Page 22 of The Magic of Vanaheim

“Fine.” Håkon shrugged as if his own well-being was only an afterthought to him.

“I’m serious,” Talvi hissed, suddenly angry with Håkon too. How was the idiot thinking he’d survive being practically a hostage in an enemy court if he didn’t talk to Talvi?

Håkon laughed. It was a bitter sound that did something ugly to Talvi’s insides.

“What is there to laugh about?”

“Oh, by the gods. What do you want to hear? The wench in charge of your dungeons has a vicious left hook. Satisfied?”

“Thyra? Very well. I’ll have words with her.”

To Talvi’s annoyance, Håkon only laughed harder.

“Are you going to reprimand her like an unruly child? How oldareyou, boy? Your warriors will never respect you like this.”

Håkon’s voice dripped with contempt, and by all means his words should make Talvi even angrier. But something gave him pause. This was all Håkon knew, he realized. This must be life at Bergelmir’s court; you were treated cruelly if you had no power, and only respected if you could assert dominance by force.

“I turned twenty-two at the last winter solstice,” Talvi said gently instead of rising to Håkon’s bait. “So, tell me, do you think I’m too young for you? Don’t worry, my lovers have never complained.”

Mocking laughter turned to coughing. Håkon watched him as if Talvi had grown a second head.

Patting Håkon’s back, a grin slipped onto Talvi’s face. He hoped he had managed to lighten his betrothed’s mood a little.

“Are you well,dróttning?” Talvi asked innocently, pleased to watch Håkon bringing his breathing back under control with some difficulty.

“I’m fine,” Håkon growled, ignoring the endearment.

Oh, how Talvi enjoyed ruffling his feathers. Flustering Håkon was just too easy.

If only he knew Håkon enjoyed their little verbal battles as much as Talvi did, he might have found his new favorite pastime.

eight

The Handfasting

?åkon

The boy took his time cleaning Håkon’s face, his gentleness only adding to Håkon’s confusion. The physical closeness and the warmth radiating from the other’s body had him reeling. Why would a leader bother showing kindness to a captive whose sole purpose was to grant his clan a marriage? Håkon didn’t understand. But maybe this was the way of theVanir? Who was he to understand the reasoning of a lineage of gods who, while not as powerful as the dreadfulÆsir, were also much older, according to the legends? They were peculiar beings from a time before the creation of the Nine Worlds, wielding strange magic. So why did he expect anything different than oddity?

Finally, the boy had the decency to step out of Håkon’s space. Opening a huge trunk, he searched for a fresh tunic. Håkon breathed a little easier, but his gaze lingered on the boy’s broad shoulders and the muscles that rippled across his back. An impressive warrior, Håkon had to admit, and not hideous to look at either. Not for the first time, he wondered if he had done Anya a disservice by taking her place.

“Like what you see?”

Looking over his shoulder, the boy sent him a knowing smirk. It made Håkon feel like he’d been caught doing something forbidden, although he couldn’t say what.

“Just assessing your strength.”

The boy rose from his crouching position with a swiftness and grace that reminded Håkon of a predator in the icy wilderness. A snow fox or a wolf. Green tunic in hand, he didn’t bother putting the garment on right away, but stepped close to Håkon again.

“And?” So close were they, Håkon felt the boy’s breath ghosting over his lips. “Does my strength satisfy you? Am I a suitable husband for a prince of theJötnar?”

“I told you, I’m no prince,” Håkon snapped.

The boy’s words didn’tsoundlike mockery, but what else could they be? What did it matter what Håkon thought about this blasted union? For most of his life, marriage simply wasn’t an option he’d ever considered. Håkon couldn’t recall his father outright telling him, but for as long as he could remember, he’d known that princesses and noblewomen were married off to legitimate sons, and marriages of mutual courtship were meant for free men who wouldn’t sire more children to grow up and claim a right to the throne. Besides, he’d never subject a child to the life he’d lived, always an outsider, never truly belonging. The path of a warrior didn’t favor relationships anyway, and he’d never been one to chase the maidens’ skirts. The thought of being naked and vulnerable in front of another person had never held appeal to him. He could’ve easily left it at this as long as he lived and simply endured the troubling dreams of rippling muscles and strong hands holding him down. But now he was stranded in Vanaheim with their crazy chieftain hell-bent on marrying him.

With a shrug, the boy put on his tunic and combed his hands through his hair to tame his dark curls. He took Håkon’shand and, to Håkon’s bewilderment, pressed a soft kiss to his knuckles.

“You will be a prince once you’re married to me.”