“You’re being ridiculous. All these words—”
“I am bound by every word I utter,” he told her, and this time when he stepped toward her, she let him.
Treacherous heart, beating swiftly in her chest. Unfaithful body, wet with anticipation, and trembling with desire. Freyja swallowed hard and shut her eyes. All she had was her faltering will. Her steadfast nature.
“When have I ever lied to you?” Rurik whispered, as though sensing her hesitation. His fingertips skated over her cheeks again.
This time she let him.
This time her shoulders sank and she finally lifted her eyelashes to look him in the face. Some part of her wanted to believe him, to lift her mouth to his and offer herself up to him. But the warier part of her, the part that remembered Benedikt’s subtle viciousness, stayed her hand. “Why me?”
“Oh, precious Freyja.” His breath shivered over her skin. Rurik cupped her face, callused thumbs stroking gently against her cheeks. “You are a fascinating contradiction. Barely afraid of me when you should be, but frightened of me when I am at my least dangerous. Every second I see that flash of fire in your eyes ignites something within me I have not felt for a long, long time. Your very contrariness captures me, your intelligence, your fierceness... and the gentle nature that hides within. Shall I go on?”
“You see this as a challenge.” And she knew men played to win. “That is all.”
“The fact you challenge me is part of the attraction,” he breathed. “I’ll concede that point. What man or woman does not care to be challenged within a relationship? If you agreed with me all the time or kissed my shoes, then you would be quite uninteresting.”
“I will never kiss your shoes.” The very idea offended her.
A slow smile spread over his lips. “I know.”
“I will rarely agree with you.”
“Even better.”
“I am stubborn, and angry, and not very good at conversation,” she said, giving in to exasperation. “I am not beautiful—”
“There you are wrong.” He cupped her cheeks in both hands and tilted her face to his. “Every inch of your skin pleases me. Every time our eyes meet, I want to consume you. You have lightning in your veins, precious Freyja. And when you kiss me it feels as though I can taste that lightning too. There is something between us that cannot be denied.”
“Fate,” Freyja whispered. She still didn’t believe in the word, but there was... something there. In that he spoke the truth.
Her heart kicked a little faster behind her ribs, the treacherous organ. There was a part of her that knew he was going to kiss her again, and this time she didn’t think she’d push him away. Even just the rasp of his thumb against her jaw felt so good, a renegade pleasure she could barely admit to.
Just who was she lying to? Him? Or herself?
“I don’t know if I believe you,” she admitted.
“Then set me a challenge. How shall I prove my intentions are true? How shall I win the heart of fair maiden?”
He was mocking her.
“Give me my heart’s greatest desire,” she shot back, dashing his hands from her face and darting for the door, “and I shall give you my heart.”
Rurik stilled. It felt almost as if an enormous tail lashed behind him suddenly, like a cat about to pounce, and then he smiled. “So be it.”
Chapter 8
Discovering her heart's greatest desire was proving to be more vexatious than Rurik had thought.
The next two days passed with little sight of her. Freyja was adept at maneuvering on silent feet, and spent countless hours tending to her home, or to the flock of animals that relied upon her. Every time he found her he was either handed a broom or a shovel and told to earn his keep, or several dozen bleating sheep rousing into a sudden panic sent him fleeing before Freyja could question their terror. Rurik himself was forced to keep an eye on the skies. There’d been no sign of the other dreki in the area when he arrived, but he knew they were out there somewhere. He strengthened the wards on his lair, watched curiously as Haakon led fruitless expeditions around the volcano, then subsided at Freyja’s to wait the other dreki out.
Two could play at this game.
And he was patient, for a dreki.
Or at least, he thought he was, until he encountered the might of Freyja’s will.
It didn’t help matters her father, Einar, insisted on sitting with him for hours, inadvertently playing the part of chaperone.
“You’re distracted,” her father said one afternoon, as they sat over the small chessboard he’d dusted off and brought out. The little fox that lived with them sat on the side of the armchair, his dark amber eyes unblinking. Loki knew what he was, and when he realized Rurik watched him, he bared his teeth in a faint growl.
Fair enough. The little beast was only trying to protect his household. At least he didn’t run and bleat like Freyja’s sheep did whenever they saw him.
Rurik eyed the spread of ivory pieces. He enjoyed this game, and the old man had clever wits, despite his blindness. “I was thinking of the dragon hunters in the village. They seem to be making little progress.”
“Is that why you watch the window so often?”
Caught. “No. I’m watching for your daughter. She is doing her best to avoid me.” He didn’t ask how the man had known. Einar seemed attuned to each rustle of cloth, and all of his other senses were exceptionally good.
“Ah.” Einar coughed faintly into the stained handkerchief in his fist, then reached for his knight. His hand quivered. “You have an interest in Freyja.”
The stale scent of encroaching death emanated from the old man. Rurik stilled. “She is intriguing,” he admitted. “She is beautiful, and clever, and stubborn, and utterly relentless.”
“I need not remind you your intentions had best be pure? I might be old and blind, but I can still be a force to be reckoned with when it comes to the daughter I love.”
Rurik respected the old man’s position, though he could swat him like a fly if he wished. “You can remind me, but Freyja has already lain down her rules. You might be a force to be reckoned with, but she is a force of nature.”
The old man chuckled, a sound that slowed, then died with a faint hush. “Aye, she’s proud and wary.” He scratched at his jaw, clearly upset by some thought. “It bothers me to see her so long unmarried. My health fades with each winter. I... I worry....”
Rurik surveyed the board, then moved his bishop and told the man what he’d done. “Freyja can survive without you, I assure you of that. She is independent and strong enough to rule her own life.”
“I know,” Einar replied. “But she has always been so isolated. You’ve seen her eyes?”
“They are beautiful eyes.”
“Some claim they are sure sign of a witch.”
“It’s a small village,” Rurik replied, lacing his hands across his middle. “I expect the people here to be sheltered.”
“Unfortunately, others don’t share your lack of qualms.” Einar looked troubled. “I always sought to spare her from their censure, and so Helga and I kept her close, and rarely invited strangers to the house. Or even guests. Maybe that was a m-mistake—” He broke into another hacking fit of coughs.
Rurik fetched the old man a glass of water. “Here,” he offered, sending a thin tendril of his power through his fingertips to energize the old man.
“My thanks.” Einar slurped the water down, and settled back in his chair, but at least his skin bore some faint signs of color now.
“Has she never had a suitor before?” he asked, as he waited for the old man to recover.
“I keep pushing her toward that Benedikt boy,” Einar admitted, “but she will have none of him.”
Every hint of the predator within him arose at the name. Benedikt. He was the man who threatened Freyja. Rurik’s voice turned silky. “He is local?”
“His father owns half the village.” Einar coughed again. “He’s not the sort of lad I’d
normally choose for Freyja, but....”
He was the only man who showed interest in her. If only Einar understood what sort of interest Benedikt showed....
Not for him to mention. No. Rurik had other ways of confronting his rival. Still, he couldn’t say nothing, “Sometimes it is better to live alone, than to wed someone unsuitable.”
“Unless someone else who is suitable comes along?” Einar suggested unsubtly, his hand hovering over his rook. He moved it. “I believe that is check.”
So it was. Rurik frowned. It was the first time the other man had beat him.
“Your attention has been elsewhere,” Einar mused, even as the door to the kitchen creaked faintly.
Rurik was suddenly all senses. There was a light footstep in the kitchen. Then another.
“And now you are distracted again.” Einar chuckled, clearly hearing Freyja’s entrance too. “Go,” he said, waving toward the kitchen. “You have my best wishes. I can tell she likes you.”
“I am not so certain of that. But we’ll continue our game later,” Rurik replied, pushing to his feet and moving after his fascinating adversary.
He had to move quickly. He could hear Freyja heading for the door again. The swing of her golden plait came into view, and Freyja snagged her shawl, reaching for the door handle with one guilty glance cast over her shoulder—
“Where are you going?” he demanded.
Freyja paused in the shadows of the kitchen doorway, her shawl in her hand. “For a walk.”
Lie. It ignited every single one of his senses. “May I come with you?”
“It is rather boring,” she said quickly, and he knew she was up to something. “You will not enjoy it. Muddy, smelly... I daresay it will ruin your boots.”
He was inclined to argue, but merely smiled. “Not my boots. Whatever would I do?”
Freyja shot him a narrow-eyed look, as if she couldn’t quite work out whether he was being sarcastic or not. She tucked the shawl over her honey-colored hair, then headed for the door. “I shall be back later.”
“I can hardly wait.”
That earned him one last twitch of the brow, before she vanished.
Troublesome female. If he were in his dreki form right now, his tail would be lashing. But then, if she thought to dissuade him from the chase, she thought wrong. Nothing stirred his interest more than a woman who refused to fall at his feet. And there was no reason for her to lie to him about where she was going, unless....
Rurik waited for all of two minutes, realizing Loki had followed him and watched from the corner of the cupboard, like some small chaperone.
“I am not going to hurt her, little brother,” he told the fox.
Those amber eyes narrowed.
Rurik reined in his predatory impulses, and headed out into the yard to see if his suspicions were correct.
That small light-footed figure headed out across the moors, her green shawl wrapped around her shoulders as she made her way directly toward the smoking volcano in the distance.
Easy enough to guess where she was going. What he didn’t know was why, or what she was up to.
His blood was up. Perhaps she was wary of Rurik the man, but she seemed to have reached a truce in her mind with the dreki.
It seemed she would be meeting him sooner, rather than later.
Rurik paced along the stone fence that housed her sheep. They bleated and scurried out of his path, pressing in a frightened huddle against the far wall. Freyja might not recognize him in this form, but all of her animals did.
He sighed. “I’m not going to eat any of you,” he pointed out. “She’s barely forgiven me for the ram.”
He’d never live it down if he sampled another of her delicious morsels.
His stomach chose that moment to growl. The bleating grew louder. Rurik bared his teeth at them, and then stomped around the corner of the stables. Idiot sheep. And frustrating shepherdess.
He’d given her more than enough time for a decent head start.
And the dreki itched within him, wanting to taste the wind on its face.
Plus there were his boots to think of....
Rurik glided across the skies, his shadow rippling over the tiny figure far below that trudged determinedly across the glacial moors. He felt utterly relaxed in his natural form, as though he’d been contained in a form far too small for him for too long.
Wind whipped beneath his wings and he soared on the thermals, delighting in the warmth of the sunlight on his scales.
Not a sign of another dreki anywhere. He’d made careful forays over the past few nights, but there’d been no hint of them. Which suggested they’d taken to ground....
Where though? What was their game?
And who had his mother sent to challenge him?
Silver scales. That bothered him, because while the color was popular among his clan, there was one particular dreki who gleamed silver, and his mother knew Andri would be a weakness of his. A part of him hoped she hadn’t sent his younger cousin on this mission, even as he knew better. Of course Amadea would exploit any weakness.
As for the bigger dreki, he hadn’t gotten a good look, but thought he’d caught a glimpse of a dark shape. Darker dreki were more common than the lighter or jewel-tinted shades, and the bigger dreki could have been any one of his uncle’s warriors.
He couldn’t scent them around his territory. No, they’d glided on elsewhere, though he knew the foray into his domain could not been accidental. Every dreki male at court knew the territory lines. When a simple incursion might mean war and a battle to the death, it wasn’t the sort of thing dreki were careless with. Which meant they’d been looking for something—some mischief—and it bothered him he could not figure it out.
Circling Krafla, Rurik caught sight of the determined figure crossing the moors far below. This was a terrible time to be seducing an obstinate woman, but he couldn’t deny that he was enjoying the pursuit more than he’d imagined. Rurik banked with care, and alighted on the ledge outside the entrance to his cave.
Just what, precisely, did Freyja value most? Freedom? Gold? A crown, perhaps? A rich manor where she did not have to work all day merely to put food on the table? No. He didn’t think so. She seemed to enjoy the work, speaking with fondness to the creatures that inhabited her small farmstead. It was only when he was around that her tone became more careful.
Rurik tapped his claws on the stone, one after the other, as he sunned himself. Her challenge presented an intriguing mystery.
“You are early.” He sent the thought to her just as she locked eyes with him. “You are not due for another three weeks.”
Freyja hauled herself up the last stone climb, her dark blonde hair glowing like spun gold in the sunlight. “I know.”
“Why are you here then?” He stretched, and decided to tease her a little. “Have you bought me dinner?”
A scowl met the words. “You’re big enough and scary enough to fetch your own dinner.”
“Yes. But they frown upon that here. Something about rams and ownership, and tithes and not taking what is due to a creature of my magnificence....”
Definitely a scowl. “You think you are amusing.”
“I think you are up to something. Why else would you be here, hmm?”
Freyja looked away, the wind snagging strands of her blonde hair and tugging it free from her tight braid. He’d love to see all of that hair unbound. It was her true wealth. She stared over the valley below them, and he realized she was focusing on her village.
“I came to warn you,” she said at last. “Some of the villagers have pooled their money and hired a dragon hunter to rid themselves of you. Others don’t wish such a thing.”
He rested his chin on his claws, watching her sleepily. “I know.”
Those mismatched eyes widened. “What? How?”
“I am not stupid, little mouse.” Rurik snorted. “What sort of dreki would I be, if I let your puny villagers thwart me?”
Freyja’s li
ps thinned. “They will not seem so puny and insignificant when they bring that ballista up here and spear you with it.”
“I should like to see them haul their machines up through the boggy moors and along the cliff path. It should prove amusing. I might even drop a rock on it. Or perhaps I will merely pinwheel through the sky above them? I’ve seen the aim on that thing. The dragons they’ve hunted must stand very still for them.” Rurik spread his wings with a flap, enjoying the warmth on them. Freyja gasped and staggered, her back plastered to the sheer cliff face. He paused, realizing he’d startled her, and slowly curled his wings up against his sides. “You won’t fall.”
Freyja eyed the drop carefully. “You’re not the one who was nearly blown off this ledge.”
“And if you did lose your footing, I would catch you,” he continued. “I am not done with you yet.”
This statement earned him a narrow glare. “Saying such things does not ease my nerves one whit. What do you intend to do with me?”
“I intend to hear your words,” he replied. “I am interested in conversation. One rarely finds humans brave enough to come into my den, especially those who have no designs for my gold.”
“A dreki who wants only to talk?” she countered. “I’ve never heard of such a thing.”
“Surely you have heard the old tales?”
A snort. “Yes, I’ve heard the old tales. All of them. Including the ones where a capricious traveler ended up in a dreki’s belly.”
“I have no intentions of causing you harm,” he replied. “Dreki’s oath on that. I am merely curious about you. Most of your neighbors are fools. How did such a curious female come about, when most of the village flees at the sight of my shadow?”
Freyja eyed him. There was wariness there still, but also a certain sort of interest. As if, so starved for company and derided by humans, she could overlook the fact he was dreki.
“Stay,” he cajoled. “Talk with me.”
“Talk of what?” Freyja demanded, but the light in her eyes was back, her fear fading. Indeed, her tone had changed and she sounded more certain of herself when he was in this form.
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