With slow deliberation, she rocked forward. Bron thought he would combust right there. Then she tightened, putting her muscular form to work, and he was certain he would die. For someone long denied the mysteries of the bedchamber, Tyra was a quick study.
He joined her in the next move, thrusting to meet her. She made a throaty noise that stoked the fire inside him. The need to give his mate pleasure trumped all else. He grasped her waist, feeling muscle and satin skin, and went deeper and deeper until she screamed her satisfaction.
* * *
After they had both spent their pleasure and lay slicked with sweat and panting, Bron drifted on a cushion of exhausted delight. Tyra slept in his arms, the cloud of her hair the shade of sunlight. It was like holding light itself in his arms. He lowered his lips to her throat once more, kissing softly.
Blinking sleepily, Tyra turned in his arms. “Were there no she-dragons to dominate, back in your mountains?”
It was not Bron’s favorite subject. “There was a queen, and she was not a good one. Many of us left.”
“And that is all you will say?”
He traced her cheek with his thumb. “I prefer to make new memories. Good ones.”
A crease formed between Tyra’s pale brows. “How was your queen bad? I can’t imagine anyone letting you slip away.”
Memories flashed by. Imprisonment inside the mountain. Isolation. Punishment. Until the rebellion, most of the dragons had never had the chance to fly, have a family or call their will their own. He understood Tyra’s situation far better than she knew. “We were worth nothing to her.”
Tyra grasped his hand. It was gentle, but he could feel the strength in her fingers. “You are everything to me. Make new memories with me.”
“We are. Right now.”
“Every day. Promise me that.”
Bron smiled at her urgency. The more Tyra embraced her feelings, the more impatient she became. “Always.”
“Always,” she whispered, nestling her head against his shoulder. “You asked what I need in a home. This is it. Everything else is just curtains.”
* * *
She could feel her words touch Bron as surely as if they had been drops of rain, or the stroking of her fingers. He made a deep grunt of pleasure, curling himself around her to nuzzle in the curve of her shoulder. His body was a furnace in the chill air of the room, the muscles of his arms and chest tensing as he propped himself on one arm to get a better angle. The sight ignited a response deep in her body. They shared a warrior’s awareness of sinew and bone, and she had learned his form instinctively, enjoying his every move for its simple, perfect strength.
And he was tireless. The hard ridge of his erection pressed into her belly, signaling that he was ready for more. Tyra allowed herself a catlike stretch, teasing him with the display, undulating beneath him so that his hard sex felt the brush of her skin. He caught his breath and arched over her, the pads of his chest bunching as he lowered himself close, but not quite touching. Tyra went still.
Everything about Bron was distracting, but the look in his amber eyes transfixed her. At moments like this, he was unfamiliar, as if someone—something—ancient and predatory met her gaze. It burned with a hunger older than humans and as mysterious as the caverns deep beneath the wild mountains. An electric shiver passed through her—anticipation laced with a touch of fear. Bron was kind and funny and wise, but he was a dragon. And just as a hearth fire could warm, it could also destroy.
Tyra was ready for that risk, was hot and wet for it. She pulled him to her, her kiss loosening his knotted muscles until he subsided, heavy and needy against her. This ability to draw him to her was a new kind of power. She was just discovering it, and learning how it also meshed her in its web. His response fed hers until their bodies fit together with powerful familiarity. She worked beneath him, feeling his desire grow and harden even more.
How Tyra wanted him! Bron had broken her father’s spell, given her back to herself in an explosion of raw emotion. There was no room for secrets with the man who had awakened her soul. She was naked before him, but this was exactly where she wanted to be. He knew her—not just the warrior or the daughter or the woman, but all three and more. Whatever she was, he wanted her with greed such as only dragons possessed. And she wanted to crawl into his strength, clothe herself in his essence, dragon and man.
Bron’s mouth found her breast, circling, sucking and flicking his tongue. Thoughts crumbled, leaving only sensation amid the ruin of her focus. Instinct alone guided her hands as she grabbed his thick shaft, stroking him until the tip wept warm against her palm.
His head came up, leaving her nipple wet and aching. His gaze went dark, the lines of his face rigid with intent. “Be careful how thoroughly you rouse the beast.” His voice came from deep inside him, as if an earthquake spoke.
But Tyra felt herself smile. Yes, a dragon was a daunting thing, but she was Valkyrie. “A sleepy beast is of no use to me.”
Bron’s eyes flared with amber fire. He reared up, lifting her as easily as he might a toy, and turned her so that she landed on hands and knees. The speed with which he did it stole her breath. Her head spun and her hands clutched at the blankets beneath her to regain her balance.
But she barely had an instant to think. Bron pushed into her from behind, the thick head of his shaft entering her with all the hard strength of a warrior’s spear. A cry tore from her throat, ending on a moan of surrender. Almost of its own accord, her body shifted to take more of him in, but every movement only increased her restless feeling of fullness. His huge hands gripped her waist to hold her still as his hips thrust, plunging his sex impossibly deeper. His heat filled her, taking over every vein, every nerve.
Tyra’s consciousness shrank until there was nothing but Bron and her body’s response to his conquest. She squeezed her eyes shut, leaving only sound and scent and touch. He withdrew and plunged again, the slide of flesh on flesh the only sound besides their ragged breathing and the rain. Tyra writhed against the slick, stretching, shivering sensation of him. She bit her lip, tasting hot blood as she braced for another thrust. Her hands slipped against the blankets, crushing the wool. Her breasts were on fire, as if red-hot rivers of need scorched upward from her belly.
“Please,” she begged. “Please.”
Bron did not reply, but one hand moved to the nape of her neck, holding tight as the rhythm of his hips quickened. The rivers of heat flaming through her swelled to a flood, drowning her in mindless desire. Tyra began to gasp with each thrust as if she could never catch her breath, and then the sounds bled together in one long wail of wanting. She felt her reason begin to fracture as she wavered on the edge of dissolution.
Bron roared, and the sound came from no human throat. One last thrust, and hot wetness flooded her. She was his, utterly dominated, entirely possessed, the crowning jewel of his dragon’s hoard. Tyra came so hard lights flashed behind her closed lids. Every nerve fired until she thought she was in flight, with nothing but air beneath her. There was only that instant in time. Only him.
Only them. Bron collapsed to the blankets, pulling her down with him. He buried his face in her neck and hair, murmuring endearments in his dragon tongue. Tyra’s muscles gave way to jelly and her effort to speak produced nothing more than a sigh. She sagged against him with boneless languor, spent, replete and delighted.
He threaded his fingers through her hair, holding her face so that he could look into her eyes. His were soft, their fire banked to the soft glow of a summer sunrise.
“You have bewitched me,” he murmured.
Tyra savored the words and searched for an answer, but a sweet fatigue lapped against her mind. She had never been good with pretty words and now could only manage blunt truth. “I know it. I like it.”
Bron rumbled a laugh and tucked her beneath his arm, wrapping her in his comfortable warmth. He was other, so different and dangerous, but he was also part of her now.
Whatever soul she had, he was the ot
her half.
Chapter Eight
The next morning, Tyra went to the home of the Norns to receive her next assignment. As she strode across the green meadows, the skies over Asgard were a map of shifting gray, but that did nothing to dampen the roaring laughter coming from Valhalla. It never ceased except in times of battle, when the numbers of the dead inevitably swelled. Oddly, the endless merriment left her melancholy. Not that she wished gloom upon the warriors—their endless bravery earned whatever comfort they could get—but they would never again feel the peace of sleeping in their lovers’ arms. Not like the bliss she felt with Bron when they drowsed, tangled together on the shores of sleep. Perhaps they would have preferred true death to such loneliness.
A twist of guilt made Tyra’s steps quicken. I never gave them a choice when I brought them here. I never gave them a chance to do anything but fight. Her actions suddenly seemed unthinkable. Stricken, she broke into a run to get away from the hall of warriors, her booted feet racing over the grass.
Now she understood why Odin wanted his reapers free of emotion. Her freshly-awakened conscience demanded change and choice, and that meant rebellion—and that was the thing Odin hated worst of all. But she had to do something. She could never be free as long as she forced other souls into service. But how could she, the youngest of Odin’s daughters, overturn the Allfather’s authority?
When the home of the Norns came into view, Tyra slowed. As if waiting for her, the old crones were gathered outside their door. Her father stood beside them, spear in hand and one of his ravens on his shoulder, the other in the branches above his head. They all watched her approach with an expectant look on their faces.
Something was wrong. Tyra hunted for an excuse to be somewhere else, but her mind went blank. All too soon, she reached them.
“Well met, daughter,” Odin said, his voice firm but stern. “We need your help to untangle the warp and weft of the future.”
She dropped to one knee before them, a habit of respect bred deep into her bones—however troubled her spirit. “Allfather and honored mothers, I am ever at your service.”
“You are my youngest, and my favorite, whether you know it or not.” Odin bent, placing his hands on her shoulders. It should have been a fatherly gesture, but the weight of them held Tyra down for a long moment, reminding her of his power. Those hands were strong and clever, capable of magic and war, trickery and judgment. They were the hands of a god, able to break her on a whim. Was this a warning? Had he somehow guessed her thoughts?
When Odin finally lifted her to her feet, Tyra felt unsteady as a toddler, in need of all the mercy the Allfather could give. “How may I be of service?” she asked.
“Come,” he said, pointing at the long tapestry the Norns wove. “Take a closer look.”
Tyra hesitated. She had never actually set foot in the Norns’ dwelling and hung back until her father beckoned her forward again. Only then did she enter the tiny cramped space. There were spindles and combs for the fleece they spun, vats of dye and weights for the enormous loom. The tapestry itself seemed to take up most of the space. The pattern was hard to see—it seemed to shift constantly as she looked, growing blurrier the closer it got to the future. Odin pointed with the tip of his spear. The shining point touched the snarl of threads waiting to be worked into the design.
“You see how the weaving has grown difficult.” Odin’s single blue eye glittered as he regarded her. “Perhaps you also know that there was a human thread that should have been cut but was not. I do not know how this could have happened. Surely it was an oversight.”
The spear tip caught at a dangling thread of azure blue, lifting it from among the rest with surprising delicacy. “Take it.”
Tyra obeyed, catching the strand from the spear point. Without warning, a vision flooded her inner sight, of a man in a small cramped living room speaking to others, sharing stories of two warriors battling monsters in a back alley. Tyra swallowed, knowing well it was the man that she and Bron had spared. Another man in the vision had been at the coffee shop, and had seen what had happened there. Humans were swapping information and, from the sound of the conversation, they were planning to take action. This would have been fine, except no human soul was safe from demon hunger. Not until a Valkyrie reaped it for Odin’s army. Those brave humans were putting themselves in harm’s way.
“Fighting demons is the work of gods and heroes,” Odin said quietly. “Not mere mortals.”
Tyra dropped the thread. She wanted to say something—defend herself, lie, anything but remain mute and blushing as a child—but this was her all-powerful father, and she had disobeyed.
Odin didn’t waver as he went on, his words pitiless and chill. “I asked the Norns if they knew who had neglected their duty, and they would not say. I then asked them what must be done to repair the flaw in the pattern that this uncut thread produced.”
Tyra’s gaze went to the silent crones. She felt like a mouse circled by hungry owls—or something worse. The three Norns were small, the hoods of their dark cloaks drawn up so that Tyra could not see their faces. She wasn’t even sure they had any.
“They recommended an exchange, one thread for another,” Odin said. “And you are the one who will make it right.”
Tyra’s skin went cold. The Norns had told her she had choices. That she had to understand her duty, and that her thread anchored whatever picture came next. She had made her decision, and now she would reap the consequences.
As if some part of her knew what was coming, she began to shake and clenched her fists to hide it. But she lifted her chin and turned to face the crones, determined not to cower. The nearest of the dark figures dropped a skein of scarlet yarn at her feet.
“This is the thread that must be cut,” said the Allfather.
Tyra dropped to her knees to pick it up. The fiber was as strong and hot and red as Bron’s wings, filled with pulsing energy. This is his life I hold. Panic wrenched her, making her dig her fingers into the dirt. “I will not do it!”
Odin jerked in surprise, and no wonder. Tyra had never refused him. For a moment, she was stunned, expecting a bolt of lightning to strike her down for her insolence.
His voice was cold and even. “That is not your decision. You are my servant. Without me, you are powerless.”
Tears welled in her eyes, blurring the world before her as an impossible pain dragged a cry from her lips. A small voice inside her thought, This is what it means to break your heart! “I will not do it. Take my life. Reap me. I will fight in your never-ending war.”
The answer was bitter. “You would need a proper soul for that.”
Tyra’s breath rushed out as if he had struck her, but she rose to her feet, drawing her spine sword-straight. “Then let me die and cease to exist. End my thread if you must, for it was I who disobeyed you.”
Odin flinched again. Had he thought she was too much a coward to admit it? “Then you shall be punished.”
“I accept, but leave Bron in peace.” She clutched the scarlet thread tightly, shielding it against her breastplate, but it melted away to smoke. With a cry she saw it appear in the hand of a Norn, bright red as living blood. “Please! This is not his fault.”
The Norn simply nodded, mysterious as the future itself.
“He is a dragon,” Tyra protested. “He does not even belong to Asgard. His soul is not ours to take!”
“His thread has joined yours. Explain to me how that happened, if he is so separate and apart?” Odin tone was acid. “I say his connection to you made him vulnerable to your sword.”
The crone’s voice whispered in her mind, as dry as winter leaves. “A judgment must be made, a price given. Pay if you would spare him.”
Tyra swallowed. Her mouth was suddenly parched. She whirled to face her father, almost wishing that she had her sword. “I will pay. Just name what you want.”
Odin’s head bowed, his expression tight. “I grieve that you have grown willful. I created my daughters with care
so that this would never happen, and yet you still betray me.”
You crippled me. Tyra told herself to hold her tongue, but she had gone past the point of no return. “I might obey you out of love, but you never allowed me a soul to love you with.”
But she had her soul back. They both knew it, just as they both knew he had lost control over her. “I made a choice,” she said, looking her father in the eye for the first time in her immortal life.
Odin’s face darkened with rage and he grasped her arm in an iron grip. “Do you want choice? Do you want your freedom? Then I will give you what you want, if you have the courage to take it.”
Magic crackled the sky. The ground shuddered, and suddenly they were someplace else. Tyra crouched in a fighting stance, her eyes wide. There was no sign of the meadow or the Norns or their tree. Now they stood in a barren landscape of black rock and a lowering sky pregnant with storms. Stunted trees clawed the heavy air, but even they were at a distance.
Foreboding plucked at her, mocking her courage. Odin always chose punishments with care, playing on his prisoners’ deepest fears.
Odin struck the rock with his spear. A ring of flame sprang up around them, the flames snapping like sails in the wind. Tyra jerked back with a cry of terror.
“These are the bars of your prison,” he announced. “Fire is the one thing that will kill a Valkyrie.”
She summoned her pride, drawing herself up to face the Allfather. “You said there would be a choice!”
“Death is always a choice. It is the warrior’s choice, and should you take it I will forgive all.”
“You want me to kill myself?” Tyra cried.
Odin’s eyes flashed, and she saw his pain. Her defection was another sign of his failing command. Her love for a stranger was a knife in his heart. “I am your father and your king. You have destroyed my trust. But I am not without mercy. If you choose to live this new life apart from me, I will honor your decision. You saved the life of a human hero rather than reap his soul for my army. In return, a human hero willing to walk through the ring of fire can claim you for his own. At that moment, you shall be set free.”
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