by Kate Pearce
She got that answer all too quickly.
Var moved behind her, pulling her arms into the small of her back and dragging her body up against his. Her heart started beating like a trip hammer. It was like hitting a wall. A large, immovable wall. Her gaze shot to Calder, before she could stop herself, but he hadn't moved from his lazy sprawl. This was okay with him.
She sucked in a breath and reminded herself she was holding herself together. She didn’t have to fall apart just because the men surrounding her were a pack of mean-ass bastards. Her Pack was every bit as bad.
Vikar nodded. "We're going to try a little conversation about the end of the world. Now that you’re in human form, I'm hoping you'll be reasonable."
Calm. The spike of fear was a liquid sensation shooting through her stomach and down to her knees. Her skin prickled hot and then cold.
"Or what?" There. Her voice sounded thin, but there was no shake. That was good. That set the tone.
"Show and tell. Rad here is going to show you how to play." Vikar nodded and Rad stepped toward her, his knife in his hand. Nausea seared her stomach like he’d ordered the bile up. Shit. The Vikings played every bit as nasty as the werewolves did.
Rad’s blade flashed toward her. The scream was out of her mouth before she could bite the sound back. She pressed hard against Var, but with no give in his hold, she wasn't going anywhere. The blade retreated and her cardigan hit the floor. She sucked air in.
“If you want to play games, I’m voting for Parcheesi.”
"There's your show." Vikar steepled his fingers. "Now, let's try tell. You know something about the end of the world. One of your people has a plan and you’re going to tell us what it is."
"No," she said instinctively, but Vikar was already nodding his head toward Rad again.
"There's no room in this room for no, wolf."
The blade came for her again, a cold whisper against her skin as the sharp edge pressed in and then down her thigh. She jerked backwards and Var’s legs hooked around hers.
"Don't move, darling." Oh, God. She could feel the rough growl from that mouth pressed against her ear. "Rad here likes things a little rough. You don't want to make this too much fun for him."
Vikar kept right on talking. “Everyone knows the wolves are responsible for kicking off Armageddon. The signs are all present.”
“My Pack didn’t do it.”
But you will, a little voice screamed in her head. That’s why you’re here. Her Alpha had plans and that was why she needed to put him down.
Vikar’s flat voice reached her from a distance. “Come now, Tyra. Everyone in this room, including you, knows the answer to this one. It’s a simple one. This one is a definite yes and all I need from you are some more words to go with that truth. Fill in the blanks for us on how you plan on getting the Ragnarök party started.”
She didn’t have an answer, couldn’t, wouldn’t. She didn’t know which, just tumbled headlong into animal panic at the soft slide of the blade coming for her again. So much for all of her tough girl moves. All she could do was wait, helpless and pinned between the heat of the man holding her in place and the icy coldness of the one coming for her. The impossible awareness of her body and what they could do. This was as bad as her worst moment in the pit and then with the Pack. She was so very tired of being at someone else’s mercy.
The knife trailed up her thigh. Those were her own bare legs she saw, with Rad’s blade pressed against skin of her inner thigh. He moved his wrist, just a little flick of sinew and muscle, and the blade stroked lightly against her skin.
She whimpered.
A second small stroke, higher this time.
She couldn't think, couldn't find her voice. Her throat dried up, closed in and every part of her wanted to speak out, to give Vikar the words he wanted, but she couldn't. She was locked down tight.
“Alpha hasn’t done it yet,” she finally got out. “He wants to, but he hasn’t done it yet.”
From a distance, she heard the Alpha voice asking more questions, but she couldn't stop watching Rad. She pulled hard, bucking against Var’s hold, but he held her effortlessly in place.
"Shhh," he crooned. "I told you this one, sweetheart. You don't want to move for this one. You give our Alpha want he needs now, or Rad is coming back for you."
"I can't." She couldn't, wouldn't. The world was all mixed up and that blade just moved, coming back when she wanted it to go away. Wanted this all to be over. She didn’t want to die here—or worse. The blade's edge traced the valley between her breasts, parting the fabric.
The lacy cups of her bra separated, exposing her breasts. Heat washed over her, followed by cold. The terribly gentle, careful, inexorable pass of the blade made her frighteningly aware of what these men were capable of.
Then Rad flipped the blade in his hand, the knife's handle tracing the path the wicked edge had just taken. Fear had her nipples puckering and her throat drying up. This time, she got her mouth open, but there was no sound to come out. That handle smoothed a path down her stomach, toward her panties.
"Calder," she whispered. She wasn't sure what she wanted him to do or why some primitive part of her thought he'd respond. He was familiar, though, and he hadn't hurt her, not yet. He'd made her feel good.
Safe.
The blade reached her hip. He wasn't coming, was going to let this happen while he watched from the side like she was a dinner show he'd bought a ticket to. But then, suddenly, he shoved himself upright, all that raw, leashed power vaulting the table. She watched him come, racing the blade coming back for her, tucking under the thin ribbon holding her panties together.
The ribbon snapped, Calder’s fist came up and Rad’s head flew back.
Thank god thank god thank god.
Var’s hands dropped away, Calder’s arms surrounded her, wrapped her up in his scent and heat, and then he was carrying her out of the room. Out and away.
6
“What the hell was that?” Tyra took refuge in anger.
“A mistake,” Calder answered, taking her into the bedroom. As soon as she’d dressed in the new clothes he handed her, he took her out the front door. He had seven snowmobiles parked in his front yard, each loaded with packs. Maybe they were going after her wolves after all.
His vocabulary needed some work however.
“A mistake implies that somebody misjudged somebody else. Mistaken identity. Some kind of confusion. That seemed pretty on purpose to me.” She twisted in his arms. She liked having him hold her, but like wasn’t the same as need or must. “Put me down.”
“In a moment.” Still holding her, he dropped down onto the front step of his porch. Her heartbeat slowed some, tuning itself to Calder’s. Now that she was away from his scary-as-shit family, some things were becoming clearer. Whatever had gone on inside his cabin, it had been part of a larger strategy. She just needed to figure out what it was.
“Tell me the truth,” she suggested. “Tell me why that was a mistake.”
“It was a set up.”
Well. Shoot. “You did that on purpose?”
“You just defined mistake for me,” he pointed out, humor ghosting his voice. God. She’d never understand Vikings.
“Why?”
“Vikar needed to make sure you’d told me the truth about the Pack job. That it wasn’t a ruse to get us involved in an assassination attempt on Odin. That you weren’t keeping information from us.”
She elbowed him. Hard. “I’m not the one who was keeping secrets there, big guy. My Alpha is planning to try to assassinate Odin. The key word being try. His plan isn’t worth shit—it’s a Hail Mary pass at the power end zone and he’s going to take the entire Pack with him. Remove him from the equation and there’s no risk my Pack goes after Odin. We’re not crazy and we actually don’t want to trigger the end of the world—whether anyone believes that or not.”
He shrugged. “Yeah. I get that now. You want a free shot?”
“Excuse me?”
>
“At me,” he said. “You want to take a shot at me, you take it. I owe you. I shouldn’t have let Vikar push so hard or so far.”
She heard the unspoken words. So far. He was still okay with investigating her claims and doing some strong-arming. If she was being honest, now that her heartbeat had settled back into a nice, steady plodding beat, he’d be perfect for her Pack. He was ruthless and manipulative. He did what had to be done and he didn’t let feelings or sex get in the way. If anyone could take down Leif and then hold the Pack together, it was Calder.
“I’m not firing you,” she said. “You don’t get off that easy. I still want your help with my Pack.”
“And you’re still mine,” he replied roughly. “I’ll remember my job if you remember yours. Mount up in ten. Mine’s the ride in front.”
She slid off his lap and he let her go. “So which one’s mine?”
“The same one as mine,” he said tightly. “Go grab your things.”
“I don’t get a snowmobile of my own?”
“Nope.”
“You don’t think I deserve it after that rope-and-knife stunt?”
He didn’t trust her. If she was being honest with herself, he was right. She checked. Nope. Internal honesty didn’t make her feel any better.
“I have my own ride off-island.”
He shrugged again. “Don’t care. Hop on or get left behind.”
He patted the seat with his hand. God. That hand in the black leather glove gave her all sorts of ideas. One leather-covered finger pushing into her core. Two. Three? She could almost feel the vibrations of the engine throbbing through her pussy. Sexy times on the snowmobile were definitely next on her to do list. She could hold a grudge later.
Like next century.
Or…she could let him make it up to her.
His sleeve rode up, exposing her bite mark. She ran a finger over it and he hissed.
“Baby,” she said happily. Her big tough Viking had a soft side.
“Did you turn me into a werewolf?” He rubbed the small bite mark. Right. He’d probably cut the arm off if he believed that.
“Male werewolves are bred, not bitten,” she said smugly. “You can’t become one of us.”
When the Pack males bit, it simply fucking hurt if you were another male. As for the females, well, yeah. She knew exactly how that turned out and there had been plenty of hurt, just of a different kind. She liked seeing her mark on him, although she had no intention of telling him that. While she might not have made him into a werewolf, she’d done him one better. By biting him, she’d marked him as her mate.
She’d taken him.
Go her.
***
The next time he signed up for a rescue mission or a merc job, he needed to insist on decent work conditions. Hel, medieval Greenland hadn’t been all that different from the modern day scenery. Vikar had had the keep modernized because, as he’d pointed out, you keep the good things and upgrade the bad. Indoor plumbing was just one perk of modern living. The werewolf packs, on the other hand, apparently lived like shit. Tyra had given them the coordinates to a makeshift camp of tents and huts where her Pack lived.
He really didn’t like to think of her living like that. Since the sun had been setting, however, there hadn’t been any time to debate living conditions with her. She’d shucked her clothes behind a convenient rock and shifted. Her wolf had yipped at him and then bolted off for a run. His brothers pretended they were perfectly okay with a four-legged companion in their camp. He had no idea whether or not they were really onboard with Tyra’s presence, but he appreciated the surface support.
He’d debated himself how he felt about Tyra transforming into a wolf during the night hours, but watching her run all he could think was that she was fucking beautiful in either form. She looked wild and free, which was exactly right. Part of him actually regretted he couldn’t go with her, but no way she wanted a bear lumbering around, spoiling her hunt or her run. He was heavy weapons, but a fun companion? Yeah. He wasn’t that.
So he’d made camp and set up their tent, pretending everything was going according to plan and that he didn’t wish he was out there with her. After he stood watch for two hours, keeping an eye on the empty shadows around their camp, he’d retreated to their tent.
Which was empty.
She hadn’t come back. Yet. Because she’d come back, if only because she’d hired him to do a job. She needed his muscle to take down her Pack Alpha before the numbnut tried singlehandedly to kick off the Ragnarök festivities. In truth, he had no idea whether or not the end of the world required a werewolf to get started, but enough paranormals believed the prophecy to convince Calder that plenty of folks were going to be bringing out the big guns against any and all werewolves.
Eventually, he convinced his head to shut down and fell asleep.
***
Dream. It was the fucking dream and it was always the same.
Like every night for the last twelve months, he didn’t wake up. Nope. His sub-conscious insisted on making the full trip down memory lane.
The guards had come for him late at night, long after Tyra had shifted. She’d been crouched in the far corner of her cell when they drugged and dragged him out of the cell. Not that he’d bothered putting up too much of a fight anymore. Resisting simply meant he went into the pit sporting fresh injuries. Eventually, the drugs they shot him full of would do the trick anyhow, the rage and adrenaline pumping through his veins, triggering his shift no matter how much he fought against it. So now he let them collar him with the metal-studded leather collar and lead him to the holding cells. If tonight’s script worked like the previous nights, the gate would go up and his only way out would be through the pits.
Kill or be killed.
At least the job description was simple and he knew precisely what was expected of him. The guards wanted a mindless killing machine. The audience wanted blood sport. Nice to know they were all on the same page.
The guard on his left grinned as he shoved Calder forward. “We picked you a pretty one.”
Just a dream. Move on, Calder. Fast forward and skip to the end.
But he couldn’t.
The guard on the right actually elbowed him, apparently certain that the drugs had done their work. Since the guy was a frost giant and topped out at ten-feet tall, Calder saved his energy for the pit. “Nice tits. Great ass. Fights like a feral dog. You’ll have fun tonight.”
“Make her last.” The suggestion was obscene. Did the giants really believe he’d rut with his female opponent right there in the pit for all to see? More than a few of the giants certainly got off on fucking their opponents as they died. Some acts were worse than wrong, however, and there were places he liked to believe he’d never go, no matter how strong the provocation or the drugs.
So he said nothing—nothing—and let them shove him into a holding cell. Maybe an hour later, the lights flickered outside. The crowd roared, chanting as the evening’s first match came to its predictably bloody close. Calder hoped to hel that the dead fighter wasn’t one of his brothers but, truth was, he was tired of fighting. It would be so easy to slip up, to drop his guard and let the evening’s opponent finish him. He’d thought about it every evening—and, every evening so far, he’d come to the same conclusion. He’d see this to the end. He’d go down fighting—or, better yet, he’d take down the predators responsible for the pit.
The crowd roared again as metal grated and the gate rose on the holding cell on the opposite side of the pit. The only upside to tonight’s fight that he could see was that it was him and not Tyra fighting for life. Right on cue, the feral howl of an animal rose outside his cell in the ring. Being newly turned, Tyra wouldn’t stand a chance of holding her own against a fully trained adult werewolf.
He, on the other hand, wouldn’t have any problem putting down tonight’s opponent.
When the gate to his cell finally rose, he strolled out nonchalantly. No weapons, but he didn’t need
them, truth be told, although sometimes the pit guards liked the window dressing. Or the variety. Fuck. For all he knew, they got their rocks off on watching him hack his opponent to death. Anything was possible here where no one’s shit was straight.
The drugs pumping through his veins eroded his self-control and it was a relief to give into the urge to shift and go berserk and loose the reins on his humanity. Calder the man still hung out inside his head, but the guy took a back seat to the bearish berserker and a more primitive set of urges. Kill.
Spotlights illuminated the pit in a blaze of hundred-watts. Not that there was anything new to see—the arena looked the same as always. Bloody sawdust covered the floor and high rock walls surrounded the fighting space. There were no toeholds, no easy way out. He’d tried scaling the wall his second night and been shot down. Literally. It had taken three days for the bullets to work their way out of his skin. The pain had been a bitch and he’d been no closer to freedom. The eyes of tonight’s spectators bored into him. He estimated tonight’s crowd at several hundred. Each would have paid a small fortune for the rights to watch this year’s matches in the ultimate tournament of the paranormal world.
A growl from the shadows gathered along the sides of the pit drew his attention back to business.
Show time.
A surprisingly small wolf launched itself toward him. He was already defending, meeting the wolf with a hard, forward blow. Ribs cracked audibly as the wolf flew backward. The small, white wolf with familiar hazel eyes. Tyra’s eyes.
We got you a pretty one.
He should have seen it coming. They’d sent him into the pit against Tyra. Calder the Viking had a frantic oh, shit moment, but the Berserker saw only the enemy coming for his throat and reacted. Wake up. Once had been enough. He didn’t need to a nightly re-do in his head. In the dream, though, the wolf growled, dragging herself to her feet. She was newly turned. She’d fight like a demon, would keep coming and coming at him.