Sigrid set the pitcher down and drew near, expertly checking the bandage around Tyra’s ribs. “And what is that?”
The truth came out before Tyra could hold back. “It happens when I hold the newly dead.”
Sigrid frowned. “I understand. For that instant, you feel what they feel. That is common enough.”
“But sometimes it is my heart that comes to life. Suddenly it is as if I am a human, seeing all with the fires of their feelings.”
Sigrid’s eyes darted away. It was the first time Tyra had ever seen guilt on her sister’s face. It happens to her, too. That gave Tyra courage to say more. “Sometimes the feeling lingers. Sometimes it takes a long time to fade.” Like ever since she’d met Bron.
“No,” said Sigrid softly. “You can’t live that way. You can’t reap soul after soul and ache for every one you must gather. That is why the Allfather changed us. We would suffer too much.”
But wasn’t that suffering worth it? In the coffee shop, Bron had held Tyra’s hands in his and gazed at her as if she were a rare jewel. She’d never felt like that before, and she wanted more. And she didn’t believe Odin had altered the Valkyries just to save them pain. As Sigrid herself had said, he relished their obedience. He wanted to be first in their hearts and minds.
“There are cures. Disciplines. You would not be not the first to ask the Norns for aid.” Sigrid tucked the blanket around Tyra and stepped back, her hands tight to her sides. “Sleep now. Your wound should be entirely healed by morning. It has already closed.”
Tyra lay back, putting a hand to her eyes. They stung with fatigue. “Is Bron still here?”
“He is with the Allfather. No doubt Odin is sending him on his way.” Sigrid’s tone was dry.
“Oh.” Her voice cracked with disappointment.
She heard Sigrid’s sigh. “Valkyries don’t bleed and they don’t weep, either.”
Her sister left. Tyra stayed where she was, loneliness filling her as she shrank deeper under the blanket. It would be hard to ask the old crones for an elixir to cleanse her heart of feeling, but there would be relief. She longed to be one with her sisters again, uncaring, part of a pack and, most of all, not questioning every move she made. One swallow would bring peace.
And a kind of death. Slowly, Tyra sat up. Her side ached, but it was proof she’d had an adventure. It gave her an odd thrill she wasn’t willing to give up. That is life. Whatever I had before was just existence.
Tyra found her cloak, wrapping it tight because she wore no nightclothes. Rest and bandages were enough to heal her flesh, but her roiling spirits needed more. She needed to thank Bron for saving her life. To hold him. To beg him to be patient while she sorted out all these new emotions.
Most of all, she had to get to Bron before her father sent him away forever.
She slipped through her door and padded softly into the starlit night, keeping to the shadows. She knew instinctively she would find him in the open air. Dragons weren’t for the indoors.
* * *
Bron was not hard to find. He stood alone in the meadow, looking up at the stars. His shaggy dark head was tilted back, the starlight washing his clean-cut features to pale marble. Tyra paused a moment, just looking at him. She had seen him transform to a huge scarlet dragon, the color as bright as the fire within. The slow ache inside her said that fire was in him now, banked to ash but ready to burn with the slightest encouragement. Fire was dangerous, but that didn’t mean Tyra was willing to shy from it anymore.
He must have heard the swish of her feet in the grass, because he turned. For a dizzying instant, she could see the dragon in his movements, sinuous and powerful. It stopped her breath, and she suddenly wanted to feel his body against hers so badly her wound felt no more than a pinprick.
Tyra wanted to be his woman. She craved it.
“Hello,” she said softly. Something in the darkness demanded hushed voices, as if the velvet night was sacred.
He closed the distance between them, taking both her hands in his. His heat instantly warmed her. “What are you doing out of bed?”
“Looking for you.” She couldn’t help but smile at how feeble that sounded. Then she realized how odd the smile felt, and wondered if she’d ever done it before. “Thank you. I’ve never been rescued by a dragon before.”
He laughed softly. “I’ve never seen a fair maid skewer a demon with a chair leg before.”
Tyra shrugged one shoulder, letting the cloak slip just enough to show that shoulder was bare. “I had to improvise.”
The cool wind brushed her skin and fingered the loose tendrils of her hair. Bron stared at her bare flesh, seemingly mesmerized. For a moment, Tyra wondered if she’d miscalculated—that she’d made a foolish, untutored mistake. She had no experience—just emptiness and a certainty that Bron could fill it.
He raised his hand, letting it hover an instant before his fingers brushed that sliver of skin. When she didn’t flinch away, he grew bold, brushing hair from her neck so he could press his lips there. She gasped at the warmth of his mouth. All at once she was melting inside, helpless, formless, and utterly vulnerable.
Then the cloak was on the grass, and she stood naked beneath the stars. She was aware of her body in a way she’d never been before. Her limbs were muscular, honed from practice with a sword. She didn’t have the lush curves she’d seen on some women and truly hoped he didn’t mind. From the speed with which Bron shed his garments, she decided he did not.
Wordlessly, he took her into his arms, his mouth finding hers. She pressed against him, drawing a low sound from deep in his chest. It vibrated against her, bringing a thrill of sensation to the tips of her breasts. Males, it seemed, were designed for a woman’s pleasure. She stroked the silky strength of his shaft and felt him rumble again. The musk of dragon rose around them, reminding her of leather and man.
And then his hands found her, and her thoughts vanished like mist shredded by a breeze. Individual actions blurred into a collage: Bron’s hands on her breasts, her fingers digging into the thick muscle of his shoulders. His mouth grazed her collarbone, working kisses downward. She wriggled against him, wanting more and more of his skin against hers. After so much time keeping the world at sword’s length, she lost all sense of her individual self. And then they were on the grass, her cloak beneath them, the starlit sky above.
They stopped a moment, panting. Bron’s fingers brushed the bandage. “I don’t want to hurt you.”
“I am a warrior. I will not break.” Her voice was braver than she felt. A jittery sensation hid beneath the pounding of her heart. This was a forbidden precipice, and she was about to hurl herself off it with gusto. She burned with impatience for that moment of giddy freedom.
As if he sensed her mood, Bron put a hand to her cheek, his caress gentle for all his strength. The gesture calmed her, as if promising he would see her safely to the other side. She turned her face into his touch, pressing her lips to his palm. When her gaze met his again, his expression was soft with wonder.
He said nothing more, but kissed her again, this time drawing it out like a man starved for connection. If she had melted before, now she was molten, a fresh and urgent desire taking her over. Slowly, he worked his mouth down her flesh, suckling her breasts until she cried out and pushed her belly tight against his. He explored the planes of her stomach, the sensitive flesh inside her thighs, and the cleft between them. She had never before imagined such heavy, pulsing need could be coaxed to life with a touch.
As Bron worked, he grew warmer, as if the fire within him was bringing them both to a slow boil. The heat drew her like life itself. She clung, wrapping herself around him, wanting his warmth inside her. She pushed her fingers into his hair, using it as an anchor to find his mouth and explore the impossible softness of his lips. And then she used her senses to discover the rest of him, the sculpted architecture of his chest and muscular belly. His was the body of someone who worked hard. There was nothing extraneous, nothing wasted about him
. Like a perfect blade, he was in balance, form and function as one.
His neck muscles corded as he braced himself over her. He pushed her thighs apart with his knee, positioning himself. Tyra moaned as he filled her, exploring places she’d barely known existed. It was delicious, strange, and oh, so intoxicating. Her body welcomed him, rising to meet his movements as if she might draw yet more of him inside. Bron began a steady, thrusting motion.
Bron pushed her to the brink of pleasure and then let her slip away, teasing her until she was ready to scream with need. The tension inside her rose and fell in a tangled, spiraling insanity of desire until she imagined they’d both combust. With a gasp, she lost her last foothold on the solid world, crumbling as absolutely as those demons had exploded into dust. Tyra felt tears streaking her face.
Valkyries didn’t cry. Or maybe they only cried for joy.
And then Bron gave way himself, filling her with yet more heat. He flung his head back, showing the strong, thick column of his throat. Tyra gripped his shoulders, losing herself in the fierce triumph of the moment.
“Bron,” she said, liking the way his name fit on her tongue. She’d jumped off that forbidden precipice, but he hadn’t let her fall. Not for one moment. A new emotion hit her, both exultant and faintly lost. Sigrid had been wrong. No drug or discipline could wash this away. There was no going back. She was changed.
And then he looked her in the eyes. The amber of his gaze seemed lit from within, dragon fire blazing so close she felt its heat. “Tyra.” The way he said it was like a brand, binding them and redefining something essential about her.
She was still a Valkyrie, no question—but that didn’t mean the same thing as it had until that moment. Now she was more.
Chapter Seven
Bron swooped over the city, his excellent night vision penetrating deep into the shadowed places. The skyline was a brilliant scattering of jewels, battling the night with its sparkling towers and flowing rivers—but Bron was looking for a different kind of war with a more sinister darkness. The Allfather had grudgingly conceded that a willing dragon might be useful to fly surveillance missions, so Bron had taken on that task, both for Tyra and because it was the right thing to do. Though Odin did not like to concede Bron’s superiority in any way, dragon eyes were better than magic when it came to the early detection of a demon raid.
And over the past week, he’d seen a pattern emerge. Dark patches splotched the city like mange. Bron tipped his wings, circling lower to get a closer look at a street that had been lit the last time he’d passed by. Tonight it lay dark and silent, devoid of life. He cursed.
There were demon traces—death, stink and an aura of lingering evil. Perhaps the Allfather was beating back organized assaults, but there was a more subtle war happening block by city block. The hellspawn had adopted sneakier tactics, and where they passed they left utter destruction.
There was nothing in the alley, demons or otherwise. With another oath, Bron turned, flapping hard to gain altitude again. His path took him under a bridge, then winding up through the cables to soar above the river. There was nothing he could do to save that tiny piece of the city tonight. The coming dawn was turning the sky to the color of gray pearls, and it was time large red dragons were safely out of sight.
Shifting in front of the coffee shop had been bad enough. Although the public knew his kind existed, dragons were still so rare that any who went public were instant celebrities. Bron refused to fall into that trap. A pack of camera-wielding news media was the last thing he needed while hunting the enemy.
And he had something far better waiting for him. He circled the cathedral roof with its gargoyles and copper spire, joy washing the night’s tension from his veins. Everything had changed since he’d taken Tyra in that meadow. He had a mate.
He landed, claws digging in until he was settled, and then with a rush of power, he changed back into a man. Cold rushed against his bare skin, sucking out his breath. Without the protection of fire and scales, he realized that at some point it had started to rain. Hard.
Tyra jogged toward him, sure-footed despite the slope in the roof. She held a cloak and thrust it at him. “Here. We’d best get inside.”
Bron tossed on the cloak. Tyra’s golden hair was plastered to her cheeks, and rain droplets ran down the metal of her breastplate. “You could have waited inside.”
“I tried,” she said simply, catching a double fistful of the cloak and pulling him close for a kiss. “I grew impatient.”
Her mouth was warm and sweet, her breath a light mist in the cool air. Despite the rain, the sky had begun to blush, giving everything a pale, watercolor cast. Bron damned the weather and took the kiss deeper, hungering for her in ways that had no words.
Eventually, they stepped through a broken window into the tiny room in the spire that was Bron’s home. There was little more than a pallet of blankets, his fighting gear, and a scattering of human clothes. He had possessed nothing when he left the mountains and had acquired little along the way—until now. Now he had everything.
“I need to find someplace better for us to meet,” he said. “Maybe one of those condominiums across the way.”
“Why?” She said it with genuine curiosity. “What would we want with that?”
“Providing a home is what dragons do for their mates. They surround them with beauty and comfort.” He took a piece of her hair, running it through his fingers. Part of the strand was warm and silky, the rest cold and wet where the rain had soaked it.
She began fiddling with the buckles of her breastplate. “I am what I am. Simplicity is enough for me.” She shed the armor. She looked smaller without it, almost girlish.
“You’re free to choose what you find beautiful. That is your right.”
Uncertainty shadowed her face. “Sometimes I can. I like pretty shoes.”
“I don’t think a dragon will fit inside a shoe.”
She closed her eyes. “I am serious. I do not always know what I want. There is something missing inside me.”
Bron kissed the damp lock of golden hair. “That’s not true. No one knows what they want all the time.”
She ducked her head. “Perhaps, but the Allfather said we were made without souls.”
“He said he repressed yours. That doesn’t mean it’s absent. That means it was squashed.” He heard the thread of anger in his voice, and cleared his throat.
She looked up then, giving him the full force of her sky blue eyes. It hit him like an updraft, sending everything spinning. “You unsquash me.”
“Is that a Valkyrie’s declaration of affection?”
She smiled a little sadly, but at least it was a smile. “I’m not going to be easy for you. But know that you have more of me than anyone else. Do what dragons need to make their homes. Every hour that I can spare, I will be with you. You are my real home.”
“Then leave Asgard, and come live with me.”
“I am still a Valkyrie.” She ducked her head. “I will do my duty as I have always done, but you have everything else I have to give.”
Bron shed the cloak. His temper was warming him enough despite the cold air streaming through the broken window. He wanted to argue, but there was little point—words wouldn’t win the battle, but other tactics might. He put his arms around Tyra, capturing her from behind. He felt her gasp, and a rush of pride heated his blood yet more. Whatever her mood, Tyra always responded to his touch.
“You may be Valkyrie, but you are also my mate,” he murmured, bending down so that his lips feathered against her ear. “I know you are cautious of disappointing your father.”
She shivered. “He is not merciful.”
“What can he do?”
“I’ve seen him turn men into goats.”
Bron cocked an eyebrow. “I’m a dragon. I’d roast him first.”
Her blue eyes went wide. Humor and Valkyries didn’t always go together.
“Of course,” Bron went on, “with the fire-breathing and al
l, I might just turn into roast lamb. Or souvlaki. How would you like me with yogurt sauce?”
“You are mad,” she concluded.
“But powerful and dashing.”
“You are strong,” she conceded. “I like that. Few can match me with a sword.”
“I am a warrior,” he said slyly. “I’m good with quite a few weapons.”
“Let me test that.” She reached up, as if to stroke his face, and a moment later Bron found himself falling to the nest of blankets. Surprise hit him almost as hard as the floor.
Tyra landed on top of him, straddling his body. “I’m stronger than I look.”
He narrowed his eyes. “Not many dragons could do that, much less a female.”
Wildness lit her expression. “I had the advantage of surprise.”
Two could play at that. He flipped her, using his bulk to pin her beneath him. Then he lowered his mouth to the delicate arch of her throat, nipping gently. Dragons were beasts like wolves or cats, and that part of his nature craved submission. The man in him simply reveled in the fragrant, pale skin that showed at the edges of her garments. Her flesh glowed in the dawn light, looking every bit as unearthly as it was—snow and gold in the derelict ruin of the tower.
Her eyes grew dark with anticipation. Without the need for words, he helped her shed her tunic. She wore nothing beneath, not even a scar from her wound. He cupped her breasts, feeling the nipples harden at his touch. As he kissed her, she seemed to unfurl, as if something tightly held was being revealed. Her arms wound around his neck, her muscles suddenly supple beneath his hands.
The tension left him as well. He rolled so that she was on top, letting her settle into a position that gave him full view of her exquisite form. The low angle of the light caressed her with an artist’s sensitivity, showing the leanness of her flanks and the gentle curve of her breasts. She bowed over him, cloaking them both in the curtain of her hair, and slowly sheathed herself over him. His senses were engulfed with the hot, wet feel of her. He could feel reason shutting down, as if the lights in his brain were being flicked off one by one. Only the primal dragon remained, and it knew what it wanted.
Valkyrie's Conquest Page 5