by Varna, Lucy
“Not as I’m aware, though his eyes drift often enough to a certain woman.”
Some of the heat ricocheting through Sigrid dissipated. “Who?”
Moira snorted into her water bottle. “Like ye don’t know.”
“I truly don’t. Tell me.”
“And give his secrets away? Not a chance.”
“At least tell me his name.”
Moira shook her head. “Two years, ye’ve been in Tellowee.”
“What does that have to do with anything?”
“Ye’ve been coming here for two years and still don’t know the bartender’s name.” Moira capped her water. “I’m for home.”
“Moira—”
Moira grinned. “Good luck with another kiss.”
She slipped through the crowd toward her new husband, and Sigrid glowered after her. First, Moira had called her a liar, then a coward, and now, she refused to name the man that had just kissed Sigrid, her closest friend, near senseless.
And that after winning a bet and earning a babysitter for a night a few months hence.
Sigrid put her back to her friend’s bouncing step and hunched over her lager. It just showed that a Daughter was better off relying on herself, or would if Moira weren’t such a hotheaded, fickle creature. Help one minute, fight the next, and no one could predict which one would come first or what the outcome of either would be.
The backroom’s door smacked open and Sigrid glanced up. A young blonde strode out carrying a tray of plated food. The door paused in mid-swing. Beyond it, Sigrid could just make out the kitchen and another door, that one tightly shut. An idea blossomed in her head. She set her lager down and glanced around. The waitress had her back to Sigrid and was setting steaming entrees in front of women sitting at a table on the other side of the room.
Sigrid slipped quickly through the crowd gathered near the bar and into the backroom. An efficiently organized commercial kitchen spread out to her left. One person manned the grill, a rangy, middle-aged man wearing a grease stained apron over a black t-shirt and jeans.
“Help you?” he asked.
Sigrid jerked her thumb at the closed door. “I need to speak with the bartender.”
The man shrugged and flipped a burger. “He’s probably in his office. Through that door, down the hall, second door on the left.”
Sigrid inclined her head once. “Thank you.”
She twisted the doorknob, pushed the door open, and headed toward the intriguing young man who had dared to steal a kiss from an immortal Daughter.
Will Corbin sank into the cushy chair behind his desk and raked trembling hands through his hair. He’d kissed Sigrid, really kissed her, and blessed Ki, it had been good. After the first kiss, she’d relaxed and opened for him, kissing him back exactly the way he’d been dreaming she would for nearly two years now. Heat thrummed through his blood and his dick stood at half mast. Sweet mercy, if he had his way, he’d go back out there right now, haul her into the nearest private room, and kiss her a third time, just so he could linger over the delicious fit of her mouth against his.
She was probably ready to kill him. It wouldn’t be the first time a Daughter skewered a man who touched her without her explicit permission. Probably wouldn’t be the last, either. Most Daughters had a very low tolerance for men in general, Sigrid even less.
He launched himself out of his chair and paced around his battered desk. What had he been thinking, assaulting her like that? If she didn’t kill him, and that was a likely outcome, she could sue him and ruin the business his parents had worked so hard to build. He halted in front of the worn, leather sofa set to one side of his office and stared at the family pictures dotting the wall above it. His parents on their wedding day. Them holding him between them in front of the newly-opened Omega. Him and his youngest sister kneeling on stools in front of the bar.
Years of sweat and labor and love, gone in one, impulsive caress.
Maybe he would’ve acted differently if he hadn’t wanted her for so long.
He pivoted and paced in the other direction, skirting the two rickety chairs set in front of his desk. The soles of his running shoes thudded quietly against the thin, institutional gray carpeting, keeping time with the irregular thump of his heart.
Yeah, maybe he wouldn’t have grabbed her if he hadn’t already been on edge, over the unexpected crowd, over his ongoing inability to attract Sigrid’s attention, over her and Moira fighting again. It wasn’t an excuse, no. He should’ve handled that pair the way he usually did, with the swift crack of his baseball bat against the edge of the bar. Instead, he’d given in to his frustration and yanked Sigrid into a kiss.
He stared blankly at the equal opportunity employment posters decorating the wall in front of him. He’d kissed her in front of half of Tellowee, people she’d likely known for far longer than he’d been alive. If word got out, she’d never live it down. Other Daughters would tease her mercilessly for years about giving in to him.
He groaned and clapped his hands over his face. Yup, she was gonna kill him.
The door opened behind him and he dropped his gaze to the floor. “I’m busy.”
The door snicked shut and a cool, feminine voice said, “I see.”
Sigrid. Well, shit. Good thing he kept his last will and testament up to date. He turned slowly, hands loose at his sides, gaze steady. “Will it do any good to apologize?”
She arched one blonde eyebrow. “Do you regret kissing me?”
“No.”
“Then why apologize?” She strolled slowly toward him. Her hips swayed gently with each long stride and her booted feet were silent along the carpeted floor. “Perhaps I enjoyed it.”
He kept his mouth shut and waited for her to strike.
She stopped a foot away from him. “Or perhaps I’ve come to teach you a lesson.”
“Then do it outside. I don’t want my sister to have to clean up my blood.”
“A realist or a fatalist?”
“Maybe a little of both. Look, just do whatever you’re going to do and get it over with.”
“So eager to meet justice at my hand.” She stepped closer and rested her palms on his chest over the unsteady thud of his heart. “What if I offered you another option?”
He looked at her then, really looked at her for the first time since she’d entered the room. Her steely blue eyes were shuttered, her rosy lips slightly parted, and the pale skin over her high cheekbones was flushed. Her long, golden braid fell over one shoulder. Its tip teased the top of her breast through her fitted, deep blue sweater. She hadn’t worn her sword tonight, but that didn’t mean she wasn’t carrying a weapon. She probably had a handgun tucked against her back in the waistband of her jeans or a knife at her ankle, maybe both.
On the other hand, she was a Daughter, trained to fight from her first step on. She didn’t need weapons to dismantle him limb from limb.
He knotted his hands into fists as his sides, keeping them exactly where they were and not where he wanted them to be, on her. “Stop playing with me.”
She rocked onto the flat heels of her boots and walked around him, trailing her fingertips along his shoulder and across his back. “Who’s playing? You allowed me to sample you.”
“No, I kissed you to keep you from killing Moira.”
Sigrid laughed. “You truly think I’d kill her?”
“The way the two of you go at each other? Yeah.” He shrugged, hoping to dislodge her fingers and the tingling warmth spreading over his skin under them and his button-down shirt. “She’s a pain in the ass, but she’s my cousin. I couldn’t let you hurt her.”
“So you did it out of love. I wonder, barkeep. What else would you do for love?”
He ground his teeth together. Why did older Daughters always have to play their little games? “That’s not really any of your business.”
“Isn’t it? Hmm.” She finished her circuit and faced him again. “Tell me your name and perhaps I’ll forgive your indiscretion.”
“Seriously?”
“Of course. Tell me.”
Disappointment throbbed through him. Two years and she didn’t even know his name. He shook his head and backed slowly away from her. “Forget it. You want to kill me for touching you, go ahead. Otherwise, I have a business to run.”
Anger sparked into her eyes, warming them to a deep blue. “You’re refusing me? I could break every bone in your body before you could mount a suitable defense.”
“You could try.”
“And now you challenge me.” She lifted her chin and met his gaze evenly. “I’ll know every detail of your young life within half an hour of leaving The Omega.”
Every emotion she’d stirred drained out of him. Fat chance of that. If she didn’t know his name by now, no way in hell would she bother digging into his life. He’d overheard her direct one too many callous remarks at the men she’d discarded one by one over her long, long life to believe otherwise.
“Are you ready for an apology now?” he asked.
“Moira and I were spoiling for a fight. You diffused a tense situation in a way that harmed no one. Unless you regret your actions, an apology is unnecessary.”
“Fair enough.”
Her eyes narrowed into blue slits. “Half an hour.”
He managed a small smile. “Yeah, right. Go on, now. Tell Casey to get you another lager before you go, on the house.”
“Perhaps tomorrow.” She dipped her head in a respectful bow. “Well met, barkeep.”
He returned her bow. “Well met, Sigrid Deathknell, daughter of Glyvyn the Ice Warrior, of the line of Bagda.”
She studied him solemnly for a long moment, then pivoted sharply and marched out of his office. Will leaned a hip against the edge of his desk and admired her fluid gait. By Ki, she was beautiful, but it was past time for him to let go of the crush he had on her and move on. There had to be another woman out there who was eager for his love. He’d just have to work harder at finding her, and maybe he would. Just as soon as he forgot how good it’d felt to kiss the woman of his dreams.
Chapter Two
Sigrid unlocked her front door and flipped lights on as she wandered through her house. The three-story, brick Victorian was hell to maintain, but its size and cozy rooms were perfect for her needs. Here, her family could visit whenever they wished, stay as long as they liked, and never interfere with her privacy.
She trailed a hand over the antique Chippendale settee in her office, then settled into the sleek, ergonomically designed chair behind her desk and booted up her laptop. That hadn’t always been the case. The first two centuries of her life had been rough. She’d lived hand to mouth, hired her sword arm to foreign princes and the occasional queen, took work whenever she could find it, and otherwise did whatever she had to do to survive. It was a typical life for an immortal Daughter, even now in the luxurious golden age of affordable technology and easy access to work.
A few well-placed taps on the keyboard and the tax assessor’s website popped up in the browser. Sigrid input the address for The Omega and waited patiently for the results. If Moira had told her the young barkeep’s identity, it wouldn’t be necessary to snoop on his parents, the most likely owners of the tavern he worked in. Stubborn Irish was getting a little big for her breeches.
The search netted one entry. Sigrid clicked into it and frowned. The owner was listed as Wilhelmina Corbin, and Sigrid knew of only one Daughter with that given name. Wilhelmina the Fierce was a child of Anya Bloodletter, a member of the Council of Seven representing the line of Abragni, the youngest of the Seven Sisters.
Sigrid relaxed into her chair and drummed her fingertips on the top of her desk. Anya was younger than her by sixteen years. They’d joined forces often in the first few heady decades of their lives, battling marauding armies, reaping precious bounty, sharing the spoils of their labor.
Men being the primary spoil.
Assuming the barkeep was Wilhelmina’s son and, by extension, Anya’s grandson, he would be under the protection of women who knew Sigrid by personal acquaintance rather than rumor. Anya would protest a dalliance on that knowledge alone. A permanent alliance in the form of a concubinage or marriage would be welcomed by the councilmember, given their longstanding friendship, but Sigrid was far from wanting one, even as tempting a figure as the barkeep cut.
But that kiss.
She touched her fingertips to her mouth and smiled at the memory of his caress. Masterful, patient, delicious. Would he offer her another at their next encounter, or would she be forced to maneuver him into one?
Unwelcome memory surfaced. Moira had said the barkeep had his eye on a woman. If so, what was he doing kissing her instead of pursuing this other female? Would his interest in another forestall his involvement with Sigrid?
She swiveled her chair around and pushed out of it. What did it matter? She could claim him on the kiss alone, by dint of the People’s long-standing traditions concerning the management of male progeny. Whether she wanted to or not was another matter entirely.
Now that she knew his probable family, she could discover his name through the People’s extensive genealogies, currently maintained by Robert Upton, the husband of another battle-hardened acquaintance, Rebecca the Blade, one of Anya’s nieces. Until then, Sigrid could bide her time. Patience was a warrior’s companion, determination her abiding strength. The barkeep would be in her grasp sooner or later, and when he was, perhaps he could be coaxed into sharing more than a simple kiss or two.
Will woke up with an aching hard-on and the memory of Sigrid’s kiss lingering on his mouth.
He cursed under his breath and buried his face in his pillow, ignoring the painful throb of his dick pressed into the mattress. Sleep had eluded him while his mind flirted with tasting her again, touching her, her fingers gliding around his shoulders as she studied him.
Friggin’ Daughters and their friggin’ games. Maybe he would’ve been ok if she hadn’t put her hands on him. Maybe then he could forget her the way he ought to and start moving on with his life.
He shoved Sigrid out of his mind and threw the covers back. The air in his apartment chilled his heated skin, doing not a damn thing to ease his hard-on. He padded into the bathroom, brushed his teeth while he waited for it to wilt. Remembered the smooth stroke of Sigrid’s fingers on his shoulders and cursed the blood surging into his groin.
Two years he’d been playing this game. He spat toothpaste out, rinsed his mouth, patted it dry, and avoided the grumpy stare of his reflection in the bathroom mirror. Futile to keep hoping. Hadn’t he decided that on Friday? Futile to dream, futile to want, and yet there it was, a grinding need built deep into his bones.
It was the quickest he’d ever broken a resolution before and it didn’t sit well with him. A Son should have more discipline than that, especially where women were concerned, and most especially when a Daughter entered the picture.
A sharp rap on his front door interrupted the downward spiral of his thoughts. He heaved a sigh, snagged a pair of shorts on his way through the bedroom, and loped into the living room.
A lightly accented feminine voice called, “Will?” and he froze where he stood, half into his living room, naked as the day he was born with a pair of loose-fitting gym shorts hanging from one hand.
Sigrid.
Questions swirled through his mind, eddying into a torrent of anticipation and curiosity. What was she doing at his apartment? How had she even found him? Why had she bothered after ignoring him for so long?
Only one way to find out.
He shimmied into his shorts and jogged to the door, swung it open before remembering the hard-on he still sported and the fact that he hadn’t washed his face, combed his hair, or put on deodorant.
His first look at her drained every other concern out of his mind. She was a cool breath of fresh air dressed in a slim, ivory skirt and a tailored navy button down under an ivory colored wool coat. Her toned legs ended in heels the same color as her shirt,
putting her on eye level with him. He slouched against the doorframe and looked his fill, reveling in the light musk of her perfume, the filtered sunlight glinting off her golden braid, the perfectly arched eyebrow she aimed at him.
“Will Corbin?”
“Yeah.” And just to be contrary, he crossed his arms over his chest and let the cold, winter air wash over him, raising goose bumps on his skin. She was there, sure. Didn’t mean he had to let her in, though he’d be a fool not to, if only to satisfy his curiosity. “What can I do for you?”
She waggled the small paper bag she held in her gloved hand. “DNA sample. Everyone needs to be tested.”
He shrugged. “And?”
“You haven’t been.”
Which he by golly already knew. He’d received a kit in the mail weeks ago and tossed it on his kitchen counter with a pile of other junk mail, where it rested still. And damn it all, he should’ve already gotten around to taking care of that. Duty demanded it of him, to his family, to his People, to the need they had to preserve their heritage and keep themselves safe from an ever dangerous world.
On the other hand, if he’d sent the sample back already, he might not’ve ever had the pleasure of standing across from the woman of his dreams while wearing nothing but a pair of gym shorts.
“Simpler to mail a reminder,” he said.
“Simpler, yes. Not as rewarding as a personal visit.” Her icy eyes flicked down his body and back up again, and a small smile tilted her luscious mouth. She nodded toward the interior of his apartment, a regal tilt of her head. “May I?”
Oh, yeah, she could. He stepped back, welcomed the brush of her coat against his bare, chilled skin, shut the door behind her. She sauntered into the room, cool demeanor firmly in place, every inch a war-hardened Daughter as she surveyed his living room. Cushy leather sofa set squarely in the middle of the floor next to a glass-topped coffee table, the row of bookshelves against the far wall, the entertainment center housing his TV, the movies and games stacked untidily around it.
The fine layer of dust, the empty beer bottle he’d neglected to recycle last night, and his gym shoes and socks thrown on the floor, exactly where he’d left them.