You do my bidding. Are you confused about your place?”
What interested Wulf was that the man’s voice was perfectly pleasant and yet clearly laced with threat. And the guards around him jolted as if they’d been smacked upside the head. Or worse. They let go of Wulf and fell back.
“That’s far enough,” Athenian said, almost jovially. Then he shifted his attention back to Wulf. “You, come closer. Let me see the jumped-up barbarian who has imagined himself a thorn in my side all these years.”
Wulf moved toward the throne. He kept his eyes on the king. And when he made it to the bottom stair and was certain that he had Athenian’s full attention, he smiled.
“I didn’t know you existed until last summer,” Wulf told him after a moment, and he really let himself relish it in this long day of very little joy. “But it sounds like you’ve had a hard-on for me for the better part of two decades. I have to admit, I’m flattered.”
He had to admire Athenian on some level. He must have suspected that Wulf was capable of killing him in an instant. Sure, his guards would take Wulf down—or try—but he’d be dead either way. Yet he sat there with such ease, as if there was no possibility that Wulf would dare.
Or maybe it wasn’t that he was confident in his power. Maybe it was that he was too confident in it—too used to imagining it protected him because no one had ever attempted to convince him otherwise. Wulf reminded himself that he was likely the only raider this man had ever seen face-to-face.
Athenian was talking. “The tales they tell of you suggest you’re fierce and bloodthirsty in battle. That you throw yourself into these scuffles as if you truly enjoy them. This is curious enough, of course. I had no idea you also fancied yourself . . . entertaining.”
“What is a king if not a servant?” Wulf was still smiling, daring this man to mistake him for the lazy, careless creature he pretended to be with such ease. “If it falls to me to amuse my people, who am I to refuse?”
“That is not a king, my raider friend,” King Athenian said quietly, all dead eyes and no merriment this time. “That is a failure of leadership. The people are yours. You are not theirs. What kind of king are you if you don’t know this already?” He shook his head, shifting against the wide gold seat of his absurd and creepy throne. “But of course, you are the kind of king who walked into my stronghold and straight into my hands. All alone.”
Wulf decided that this was a perfect opportunity for him to practice his heretofore unknown negotiation skills.
“I thought it was time we talked,” he said. “Face-to-face rather than mercenary to raider’s blade.”
“Because you imagine that I have the time to speak to every dissident. Every agitator who imagines himself far enough above his station to address me.” King Athenian’s lips twitched. “Why am I not surprised a mongrel thinks of himself so highly?”
Wulf tilted his head to one side and fought the red haze of his temper back. Somehow. “Am I the mongrel in this scenario? If so, I will caution you to worry less about my station and more about my bite.”
The king shifted on his throne, but Wulf didn’t think it was any kind of tension, necessarily. It looked a lot more like anticipation.
“Are you threatening me?” There was no denying the sheer joy in the king’s voice then. “Here, in my own throne room? In the stronghold I graciously permitted you to enter unharmed? Do you dare?”
It was patently obvious that he very much hoped that Wulf did dare. So instead, Wulf shrugged as if he was so bored by this conversation he might actually drift off to sleep where he stood.
“It occurs to me that you mainlanders view every interaction as a threat,” he said lazily. “As I have been at some pains to tell you and your many minions, repeatedly, I’m here as an ally.” He smiled then, cool and dangerous. “A friend.”
The king shifted in his throne, calling attention to the brocaded nonsense he wore as clothes. It was f
abric better suited to hang on a wall as decoration than to comprise a man’s wardrobe, and not only because it would impede the fool’s movement and likely get him killed. But because it was fucking distracting.
“And you believe that a man such as me could have a friend like you,” Athenian said, his big smile creasing his face. “You. A creature who lives in a cave on some faraway island, according to all reports. More wolf than man.”
“I’m delighted to find that both my reputation and my propaganda have preceded me.” Wulf took the opportunity to look around the room, pointedly. From the high windows that he doubted would let in much light in high summer to those creepy statues—all, he realized then, likenesses of Athenian. Every single one of them. “It is true that not every king lives in a palace such as this, choking on precious metals and drowning in polished woods. And yet it is not you who the people whisper about over their paltry fires in the darkest winter nights.”
“Because I am the most powerful king in the world,” Athenian said, with an edge to his voice. No hint of that smile. “Not a silly story to while away the wet months and keep the boisterous children in line.” He let out a laugh. “How can you possibly imagine that you are on my level? You should be on your knees before me like the upstart you are. You should beg me to spare your life.”
And there was an edge to the way he said that. A threat more distinct than before. If Wulf hadn’t heard it himself, he certainly would have noticed the way the guards in the hall behind him shifted. Then tensed up as if awaiting their orders to cut him down where he stood.
Wulf grinned. “Negotiations with you break down quickly, I see. There’s no need to spare my life. If I bother you so much, kill me now.” He held the bastard king’s dark, grim gaze and didn’t dim his grin at all. “See what happens.”
For moment, there was nothing but the tension that filled the room, pressing against all that gold and all that shimmering silver. It rebounded off the gleam, then doubled down as it pressed into Wulf’s bare skin. It sank into his bones, like the winter cold outside, but it didn’t make him stiff. It made him ready.
Up on his throne, King Athenian was entirely too still. Wulf could see the calculation in the other man’s dead gaze. Wulf had no doubt that the fucker wanted to kill him right here. Right now. Simply because he could. And because Wulf had the temerity to question him—to stand before him with no hint of bend in his knees.
Not only that, but he’d asked for his own execution, which took all the power from the threat of it.
But most of all, Wulf had yet to show the faintest hint of fear, aside from a quick sag of his shoulders. And he knew that was the thing the king could tolerate least.
He was banking on the fact that Athenian couldn’t understand it.
“Only a very great fool has no fear of his own death.” Athenian let his gaze travel all over Wulf at that, as if confirming that he was, in fact, exactly that kind of fool.
“Raiders do not fear death,” Wulf schooled him. Mildly. “But then, we make certain to live first. No dreary compliance to make the winters harsher. No insipid rulers to make the summers a trial.”
Athenian considered him. “Or perhaps this is your version of raider suicide, here where none of your savage minions can see you surrender and learn how little your bold statements match your cowardly actions.”
It was only the fact that he was almost certainly being deliberately baited that kept Wulf from exploding at that. No one had ever called him a coward to his face. No one called a raider a coward and expected to live. It was an insult with only one possible response. Blood.
But that would be too easy. And there were twenty days to go.
Wulf shook his head. “This is a negotiation. Perhaps you’re unfamiliar with that word, but these are troubled times. They require new vocabularies.”
“I don’t require words to wipe the raider scourge off the face of this planet.” King Athenian waved a hand. “My very minor troubles will end instantly the moment the last raider draws breath.”
Wulf laughed. “You cannot kill all the raiders. You can try.” He crossed his arms over his chest and widened his stance, aware that it was aggressive. “I think you’ll find that we are a hardy breed. Not so easy to kill. But what you should worry about is that raiders always, always take their revenge. Always. No matter if takes two minutes or two decades.”
“Difficult to do, I imagine, if I burn down your nest and obliterate your memory from this earth.”
This time, Wulf didn’t laugh. He thought it would be overkill. “Again, I invite you to try.”
Another silence drew tight between them. The king sat on his giant throne, rigidly, looking like nothing so much as a small child playing in his parents’ chair. A comparison that worked on a number of levels, Wulf thought, since this man’s entire reign seemed like a child’s extended tantrum.
Athenian stroked at his jaw as if he was feeling for a beard that wasn’t there. “If I were to accept you as friend to my kingdom, what would such an alliance look like?” His dark eyes glittered. “How would it benefit me?”
Wulf sighed. “All this time I assumed that such a mighty king must hold his throne because of his imagination. His vision. How else could your territory be so large? Why else would so many follow you?” He enjoyed watching Athenian’s gaze kindle with temper. Maybe a little too much. “But never fear, I have more than enough vision for the both of us. What I propose is simple. You stop killing raiders. You leave my settlements alone. In return I will extend you the same courtesy. Like friends.” His mouth curved. “With armies.”
“Alternatively, I could kill you now,” Athenian pointed out, with a certain casual practicality. “I could burn down your nasty little caves filled with bones and animal carcasses. I could take your women and slaughter your children. I could confiscate your ships and wipe you from the seas forever.” All in that matter-of-fact, vaguely cheerful voice. “Then I could have all the settlements I please and you would be dead. My preferred outcome, I must tell you.”
“And so shortsighted.” Wulf shrugged. “Surely you must know by now that such widespread slaughter leads only to bitter souls whose only purpose in this life is to avenge what they’ve lost.”
“Difficult to do if there are no souls left to take up the cause.”
“How did you gain your throne?” Wulf asked. As if this was nothing but idle conversation over drink and women at the end of a long feast. He didn’t wait for a response. And not only because he didn’t give a fuck. “Because I took mine. By force. I spilled blood and I challenged any of the former king’s champions to come at me. To take back what they believed was stolen. I encouraged it.” He kept his gaze trained on Athenian. “Some of them took the offer and I put them down, one after the next. Out in the open where all my people could see. Because I had nothing to hide, which means I let nothing fester.”
“What a charming story,” King Athenian murmured. “But why on earth would you imagine I care about the travails of insects?”
“It has been twenty years since I took my throne,” Wulf said. “No children of the men I killed have risen up against me. I did not banish them, I invited them into my home. I made them my brothers, my kin. And when they bowed their heads and offered me their fealty, I accepted it. Slaughter only works when you can be absolutely, positively certain that no trace of those you have decimated remain—or if they do, that they support you instead of these dreams of their murdered families. Can you be sure you’ll manage this?” He allowed himself a smirk. “Do you even know where I live? Because I must ruin a favorite tale, I’m afraid. It is not in a cave.”
The king let out a guffaw at that. Wulf kept going.
“No mainlander has ever located the raider stronghold on his own,” Wulf reminded him. “But if you are so certain that you will be the first, by all means. bring your troops.” He held the other man’s gaze and let his own edge over into something far harder than he’d showed so far. “Remind me, how many mercenari
es did you send after me these past years? How many returned to you? And tell me, what happened to Krajic? Your great champion?”
Wulf’s war chief had taken that mercenary bastard down, right in the middle of the great hall in the Lodge. It was one of Wulf’s fondest memories from the previous summer.
“Krajic was nothing more than a rented blade,” the king said, making no attempt to hide the malice in his tone any longer. “And I do not make mistakes twice.”
“I hope this means that you plan to climb down off that fascinating throne and handle me yourself,” Wulf said then, feeling his blood heat as his anticipation surged. “After all, we are men. Not little bitches. And men fight their own battles, do they not?” He watched Athenian’s face tighten with rage. “Or perhaps you are the sort of king who expects other men to fight for him. I have no experience with such things. In the grisly caves where you imagine raiders hunker, no man fights for a king who he could beat himself.” He allowed himself a small smile he imagined went nowhere near his eyes. “I find myself fascinated by these cultural divides, do you not?”
“I would watch my mouth if I were you,” the King gritted out. “Before I cut it off you for your impertinence.”
And Wulf knew he should stop. That he was treading perilously close to a precipice here—and it was too soon. It was too fucking soon. There were twenty days to go, and much as he might want to handle this himself, with blood and malice and his own two hands that itched to tighten around this asshole’s throat, he knew he couldn’t do it. This was about more than his pride. This was about far more than the dark temper that stormed in him, demanding release.
This was bigger than him. He’d learned a long time ago that the things he wanted most always were.
Instead, Wulf opened up his hands and spread his arms out, wide. He held the king’s gaze, and made no attempt to soften his.