Page 18 of Highland Warlord (The Highland Magic #7)

The leather of the whip bit as it wrapped itself around his forearm, and Niall let it feed the rage building within him. With a jerk, he ripped the whip from the elder nun’s hand and enjoyed her gasp of shock and pain as his presence registered through what seemed to be a fog of hatred in her eyes.

“What is the meaning of this?” she screeched, her chin straining against her wimple as she dared to reach past him for her instrument of punishment.

Niall sneered with disgust as he easily subdued her with one hand. “Are you too intent on hurting this tiny, weak woman to notice that you are being raided?” He shook her roughly for effect.

The woman, dressed in a longer, thicker habit than the rest of the nuns, blinked as though seeing him for the first time.

“Raided?” she whispered. “I—”

Niall turned and shoved her toward Bulvark, who caught her and compelled her toward the forty or so women gathered in the courtyard of the modest abbey.

“How dare you desecrate this holy ground with your Pagan blasphemies?” The woman shouted, throwing a strong yet gnarled finger toward the pale prisoner, who still remained alarmingly still. “She’s a witch . The devil’s handmaiden! And she must be castigated!”

Niall snorted, drawing himself up to his full height as he advanced on the nun, towering head and shoulders above her, though she was imposing even when compared to a Viking woman. “You would do well to fear me, old woman.”

“I do not fear death!” she spat, squirming against Bulvark’s unyielding grasp. “I fear nothing but damnation, the damnation this whore of Satan will bring down upon us. She’s probably the reason you’re here!”

“ Gold is the reason I’m here. Gold and relics, and shelter from the storm.”

“You’ll find no sanctuary in these walls,” she hissed. “God will punish you for any sins you commit against us or our virtue !”

A chorus of frightened gasps and soft exclamations of fear emitted from the nuns huddled together.

The armed and leering Vikings surrounding them kept their frightened group from inching toward the archway of the overhang encircling the square courtyard.

Torches lined the walls beneath the awnings, which threw wan light through the storm and turned droplets of rain into little reflections of fire.

“Trust me, lady,” Ingmar chuckled as he sauntered up to them. “Your virtue is in no danger from us… or from anybody for that matter.”

Bulvark actually laughed in agreement at that as the Nun’s face puckered like the leather of an old shoe.

Niall drew a sharp dagger from a scabbard against his back, leaving his sword untouched. A few women screamed, chafing his sensitive ears with their histrionics. “Quiet!” he ordered sharply, and they complied, shrinking from him as though of one mind.

They’d probably never seen a man of his size before.

Never laid eyes upon Vikings clad in leather, fur, and adorned with tattoos.

His hoard was nothing like those prettily dressed holy men who liked to wear robes the color of blood.

Those who never touched gore with their fingers, but were stained by plenty of it.

“Stay still, stay silent, and cooperate and I vow, no harm will come to you.”

He turned toward the bound woman, his ears pricking to her trembling breaths.

It wasn’t just those impressive breasts that drew him forward. Nor was it the strange pressure against his heart. An alarming softening he’d only ever heard about.

Pity? Weakness?

Over some girl? A witch, at that.

He was Niall Thorson, the preeminent Berserker warrior at the temple of Freya, the pride of the elders and the first son of the oldest Berserker clan known to man.

He and his men laughed over the screams of the dying, broke bread over the bones of their enemies. It was said his line was descended from the god, Thor, himself. He was utterly pitiless. Fearless. Lethally dangerous. And yet … couldn’t fathom why his hand was unsteady as he reached for her .

Her jaw felt as delicate as burned sugar in his rough hand.

Easily shattered, utterly sweet. His breath stalled in his chest as he gently lifted her face toward him.

Niall didn’t know what he’d expected to see on her rain-streaked face.

Fear, pain, shock, desperation, any of these would have been reasonable.

He half expected her to be laconic from the trauma of a whipping.

But what flared at him from her eyes the color of smelted amber slowed time and tightened his skin as all the world receded from his heightened notice. Fire. The figurative kind, at first. Defiance and strength, licked by a sensual flicker that stunned him in light of their present circumstance.

Instant sensation took Niall in its thrall.

The rivulets of rain running down his forearm to drip from his elbow became a physical caress.

The rasp of his clothing against his burning skin an unexpected irritation he needed to be rid of.

The muscles along his spine clenched and rolled with the need to be rhythmically thrusting.

Mine .

He’d thought such an instinct would belong to his Berserker, but the thought echoed from his head, not from within the cage of his ribs where the beast resided, dormant for the present moment.

Along with the unexpected sensual heat coiling through him, softer warmth began to glow through his veins as well, alarming him more than the uncontrolled lust. It was foreign, gentle, and damned unsettling.

“What are your crimes, priestess?” he murmured through lips aching for a taste of her.

“Not so many as yours, Berserker,” she answered in a voice comprised entirely of smoke and sex.

Niall had to close his eyes for a moment to hide from her beauty like a coward he’d never been.

Even in her wretched state, the startling perfection of her features burned themselves into his vision as though he’d been staring at the sun.

When he looked away, the shadow was still branded into his eyes, blinding him to all but her radiance.

Fuck. What was happening to him ?

“Are you going to try and kill me?” she asked, motioning to the dagger in his other hand with her eyes.

Niall had to blink again to stop from watching the way water slid along her proud, high cheekbones to collect in the corners of her sensuous mouth. “I am not your enemy,” he insisted, and proved it by lifting his dagger and slicing through the ropes at her wrists.

With a weak sound, she collapsed, and Niall caught her before she fell to the mud, pulling her against him. The strength he’d seen in her eyes must not have existed in her legs.

Stepping into her, Niall pressed his body fully against hers, hiding her breasts from the unrepentantly hungry eyes of his men, hating the thickness of his leather armor as it hid their softness from his touch.

She hissed when his hands pressed against her back, and he drew them away instantly, not realizing the extent of her wounds until it was too late.

Blood.

Niall stared at it as though he’d never seen it before, watching the rainwater turn the crimson into a lighter pink in his palm. A familiar stirring radiated through him. Rage. Mayhem.

Panic?

Nie . He couldn’t have saved this wounded nun only to be forced to violently take her life. She was different. He wanted her. Not only that, he wanted to know her. To see her. To save her. Not just from the pain of her wounds, but from himself.

“Run,” he growled the last word his sharpening teeth would be able to utter before the beast completely overtook him in a voice darkened with animal rage. He could feel it mount. Feel his veins pulse with fury, bloodlust, and strength.

Niall pulled away from the woman as the vibrancy of the evening turned to predatory shadows of silver and grey. As usual all color disappeared, leaving only the shapes of his victims.

All color, but for the very real flames igniting her eyes.

“Everyone get back. Bar the door.” Ingmar’s voice was deadly serious, which underscored the danger of the situation. “Better start praying, ladies,” he warned. “Make peace with your God, because you are about to meet him.”