Page 1 of The Stolen Bride (Kings of Fury #2)

Chapter

One

“I turn your pet’s bad hair day into a paw-some fashion statement!”

Clover Deering,

Owner of Fur-Ever Pet Spa

Where Every Animal Feels Fur-Tastic!

I reached up to flip the OPEN sign in my shop window to closed, accidentally brushing the jingle bell that had rung non-stop for hours. What a day. A German Shepherd peed on my leg after stealing my lunch. A Persian shredded my arms with her razor-sharp claws–now filed, thank you—and a Pomeranian yipped until my last nerve frayed beyond repair.

My lower back and feet ached, and exhaustion saturated every muscle in my body. I reeked of wet dog. Worse, I hadn’t eaten in forever—nearly two whole hours!—but right now I was too tired to even slap together a sandwich. Proof I’d reached my limit.

Attempting to fill my bottomless pit of a stomach was my second favorite hobby. The honor of top spot belonged to rescuing animals in need. One of the many reasons I’d chosen grooming as a career.

I loved Fur-Ever Pet Spa and could only smile at the framed business certificate that hung on the pale blue wall. The shop’s first decoration. My hometown of Aurelian Hills, Georgia, offered wonderful entrepreneur resident loans, and I’d taken full advantage, building the pet spa from scratch.

My stomach grumbled, refusing to let me forget my hunger. Okay, so, after I finished my chores and showered, I’d call in a delivery order at Daisy’s. The German Shepherd’s owner had given me a generous tip, so I could splurge without guilt.

Quickening my pace, I disinfected the check-out counter, stored all leftover complimentary treats in a bag, and swept up any remaining fur. That done, I hosed down the bathing area then put the used towels and comfort blankets through an intense cleaning cycle via the industrial washer in back. In the morning, they’d go in the dryer.

Beginning a day with a messy shop always soured my mood. Satisfied, I switched off the lights and headed for the wooden staircase that led to the second floor. My private retreat and the reason I’d purchased the building. It served double duty as work and home.

A long, hot shower failed to ease my aches. The hydraulics on the grooming table I’d picked up second-hand had stopped working again, forcing me to lift my clients onto the station with physical strength alone. I was stronger than I looked, thank goodness, but even so. Yikes.

I exited the bathroom ahead of a fragrant cloud of steam and entered my walk-in closet. With summer in full swing, I donned a tank top and shorts, then grabbed my phone from the charging dock on the built-in dresser, intending to call Daisy’s. Oh. Two new voice messages and a text.

I checked the text first and ground my teeth. From Benjamin, my ex-fiancé.

Benjaboy: I left my favorite game at your place. I’ll swing by tomorrow and get it.

I responded:

No. You’re not welcome here. Lose my number.

We’d broken up six months ago. If he’d truly enjoyed the game, he would’ve realized it was gone long before now. Besides, I didn’t want to see him. Every interaction reminded me of my failures. How I had ignored a thousand red flags, doing my best not to make waves, all to keep him happy without ever actually making him happy. How I’d forgotten that I had always desired real, genuine love. The kind my parents had shared. Instead, I’d caved to my desperation to experience contentment and settled for conditional affection. Little wondered I’d constantly felt as if a part of me was missing.

Three little dots appeared in the text thread, and I sighed, anticipating Benjamin’s reply. Sure to be a doozy. At least he wasn’t waiting the usual three days to respond.

Benjaboy: Your heart is pure ice, Clo. That’s what broke us. You know that, right?

Wow. He never hesitated to go there. My supposed lack of emotion was his excuse for cheating with my (former) best friend. Granted, I wasn’t the most expressive of people. But suppressing my emotions was a gift to all, including myself! I’d let loose around him only once, and he’d acted scared of me for weeks.

Pushing thoughts of Benjaman into a shadowed corner of my mind, I listened to the voice mails. Cancellations. Another sigh slipped out. Despite today’s influx of patrons, business had slowed the past year, and I was in danger of getting behind on my loan repayments. Every cent counted.

Okay, so, no Daisy’s tonight. Tamping down my disappointment—you’re welcome world!—I did my best to rally. I had some cheese and crackers in the kitchen. Maybe I’d finish off my jar of peanut butter too.

I returned my phone to the charger. No reason to carry it around, hoping for a longed-for text or a call I wouldn’t get. My parents were gone, and I had no other family. Benjamin had won all our friends in the breakup. A blessing, I realized now. Better no friends than bad ones.

As I exited the closet, I braided my wet hair. T minus thirty seconds until I stretched out, closed my eyes and—I skidded to a halt. A man. An enormous man dressed in a black T-shirt, leather pants and combat boots. He sat in a navy blue armchair where I enjoyed playing my violin, mere feet away from me.

The bruiser toyed with the edge of the cozy knit throw draped over the top while sipping a glass of my favorite vodka. The last of my grandma’s supply. He stared straight at me.

“Hello, Clover.”

“úristen!” My Hungarian mother’s favorite expression burst from my mouth. Fury spilled through my veins, both boiling hot and ice cold, and I balled my hands. Some people had a flight or fight response. I only possessed fight.

Except, in seconds the fury downgraded to mild irritation with a tinge of dismay. Over the years, I’d trained myself to suppress any strong surge of emotion automatically. A process that always left me feeling as if I wore someone else’s skin.

“Don’t challenge me,” the man said, as cool as could be. “My beast won’t like it.”

I wasted no time asking pointless questions about his so-called beast, and I didn’t run. He would pay for breaking into my home and draining my vodka. On a mission to teach him the error of his ways, I kicked, aiming for his smug face, exactly as I’d learned in my bargain basement self-defense class.

Ow, ow, ow! His rock hard jaw almost broke my bones. I’d forgotten I wasn’t wearing shoes.

Meanwhile, he absorbed the blow as if I’d merely patted his cheek. He didn’t even move to stop a second strike. No, he took another sip of the vodka.

“This is good,” he remarked, toasting me.

“I know,” I grumbled after stumbling back. Okay, so, perhaps I should run.

Yes, yes. Go! I turned on my heel and sprinted–nope. I slammed into his hard body and ricocheted backward. But. How had he gotten in front of me so quickly?

“I told you not to issue a challenge,” he grated, stepping closer, erasing the distance between us.

“Challenging a madman and escaping a dangerous situation isn’t the same thing.” As I retreated, I stretched out my arms to ward him off.

He followed me. “I suppose you’re right. I’m still irked.”

“Who are you? Why are you here?” The backs of my knees hit the chair he’d just vacated, and down I fell. “How do you know who I am?” I huffed.

He crossed his arms over his massive chest. “I have no plans to harm you. Relax. ”

“Yeah. Believing an intruder isn’t on my To Do list.” Wait. I knew him. Well, I didn’t know him know him, but I’d seen him on the news just yesterday. Malachi Cromwell, a former footballer turned action movie star known for his incredible tackles, unbeatable speed and roguish charm. Women all over America melted over his muscles and perfect face. Shoulder-length brown hair with the slightest wave framed heavily lashed, menace-filled amber eyes and a stubborn chin shadowed by a trim beard.

“We’re going to talk,” he stated, his firm command allowing no argument.

I didn’t care who he was or what tone he used. I had zero interest in a conversation. “Sure, sure.” I darted my gaze for a weapon, any weapon. An e-reader. Tube of lip balm. Box of tissues. Lavender scented candle. Not exactly helpful. “A talk.”

“Your name is Clover Deering. You are twenty-eight years old, the adopted daughter of James and Morgan Deering, both of whom are deceased. Formerly engaged to Benjamin Dolittle, who you only dated because you liked his name.”

My attention whipped to Malachi, my cheeks burning. “The part about Benjamin isn’t true.” Had I liked the thought of becoming Mrs. Dolittle, pet groomer? Yes. Anyone would. Growing up, I’d adored the stories of the little boy who conversed with pets and grew up to become a doctor in San Francisco. “You don’t know me, so this, whatever it is you’re doing, isn’t helping your cause.”

“I know you in ways you don’t know yourself. You’re better off without Dolittle. He did nothing to help you advance the greater good.”

Anger flared anew. I’d often heard my parents whisper about “the greater good.” And my dreams …

“Do you comprehend what a sentinel is, Clover?” Malachi asked. “Though you prefer to use the term ‘berserker’.”

Uh… Had he checked my online search history or library card?

As a child, I’d had a royal temper. Kind of violent, even. Okay, super violent. Anytime I’d gotten mad, toys had gotten decimated. And yes, I’d hurt people. At some point, Mom had begun telling me cautionary tales that featured berserkers gone wild and the consequences they’d faced.

As a teenager, I’d started dreaming of one berserker in particular. A fierce, faceless man in black leather. I always pledged my life to him, then woke up as joyous as I was disturbed, convinced I’d somehow glimpsed a snippet of my future. Which, of course, I hadn’t.

Anyway. For the wellbeing of my loved ones, I’d taught myself to bottle and bury my emotions in a never-ending abyss. Rather than act like a berserker, I got my fix reading books about them. From historical texts to romance novels.

So. No wonder Malachi clocked my secret passion. All he’d had to do was glance at the shelf in the living room displaying handmade berserker action figures I’d bought online. A Viking ship model I’d made in the summer between ninth and tenth grade. Or the bear, wolf and boar figurines I’d acquired, the very animals said to be tied to every “rage warrior.”

“Clover,” my unwanted companion prompted.

“Yes,” I said, ready to end this exchange. “I’d bet everyone in the world knows what a berserker is.”

He narrowed his eyes, and his lashes nearly fused together. “Tell me.”

I licked my lips. “You should leave my house. You won’t like what happens if you stay.” If I had to, I would unearth and uncork a bottle of rage, and he would pay dearly for his crime.

“Tell me,” he snapped. “Then I’ll go.”

A lie, guaranteed. No way he’d broken into my home simply to converse about fictional immortals. But it wouldn’t hurt to keep him distracted while I figured out a way to escape that didn’t involve getting blood all over my furnishings.

“Berserkers are mythological warriors who do battle while lost in a trance-like rage,” I said. “Once triggered, they slaughter without mercy and nothing can stop them. Some people believe they are possessed. Norse mythology is the most widely accepted origin. Okay. Bye.”

“You are only half right. Allow me to set you straight. In the twelfth century, a glowing stone known as the Starfire fell from the sky. It caused the spirits of primordial animals to fuse with ten ordinary men and women. Those individuals scattered to various parts of the world. Now, they and their descendants cohabitate with mortals or live alongside this world in a different dimension. But that’s a tale for another day. If we get angry, the beast temporarily gains control of our bodies. If ever we allow evil into our hearts, the beast permanently takes over our minds, too.”

“We?” I arched a brow. “You’re trying to tell me you’re a berserker?”

“ The berserker. I’m King of the House of Griffin, and you are one of my subjects. I know your birth parents. And your sister.”

What the— what? He did not suggest he’d learned the name of my birth parents. Or that I had a sister. Information I’d craved for years, hoping against hope to fill my greatest void. But his records were sealed. And other dimensions? Real berserkers who shared a familial connection with little ole me? Please.

I didn’t care that Malachi’s berserker mythology matched my mother’s, a version I’d found nowhere else. Didn’t care that he’d moved swiftly enough to count as inhuman. There was a reasonable explanation for everything. I just couldn’t think properly during such a high stakes moment. This was a robbery gone wrong, nothing more. Or a psychotic break. A long con?

“I’m giving you one more chance to walk out of my house,” I informed him. If he declined, I’d fight my way past him and jump out the window. I might break a bone or two in the process, but his damage would be greater.

In fact, even now my bottled rage rose to the surface of my mind, no digging necessary.

He notched his chin. “I warn you now. Don’t do what you’re considering–”

Too late. I exploded to my feet, plowing into him with enough force to knock him to the floor. In unison, I bit his ear and raked my nails across his throat.

He growled, irritated, but he didn’t strike back.

Without missing a beat, I broke his nose with a hard punch and sprinted for the only window–“No!”

He caught my waist, stopping me. The cork nearly popped off my bottle, anger burning hotter and hotter. I didn’t resist its clarion call, erupting, kicking, hitting and clawing, showing no mercy.

With blood smeared on his face, he casually told me, “Viktor Endris is King of the House of Turul, and the only original sentinel remaining. Prophecy says–never mind. You don’t need to know that part yet. He’s based by the Danube Bend in Hungary, in a dimension of his own, and he’s feral. He teeters at the precarious edge of turning. ”

Turning? Intrigued, I paused long enough to ask, “Turning into what?” A berserker?

“A shifter.”

Okay, so, I extended the pause. “Like, a werewolf?” Was this research for a movie or something? Method acting, maybe?

“In Viktor’s case, a turul. You’ll see for yourself when you give him a wee push and help him over the ledge.”

“You’re kidding right?” He must be. How was one supposed to push a sentinel slash berserker slash shifter slash figment of a stranger’s imagination to welcome evil into his heart?

As I sputtered, the movie star continued. “In exchange, I’ll do three things for you. Introduce you to the wonderful world of berserkers. Pay off your debt as well as setting you up with a nest egg. And finally, give you what you desire most. The name of your birth parents and an introduction to your sister. Sleep now.”

Sleep? Hardly! But a second later, a sting registered along the side of my neck, curtesy of…his nail? Instant fatigue.

“You have much work to do,” Malachi muttered.

A cloak of darkness uncoiled from the fatigue, and I tumbled into a spinning tunnel of nothingness.

Moaning, I fluttered open my eyes. Muted sunlight greeted me, searing my corneas. As I blinked rapidly to clear my vision, memories dawned. The break in. Berserker talk. Or rather, “sentinel” talk. Malachi. A mention of a mysterious prophecy. An offer from the movie star and a failed escape attempt. I scowled. Where was I?

Ignoring the ache in my temples, I jolted into a sitting position to study my surroundings. I should be home in Aurelian Hills. Instead, I occupied a forest and perched on lush grass with a large, moss-covered stone behind me. Overhead, sunlight filtered through a leafy canopy provided by big, beautiful trees. Birds harmonized as a gentle breeze whistled through the limbs.

I still wore my tank and shorts, my feet bare. A fresh cut on my hand throbbed. At least the air was warm and wonderfully fragrant with the scent of wildflowers and rich earth.

My stomach churned. Had Malachi brought me here? Abandoned me? But I…this…why drop me out in the open? And where was “here?”

I remembered his words. Viktor Endris is King of the House of Turul . Based by the Danube Bend in Hungary, in a dimension of his own.

Obviously, there was no such thing as other dimensions. Or berserkers. But. He might be a sick, twisted serial killer. This could be a game of confuse-then-hunt-the-innocent-woman. He was a celebrity, after all. No way he actually expected me to–what had he said? Push an immortal king into allowing evil into his heart. And a Hungarian, no less, like my mother.

Trying to cobble together some kind of plan, I climbed to unsteady legs. “Someone? Anyone but the deranged actor with boundary issues. Help!” If this was a hunting game, I preferred to know right from the start so I could turn the tables on my pursuers.

Even if Malachi did, in fact, know my birth parents, even if I had a sister I’d never met, I had no interest in working with the guy. But. Me. A sibling. Was there any greater title?

A deep, guttural roar erupted in the distance, and my blood iced over. Wild animal!

Determined to find safety, I leaped into a sprint, pumping my arms, putting distance between me and the animal. Rocks, twigs, and briars sliced my feet. I didn’t care. Where to go, where to go?

Pine, birch and maple trees abounded. Shrubs, flowers and mushrooms too. No homes, huts or people.

Another roar pierced my ears. The predator, whatever it was, had gotten closer. Heart thudding, I pumped my arms faster. Faster still. Sprinting past trees.

Did I hear footsteps?

Every fiber of my being screamed, Look back! But I’d seen that movie. I knew what happened when the hapless damsel in distress glanced over her shoulder. She tripped, twisted her ankle, and died. No, thank you.

I should hide. But where? Where?! I scanned. More trees, some bushes, and weird gold flowers. I veered left, intending—“Aaaah!” Strong arms banded around my waist as a powerful body drove me to the ground. I rolled with my captor, eating dirt. To my astonishment, I experienced no pain. Obtained no new injuries.

The moment we stopped, I scrambled to my throbbing feet. He stood too, and we squared off. Oh, shih tzu . He towered above me, tall and muscular. Very muscular. He was shirtless, displaying a wealth of swirling symbols tattooed from his neck to the waist of his torn black leathers. Wavy white hair stuck out in spikes around a harsh face chiseled from a block of icy wrath. A thousand threats blasted from eyes the most startling shade of emerald green .

As he looked me over, his nostrils flared, his tether on control clearly fraying. He opened and closed his fists.

My brain nearly short-circuited. Because of his height and muscle mass, he reminded me of the faceless warrior from my dreams.

“The fog is thinning.” He spoke in Hungarian.

Oh, goodness gracious. “Am I in Hungary?” I asked, speaking in Hungarian as well. I hadn’t used the language in a long while, yet the words flowed from my tongue with ease.

He canted his head from side to side with eerie precision. “Why is the fog thinning?” A question with the force of a threat.

My heart jumped into my throat, my trained defenses having trouble bottling a flood of anxiety. “There is no fog, sir.”

He jerked, glaring to the left as if startled by a sound. “Her whispers. I no longer hear them. Do you?”

“Her?” I listened but detected only the rustle of leaves and the call of birds.

“The Valkara.” Those incredible, fathomless eyes glazed over. “Find, destroy, happy,” he muttered. “Find, destroy, happy.”

While he lost his marbles, I resurrected Malachi’s words. He’s feral. He teeters at the precarious edge of turning. You will give him a little push .

If anyone could pass for a legendary rage-fighter, well, it was this guy. But no. No! Absolutely not. Berserkers weren’t real. A genuine king didn’t expect me to nudge another king into an abyss of evil, thereby becoming a shifter. A turul shifter at that. A mythological bird of prey reminiscent of a giant falcon my mother had described in her stories, said to represent sheer power .

I should go. In no world was staying put wise. But if I ran, this maniac would only catch me again. Guess I’d have to do the supersmart/foolish thing and deal with him head on. Actually, the best path forward might be teaming up. Us against Malachi. Not to mention the predator on the loose! At least the roaring had stopped.

“Look. There’s a wild animal nearby,” I told him, using my best team player voice while speaking a foreign language. “How about we find a place to shelter?” Hoping to lighten the mood, I added, “You’ll be in charge of provisions, of course, because the only fishing I do is for compliments.” Eyebrow wiggle. “You can tell me about this Valkara person along the way.”

Low growls rumbled in his chest, and I gulped.

“Whoa there, big fella.” I held up my hands, palms out. “Let’s ease the throttle down a notch or twenty. Okay? Breathe with me. In. Out.”

His only response? Growling louder while taking a step closer.

Years of working with aggressive animals kicked in, and I snapped my fingers while making a quick, piercing “spt” noise. Prevention instead of intervention, that’s what I always said.

He double blinked, the glaze in his irises fading. His huffing breaths decelerated. “Did you…hiss at me?” Incredulity drenched his gravelly voice.

“No, sir, I spt ’ed at you. There’s a difference.” The pooches and kitties I groomed never complained about my methods.

His eyelids slitted. “You have five seconds to explain how an unknown human entered my land, bypassing my securities, or I’ll rip out your heart.”

The threat lit a fire inside my gut. Suddenly, I had no desire to bottle my emotions and play nice. But old habits kicked in, per usual. I displayed no outward reaction as a lie, the truth and a stinging retort raced across my tongue, a photo finish expected…

“I hope rip out your heart is just a colloquialism I’m unfamiliar with, because I don’t know how I got here.” Well, well.Truth won. “A strange man broke into my home and knocked me out. I woke up with no idea where I am or how much time has passed.” Hint, hint. Share the location and date, stranger.

But he didn’t. “Is that so?” he all but purred.

Shudders rolled over my spine. Somehow, that purr was a thousand times worse than his growls. “It is.” Time to get blunt. “Where are we? What day is this?”

He stalked a languid circle around me, and I’d never felt more like caged prey. “Why would this strange man bring a mouse to a starved falcon, hmm?”

I gulped. Going to ignore my queries and call me a mouse? Okay. I didn’t miss the fact that he’d referred to himself as a falcon, befitting the turul legends. “He told me…” Nope. Mentioning the berserker thing might get me into trouble, giving this madman permission to rage. “He wasn’t in his right mind. He mentioned a prophecy.” I didn’t know why that detail kept gnawing at me, but it did.

When Mr. Growly Pants faced me again, utter stillness came over him. The kind of stillness a predator usually displayed right before devouring a living meal. I licked my lips, doubting another “spt” would help. But he didn’t attack. He pinched and lifted my braid, rubbing the ends between two fingers.

“I’ve added five seconds to your clock,” he commanded. “Finish your explanation.”

Enough with the timer. “Look, snarls.” Careful . Only a fine line divided an attempt to take charge of the situation and incensing the unstable menace before me. As gently as possible, I tugged my hair from his grip. “I want only to return home. Will you help me? Pretty please with cherries on top.”

He performed another of those double blinks before narrowing his eyes. “Who are you?”

Now we were getting somewhere. “My name is Clover. And you are?”

“Clover,” he echoed and grimaced. “A herbaceous plant with dense, globular flower heads and three-lobed leaves.”

So annoying! “Or a strong, independent American woman with pluck and grit.” A pet groomer able to afford zero pets of her own, who enjoyed playing the violin to soothe the discomfort of never fully expressing herself. Not exactly someone a legitimate berserker king would choose to complete kingdom business. Not that Malachi was a legitimate berserker. Or a king. “If you’re not going to help–”

“I’m not,” my companion interjected without hesitation or remorse.

Well, okay then. “Be a dear and direct me to the nearest public area. Then we can say our goodbyes.”

“Nem.” He leaned in my direction, nothing more, but suddenly he consumed all of my personal space. I gasped, then gasped again when he settled his big, calloused hands on my waist, lifted me as if I weighed nothing, and draped me over his shoulder. “I don’t care that you’re afraid of me. We will stay together until I sort through my thoughts and decide what to do with you.”