Lord of Rage & Primal Instincts (11 page)

“Balance is the most important aspect of your fight. Once you lose your balance you lose the opportunity to protect yourself, defend…and lunge, your offense. And then you die.”

He pointed to three large round stones, each with a plank of wood beside it. “Place the wood on the stone and step on. Balance until the sun is directly overhead.”

Osborn stalked away and both Bernt and Torben shot her accusatory looks. Breena just shrugged. They knew their brother didn’t need any actual real provocation to be grumpy.

The three of them did as they were instructed. Balancing didn’t seem too hard. She’d seen plenty of dancers at the palace, and one even walked along a rope suspended between two chairs. Fifteen minutes in and she hated those dancers, and knew the rope balancer had to be a fake. She fell off her plank over and over again. At least she was having better luck than the two boys. They spent more time on their backs than they did standing on their plank. By the time Osborn returned, she was hot, sore and really, really anxious to grab her stick so she could whack him with it during their mock swordplay.

He tossed each of them a green apple and a pouch of water. “Water first.”

Despite the fact that their backsides must be sporting a permanent imprint of the ground, Bernt and Torben laughed and teased each other while they ate. Osborn wouldn’t look at her, and even though she was surrounded by three other people, Breena felt the loneliest of her life.

Their taskmaster couldn’t have given them more than ten minutes of rest. The core of her apple had barely shown itself when he had her up and holding a sword. A real one this time, no sticks. Maybe he’d suspected she’d been entertaining dark thoughts with that stick.

“Take it out of the scabbard,” he told her.

She slid the blade from its holder, the sun glinting off the silver edge. There was nothing ornate about this weapon. No jewels encrusted on the hilt, no elaborate carvings marring the blade. A simple weapon. So unlike those of her father and brothers.

“It was my first sword,” he told her. “Take good care of it.”

And even though she looked up to meet his gaze, Osborn never lowered his eyes to meet hers.

“Thank you,” she said. The steel in her hands meant something to the man who’d given it to her. She’d always protect it.

He shifted to face all of them. “In a surprise attack, the fatal blow is often struck before the victim’s sword is even drawn. The rest of the afternoon, I want you to practice pulling your sword from its scabbard. Quickly. Quietly. Over and over again until it’s second nature to you. You should be able to do this in your sleep. One day you may have to.”

For hours they honed this particular skill. She stood
still, and pulled the sword from the scabbard; while running, with her scabbard at her side, she pulled the weapon out; when the scabbard was beside her on the ground, she unsheathed the sword. Breena performed the maneuver until it was perfect. Then Osborn instructed her to switch sides and use the hand she didn’t favor.

“If you’re injured, you may be able to fight off your aggressor.”

Every muscle of her body ached by the time Osborn called a halt sometime before the late-afternoon chores. If she thought she was sweaty and dirty after the balance torture Osborn had conceived, she wouldn’t be fit to sleep in a stable tonight. She followed him back to the cabin, barely able to hold her sword and scabbard, but not about to ask Osborn for help.

What she would seek his aid in was finding a bar of soap. His lips firmed and that hungry look returned to his eyes when she told him she wanted to take a bath.

“Naked?” he asked.

“That’s generally how it’s done. How do you wash off?”

She watched as he swallowed slowly. “I usually hop into the lake.”

Breena shook her head. “Probably should avoid that place, now that the energy is less…magical. It’s too bad you don’t use a tub. Sitting in sudsy warm water in front of the fire is one of life’s real pleasures.”

Osborn looked like he wanted to be anywhere but in this conversation. Too bad. “I’ll just grab a basin and wash off in back. Soap?”

“In the cabinet under the window.”

“Thank you,” she told him with a smile. “No one comes outside,” she yelled, so the boys would know to
stay inside the cottage. When had she become a yeller? Since meeting up with a family of
berserkers,
the rage must be rubbing off on her.

The water she’d pumped into the basin was cold, but she knew it would feel fantastic against her hot and sticky skin. The soap, however, was another matter. It smelled like Osborn. Warm chestnuts. She breathed it in deep, rubbed the soap between her hands until she built a lather, then began running the smell of him all over her body.

O
SBORN SPENT THE REST OF
his day wondering about her bath. How she took off her shoes. Her shirt. Her pants. How the fading sun must have glinted off her naked skin. Her hair. He imagined wetting her skin with a sopping cloth, grasping his soap and rolling it along her arms. Over her breasts. Down her stomach. Between her legs.

He envisioned stepping behind her, shedding his clothes and standing before her naked. He
felt
the slick soap and her soft hands along his chest, over his back and gripping his cock. He was in performance mode in record time. She’d slide her hands up and down the shaft of him as she slid her tongue into his mouth. The movements of her hands and mouth mimicking one another. She’d rinse away the soap and sink to her knees. Kiss the head of his cock, tongue the shaft, then slide him all the way into her mouth.

He groaned, nearly coming with the erotic visions. He was going crazy. Osborn had to get her out of his cottage. His life.

But how could he when he wanted her more than almost anything in his life?

He found her later that night, curled on her side in
front of the fire. The blanket lay at her feet and he crouched down low to tug it back over her slim frame. Her hair was still damp, but would soon dry before the fire. She shivered, and he worried that she might be cold. Rolling to his side, he fitted her back against his chest. The way her soft curves formed to his body was sweet, sweet torture. One he’d gladly endure over and over.

Breena smelled fresh and clean, and…a little like him. His soap. Possession arced through him, and he curved an arm around her waist. She snuggled toward him in her sleep as though it was natural. Where she should be.

He buried his nose in her hair, the delicate strands sliding over his cheek. Breena shouldn’t smell like a man. And he shouldn’t be holding her. Wanting more. Needing more. But he’d steal just a few moments. Then he’d pick himself up and go to his bedroom and shut the door. Firmly.

B
REENA IMAGINED A DOOR
in her mind. Two doors. The second door was new. Menacing. While the first stood familiar, opening that door and walking through had been forbidden to her. She went to it, anyway. Leaned against the closed entry. She longed to go inside. Days had passed since she’d last crossed the threshold and found pleasure. And passion.

But she could not go in.

She turned to the second portal. The entrance was ornate while the other gate was plain. Timeworn carvings in the ancient Elden language adorned the mahogany door. Jewels and rubies, sapphires and diamonds, were embedded in the knob. It should be the most desirable doorway in the world. Instead, she looked again at the simple entry, but that was not her path. That way had been barred to her.

Steeling herself, she gazed once more upon the door that should be inviting. A crimson haze seemed to surround it on all sides. The color of blood. Breena didn’t want to go inside. Didn’t want to know what lay beyond once she turned that bejeweled knob.

Yet this was her destiny.

Her fingers shook as she reached for the handle and turned. A film of oppressive hate dropped over her, smothered her. Her legs buckled, and she wanted to turn
back, but knew she couldn’t. Steeling herself, Breena stepped inside.

She was in the great hall of her home in Elden. Beautiful tapestries hung on the walls, and fat tapers illuminated the room, just like always. But instead of the friendly chatter of people, the bustle of the servants and the laughter of the king and queen, she heard only agony. The wailing of the wounded. The fearful cries of those left behind and being rounded up by creatures of unimaginable horror. The smell of blood was heavy in the air. It sickened her, but not as much as the sight of her people, dead and dying on the cold stone of the castle floor.

Breena reached to pick up her skirt to rush to their aid, but found she wore pants instead. The outfit of a boy. Strapped to her waist was a sword and scabbard. Her fingers sought the timepiece she wore around her neck. She examined the gift her mother had given her at the age of five. A sword was stamped into the face, such an odd symbol to entrust to a little girl. Breena slid the sword out of its scabbard. It was identical to the image on her timepiece.

She
was
on the path of her destiny.

The queen. She thrust the sword in its scabbard, and raced across the room, avoiding the pools of blood and the dead that she could not help. She ran until she reached the dais upon which her parents always sat during the formal times at Elden. She found them strapped to their thrones, a mockery of their honor. More blood flowed at their feet. Thickening.

They were dead. A slash at both their throats. The pain of it so great she sobbed.

Something warm and soothing patted her shoulder in her dream. On instinct, Breena drew her sword quickly
and with intent. But no one stood behind her. She returned her sword and braced herself to look at her parents one more time. One last time. They’d each managed to work a hand free from their bonds. They’d died with their fingers intertwined.

Tears began streaming down her cheeks. So many. Too many to wipe away. But someone gently dabbed the moisture away, and soothed her with a soft whisper. “Sleep, Breena. No more dreaming.”

She followed the voice out of her dream. Warmth enveloped her, and she crushed herself toward the soothing strength. And she followed the voice’s command and went to sleep without dreaming further.

Breena woke up with her memory restored.

O
SBORN WATCHED
B
REENA
sleep until the birds began to sing. Her sob had jerked him awake. She still lay in his arms, but she thrashed about and she began to cry. He’d never seen a woman cry before. He’d never expected it of Breena, who’d proved she could take as much training and work as a young man learning the ways of a warrior.

Her tears did something to him. Made him feel weak. Made him want to fix or kill or change whatever made her cry. Instead, he could only cradle her to his chest, wipe her tears and try to soothe her with his voice. She finally calmed and settled against him. Her breathing eventually turned steady, and he could relax then, but never sleep.

As the sun broke over the horizon, Osborn knew continuing to train her to fight would only prolong her pain. After last night, he couldn’t bear to see her hurt any longer. Today was the last market day of the week in the village. Breena couldn’t continue to stay with three
men. Surely there was some sort of position, something completely safe, that would keep her employed.

The blood scout had not returned. Had not brought reinforcements, and Osborn doubted the creature would be back with the change in energy at the lake. Blood scouts were little more than mindless drones, obeying only limited commands. Osborn’s cock grew uncomfortable as he remembered how he and Breena had chased away the trace magic. He shifted his legs to relieve the pressure, and glanced down at the beautiful woman in his arms. She was gently reared. Perhaps she could be a nanny or maybe a companion to an elder in town until he sorted out everything. Found where she belonged.

Why was no one in her family looking for her?

He feared he already knew the answer.

Osborn gently slid his arm from around her waist and, after one last glance, left Breena to her sleep. He quietly walked toward his front door and slipped outside without waking anyone inside. His brothers wouldn’t worry; he often left the cottage early to train, or to run or secure and inspect the perimeter of the sacred lands.

Without the three of them, Osborn stood on the border in no time. The village marketers were just opening their booths when he crested the hill. He quickly made his way down the incline. The first stall he sought sold soaps and perfumes and fancy concoctions used to wash hair.

“For you or for your lady?” the saleswoman asked.

“My lady. I mean a lady.”

The woman laughed, flashing him a hearty smile. “I reckon if you give her something I’ve created, she’ll be your lady. I make the best soaps in three realms.” She
popped the lid off a glass container and held it under his nose.

He breathed in soft vanilla with a hint of erotic spice.
This
was what Breena should smell like. Not manly chestnut. “I’ll take it. And the shampoo,” he told her.

He continued to make his way through the stall, listening to the snippets of conversation, hoping to glean information without having to ask for it. He stopped when he spotted a beautiful green cloak. Breena’s eyes turned that exact shade of sage when he kissed her. Osborn suppressed an inward groan. He had to have that, too. He pointed to the cloak of his choice.

“Excellent. My wife just finished this yesterday.”

A short woman with a toddler on her hip joined them from behind a privacy curtain. She fingered the material and grinned up at Osborn. “I almost didn’t want to give this one up, it’s so beautiful. She’s a lucky lady. But have you seen the matching gown?”

Osborn shook his head, quickly realizing he was over his head. Sword—yes. Bow and arrow—no problem. Dresses…

“It will leave her arms bare, but with these gold bands, she can cinch the cloak to the dress and pull it around her shoulders if she gets chilled.”

And when the woman laid the gown before him, he knew Breena must have it, too. The old pants and shirt didn’t do her beauty justice. And although he didn’t mind seeing the material stretch across the rounded curves of her ass, this gown suited her far more. In a few moments, the couple had the garments wrapped and Osborn continued on his way.

A gold armband in a stall a few paces down the aisle caught his attention. He didn’t know if Breena wore such jewelry in her old life. The odd timepiece around
her neck the only adornment that made it with her to safety. But the armband fit what he knew of her now, and he purchased it, too.

Three packages in hand, Osborn had done nothing he’d set out to do. Obtain information. He backtracked to the first stall where he’d bought the scents. “Have you heard any word of battles?” he asked.

Osborn ground his back teeth. He’d meant to ask about positions for a young woman. Not warfare.

The woman’s face grew alarmed. “Here?”

Osborn shrugged. “Anywhere in the area.”

“You’ll want to be hiring out your sword, I reckon, by the looks of you. You’re a brawny one,” she told him with an inspection up and down.

Osborn shook his head. “No, I’m only checking on…a friend.”

“I haven’t heard of anything, but go to Hagan, the second to the last booth on the left. He sells spices from all over the realms. If a battle is brewing, he’ll know about it.”

Armed with a true purpose and destination, Osborn weaved through the growing crowd toward the spice man. After he questioned Hagan, he’d go about securing safe employment for Breena, and this time he would not be distracted.

“How is the basil?” he asked the salesman after his other customer left.

“The most aromatic you will find. Here,” he said, opening the spice bag.

“Has the price gone up?” Osborn asked, after taking in the pungent, earthen scent of the herb. “I’ve heard there’s been fighting in that realm and the trade routes are blocked.”

The spice man shook his head. “Not with basil.
Where you need to be concerned about rising costs is with the olive oil. Elden is under siege, and the oldest trees can be found only in that area. I’d buy all the olive oil you can at the moment, you may not be able to find it later.”

A chill ran through him. His
berserkergang
wakened. “Elden?”

“No one can get in, and what news that’s coming out is bad. The queen and king dead. The heirs gone, too.”

Something satisfyingly elemental burned in his gut. Elden was finally getting its due. He rued that it wasn’t by his hand. He’d always taste the regret of vengeance not fully satisfied. The
berserker
in him called for his pelt. Maybe he could brandish the fatal blow and send those cold vamps to their deaths.

Osborn felt lighter than he could ever remember. At least since Elden wreaked havoc and took away most of his life. Now to complete his final task.

B
REENA ACHED EVERYWHERE
. Even her ears seemed to hurt, and she didn’t know how that was possible. Her shoulders dragged, and it took her longer than usual to make it to her knees and roll up her pallet and shove it out of the way.

The sun shone brightly through the window. Well past their usual practice time. Osborn must have suspected she wouldn’t be much use with a sword today. Especially as he was the one who made her this way.

The bedroom door opened, and Bernt and Torben slunk inside the main room, looking not much better than she felt.

“I don’t want to be an Ursan warrior anymore,” Torben said.

“Yes, you do,” she told him with a smile. “Grab some apples and bread. We can take our breakfast outside. The sunshine will do us some good.”

Once outside, Breena raised her face to the sun, allowing its warm rays to heat her cheeks. She stretched, relieving the tightness of her aching muscles. A blue bird flew over their heads, and she smiled.

“You seem different today,” Bernt remarked. A small frown formed between his brows. “You’re not wanting to leave us, are you?”

It had never really occurred to her that the boys would begin enjoying her in their lives. She’d felt more like an intruder, one who’d broken their furniture and stolen their food. But now she realized they’d miss her when she left, and she’d miss them.

Would their brother?

“I’ll have to go sometime. This isn’t my home.”

“But it could be,” Torben told her. “I saw Osborn clearing out some old furniture and crates out of the storeroom. I think he’s wanting to make it into a bedroom.”

“He doesn’t like you sleeping on the floor.”

The thought of Osborn caring about her comfort, trying to find someplace better for her to sleep, made her heart leap.

“I do like sleeping in front of the fire,” she assured them. “At home, I had a fireplace in my room. And besides, I’m too tired to do anything but just fall down on the floor and go to sleep.”

The boys laughed.

“I like it with you here,” Bernt informed her.

“Osborn does, too,” Torben added. “I can tell.”

“He’s a lot nicer. He doesn’t yell nearly as much.”

Really? Because she thought he yelled a lot. All the time.

“And he finally began our training.”

“He was already a warrior by the time he was our age, I think.” Torben bit his lip. “He doesn’t talk much of what happened to our parents and the rest of our people.”

She squeezed the boys’ shoulders. “I can imagine what he’s suffered. Is still suffering. Remember, he wasn’t much older than you when he took on the responsibility of two little boys. When you lose those you love, it changes you. But every day seems better than the last.”

That was a lie. A comforting adage she so wanted to believe, wanted these boys to believe, but suspected it would never be true. Each day didn’t diminish the hurt, only added more time and distance so that it would be easier to forget.

Avenge.

Breena couldn’t forget. Something inside wouldn’t let her.

The man who was the topic of their conversation entered the clearing. Osborn never failed to make her breath catch. He looked different somehow. Less grim, and with an added resolve. She hoped that didn’t mean more balance practice. He’d tied his hair back, and wore the town clothes from just a few days ago. In fact, he carried several large packages in his massive arms.

“Didn’t know if you crew would make it this morning,” he told them, something similar to a smile curving his lips.

Bernt and Torben quickly scrambled to their feet.

“Ready for more?” he asked, but his eyes were
squared on her. “Get your swords, and head out to the practice field. I need to talk with Breena.”

The boys raced to get their scabbards and then flew around the corner of the cottage, leaving her alone with Osborn. He carefully placed his packages on a crate that stood next to the front door, and the dream of last night hit her full force. The pain of it. The anguish. Every vivid detail. But mostly the comfort given as she cried.