Page 31 of Kept By the Viking (Forgotten Sons #1)

Chapter

Sixteen

H er blood pulsed with victory and fear. She scrambled around the table to Rurik’s side only to have him grab her arm hard enough she had to rise on tip toe against him.

“What was that about?” His scowl burned as hotly as when Sothram had stabbed him in the back.

She would not shrink from him. “Unhand me.”

Rurik shook his head. “We’re leaving.”

Families with sleepy children said their goodbyes.

A cluster of warriors gathered before the jarl’s table.

Ademar and Longsword were deep in conversation with those men.

At the end, Vlad stepped off the raised platform, a chilling smile creasing his face.

He strode through the hall with red-haired Sigurd two steps behind.

Rurik shoved aside the leather-weave curtain, dragging her with him. She trotted to keep up with his long strides eating up the long hallway. Once inside their room, he shut and barred the door and stood there, an imposing figure in the dark.

She inched backward and bumped into the bed. “I can hardly see you. Can we light a candle?”

“You don’t need to see me to explain yourself.”

Her eyes began to adjust to the darkness.

Rurik didn’t pounce on her...far from it.

His back was to the door, both arms folded.

Skimming the bed frame, she found the wall and threw open the shutters.

A ribbon of light poured into the room from the moon and distant torches.

Music started again in the feast hall. Drums and goat bone flutes.

Voices and laughter. Nearby, a man and woman tumbled against the longhouse wall outside. Laughter wove between ardent kisses.

Rurik crossed the room and set a hand on the opening. They stood side by side, looking at grain fields stirring in a summer breeze. A housekarl keeping watch on a nearby roof was the only sign of danger.

Safira breathed in the stillness, let it calm the chaos inside her. “This is the thanks I get for ensuring you do not have to fight your father to the death.”

“You’ve made things worse.”

Her chin tipped. “How?”

“A fight to the death is a clean end. Vlad will not be satisfied to walk away with his tail between his legs.”

“You say that as if you are certain you would win. I know you’re good, Viking, but even you can’t be that sure of yourself. Anything can happen in a fight.”

“I know Vlad’s weaknesses, but he doesn’t know mine.”

A gust of disbelief escaped her. She spun sideways to face him. “Do you hear yourself? You speak of...of killing your father.”

Rurik untied his arm brace, his fingers tugging hard on the leather thongs, angry jerks that threatened to snap the ties until the brace was loose enough to drop to the floor. Moonlight shined on the vicious scar that stretched from his hand to his elbow.

“The man who gave me this wouldn’t hesitate to kill me.”

She grasped the truth of Vlad’s violent nature. The piece of Rurik’s ear gone. The stories the Sons told of the older man’s cruelty. Though she’d lived in a household filled with love and every possible comfort, she knew many did not. There were hideous men. Men like Vlad.

But, a man wanting to kill his son?

Rurik smiled coldly as if he read her thoughts. “He did this to me when I was eleven because I swore I would see him dead for his cruelty to my mother.” Fist clenched, his voice grated. “My right hand,” he said forcefully. “Vlad tried to make sure I’d never raise a weapon against him.”

She clapped a hand over her mouth. Shock was an acrid taste.

How could a father do that to his son? Yet another piece of the mosaic that was Rurik of Birka fell into place, black pieces that broke her heart.

But the Viking would have none of it. His face was a harsh mask.

The planes of his cheeks, so like his father’s, were tight with barely restrained ire.

Darkness revealed Rurik better than light.

What did it say about her? Her worst complaint was an ambitious, strong-willed mother.

Her indulgent father knew her skill with spices, but he also knew the value of an excellent marriage alliance.

The House of Alzaud would pass on to her younger brother. Never to her.

She folded both hands over his fist. “The enemy you spoke of in the Arelaune Forest...the one who did this to you.”

“My father. Vlad of Birka.” Rurik’s shoulders were broad and solid, but there was the slightest droop.

Even a savage wolf needed comfort.

And Rurik of Birka longed for gentle comfort. She saw it in the harsh set of his face and the stone-cold pain in his eyes, though he’d never ask for comfort. His life had been too hard for too long.

The Viking warrior would take and take until he was sated.

The unknown was in asking for what he wanted. A frightful thing.

She set his balled-up hand over her heart because hers was breaking. For him. The fierce, blue-eyed boy she’d glimpsed in the Arelaune Forest, the one who protected all, was bared to her just now.

Carved leather was warm against her palm.

Summer’s night air poured around them. What she thought was a good turn for Rurik had made things worse.

Enmity burned deep between father and son.

So did pride. The loser in tomorrow’s fight would not slink away in peace.

Not with this kind of history between them.

There was a score to settle.

“Vlad and I have crossed paths,” Rurik said, calmer. “Once we served the same emir in Cordoba. The emir was wise to send us to opposite ends of his kingdom.” His chilling gaze locked on her. “I should have killed him then.”

Rurik lived daily with life and death decisions. To kill or not kill Vlad was one of them.

What was she to do with this rough Viking and his heavy heart?

“If I could take away your pain and anger, I would. But I do not think you would let me,” she whispered. “You hoard your pain. You and your men. And you only have room for the Forgotten Sons. No one else.”

His eyes flared wide. “You think that of me?”

Her nod was jerky. “I do.” At his dismay, she added, “I have come to know certain things about you...things that are solid and true.”

Rurik’s tightly fisted hand opened on her chest. He stared at the connection, his eyes marveling with wonder, if a bit lost as well. His thumb grazed her cleavage. The simple caress stole her breath and sent goosebumps wherever his thumb touched.

Moonbeams glinted on the gold tips of his lashes. “What are these certain things you speak of?”

She gripped handfuls of her skirts. His touch, this quiet...it was akin to slipping under the water’s surface and losing all control. “You are generous beyond measure, but I do not understand what you value.”

“I value you.”

She stilled. His words struck the marrow of her bones. There was honesty in his gentleness with her. Rurik, a beast of war, was enslaving her, one tender word at a time.

“What else do you know about me?” he asked.

Words moved sluggishly across her tongue. “You badly want land and wealth, yet you were willing to part with your silver when you thought I’d lose. But...”

“But what?”

“You are frugal with your heart.”

Rurik skimmed four fingers over her collarbone. She shuddered visibly, a captive to his touch. None of this made sense. Her knees were weak but she was strong. Alive.

“You are not frugal with your responses to me.” Rurik hooked a finger in the cloth covering her shoulder.

She bit her lower lip. Waiting for what he would do next was sensual torture. The moment stretched, her heart pounding.

“Do you know what I wonder?” Rurik took his time dragging cloth down her arm. “Would you have welcomed my companionship if we’d passed each other in your king’s court?”

One breast was bared to him. Her saffron silk underdress skimmed the lower weight of her breast. Rurik’s hand dropped to his side, and the loss left her.

..lonely. A tear threatened to spill. She swallowed hard, despising the tempest of emotions inside her.

Crying was weakness, and she despised weakness.

But her sadness would not be denied. The single, traitorous tear stung before trailing down her cheek.

A well of emotions swirled inside her. Few of them worthy.

“What’s this?” He set a finger under her chin. “Do you cry because you and I know the answer? That you, like many other highborn women, would not look twice at me...unless you wanted my protection or the feel of my cock.”

She winced and jerked her chin away. Rurik wasn’t angry or vengeful. He was resigned.

Outside footfalls pattered in the grass.

Feminine giggles faded, a sure sign the strangers who had been coupling nearby were slipping away.

Summer lent warmth and promise to the world, a time of giving after winter’s take.

The jarl’s fields burst with lush grains reaching for the moon—the same light that covered her people and the Vikings.

Rurik drew a lazy circle around her nipple.

“I will take what you offered me.”

Her breath caught. Erotic heat flared. “My wanton request before the feast.”

“Your maidenhood. It is mine.” His jaw was set. “And you, Safira, are mine to keep.”

She gripped the frame of the window opening. Between the moonlight and the smell of Rurik’s skin, languid pleasure dripped inside her. He was masterful, tracing leisured rings around her areola. Her body wasn’t her own. If she wasn’t careful, he would devastate her. She wouldn’t want to leave.

What if I keep you forever? Rurik’s words to her before the feast.

Her lids fluttered low. Tonight was for feeling. For freedom with Rurik. His rough warrior’s hand worked magic on her, touching only that aching nib of flesh and nothing else.

“I could do this all night.” His voice was ragged.

“I think you will, Viking.” She covered his hand with hers, splaying all five fingers on her breast. “You leave your mark when you touch me. It singes me deep inside.”