Page 13 of Savage King

Fuck, he missed a good firefight. Didn’t have too many of those in Vegas. Some, but not many. Only when some dogs that came sniffing around needed to be put down before they hurt innocent people.

“Oh, that’s Scottie, our tactical firearms trainer. Best in the damn business. People sign up years in advance to train under Scottie. You’ll want to keep Scottie around just to keep the club in the black—if that’s what you’re lookin’ to do, that is.” The guy grinned wryly, crossing his wiry arms over his thin chest. The man looked older than Odin’s dad by a few years, but he still looked like he could handle himself in a fire fight. Wily, eagle-eyed, alert. An old Devil Dog by the looks of the tats on his forearms.

Trouble snorted, knowing full well that keeping the range in the black wouldn’t be an issue once they incorporated their business with their protection business at Savage Protection. They planned to offer top of the line firearms training as part of their service, and having a firearms training facility in the Savage Raiders’ family meant their protection agents would always be trained up and licensed properly. They’d never have to worry about the pigs getting their backs up about the brothers carrying out in the open, even though everyone in the state with a gun permit did it. The cops just had a special hate on for the Raiders.

Watching the figure below tear through the course, hitting every single target center body mass then head—every time—was like watching a goddamn master assassin work.

“Fuck, he’d have been an asset as overwatch in Kabul.” Trouble wasn’t wrong, and the longer Odin watched Scottie maneuver to find cover behind a berm or a stack of crates, jump over stacks of sandbags and empty barrels, kneeling or squatting or crawling on his belly, the gun in his hand like an extension of his body, the more he was impressed. The man moved with precision—not a single movement wasted. There was intent, chaotic calmness, and deliberate viciousness in every single squeeze of the trigger.

It took a lot to impress someone who’d spent ten years as the top of the best, but the man down in the gun course was impressing the shit out of him.

Keeping him around might work out for both of them. They’d need a skilled man on the inside to keep shit running smooth, and who better than someone who not only knew guns but could shoot like a motherfucking champion?

“Scottie is a vet, too, though not an American one. Danish military.” Slim was still talking, though his gaze was just as caught up in the action below as Odin’s and Trouble’s.

“So, not US Special Forces?” Odin asked, more and more curious about the man who’d just un-holstered and taken a shot with a Sig Sauer M18 in the blink of an eye that some of the men in his unit couldn’t have taken in a million years.

“No. Scottie doesn’t talk about much, unless it’s guns or pie,” Slim offered, chuckling. “Scottie bakes a mean Dutch apple pie.”

Fuck, I love pie.

“Odin loves pie,” Trouble said, knowing exactly what Odin was thinking, since Trouble often followed Odin on runs to Danny’s Diner for pie and coffee after a late night at the bar or strip club.

Fuck, Odin’d have to do whatever needed doing to keep Scottie around. As a business owner and former sergeant major, he knew all about the benefits of having skilled men around to do what needed to be done. And it wasn’t just Scottie’s skills with the gun, nor the way he moved across the field of engagement like he was a wraith of death, his feet barely touching the ground, it was also because…well, there was something about the man in full tactical gear that made Odin’s mind race.

And fuck if he knew why.

His black tactical helmet and large military grade goggles in place, Odin couldn’t see the man’s face, not that he needed to see the man’s face to see that the man was fierce and focused as hell. The tactical vest over his center mass was black, like the t-shirt beneath, with the word TRAINER painted in white on the back. The pants were standard issue cargo pants with reinforced ass and knees, the boots were black combat boots, which allowed for ease of moment but also durability. Overall, Scottie looked like he knew what the hell he was doing.

Yeah, he’d have to meet the man and see if he’d be willing to take on more responsibility once the range changed hands.

“Here,” Slim said, thrusting a clipboard at Odin. “The name of every trainer we got on the schedule.”

Tearing his gaze from the man striding toward the bunker where a man waited to check the freshly fired guns. Glancing over the list of names with little interest, he cursed when one name stood out over the rest.

Skathi Odinsdottir. Tactical Firearms Trainer. Manager.

Skathi…Scottie…. It couldn’t be. What were the chances he’d spent all week thinking about her and just barely keeping himself from having the club hacker, AFK, look for her in a less than legal way, and she was right here…waiting for him?

The gods are smiling on me.

Slowly shaking his head to clear the stunned haze from his brain, he turned to Slim, hoping to the gods they’d blessed him this day. “I thought you said the trainer’s name wasScottie.”

Slim shrugged. “Misheard her name the first time we met—not that you can blame me since her name is pretty strange in these parts. Been calling her Scottie ever since. She don’t care, though. Pretty easy going for a woman who can shoot like that.” With a chin lift, Slim indicated the now deserted training course.

Taking the stairs three at a time, Odin descended from the watch tower over the course and through the door into the staging area where trainees suited up and kitted out before hitting the course.

Skathi was in the process of removing her helmet. She unclipped the strap beneath her chin and lifted the helmet from her head. A long, thick rope of black hair slipped from beneath it to swing down her back in a tight braid that hit just the top of her ass.

Gods, she was incredible.

She turned when she heard Trouble and Slim come in the room. A slight smirk curled her lips, and she pulled the goggles from her face, revealing her golden eyes. They were wide, her pupils dilated, pinned to him. Desire, like a dark fire of desperate want, heated her gaze. Her nostrils were flared, her chest rising and falling raggedly, her thighs pressed together in her loose black pants.

Fuck. His Valkyrie got off from shooting guns. Hell yeah. If it were just the two of them, he’d have her naked and pressed up against the lockers behind her, her long legs wrapped around his waist while he pounded into her, his mouth devouring her hard nipples as she screamed his name. He’d come inside her, marking her as his from the inside out. Oh yeah, he’d sate his goddess. It would be his fucking pleasure.

Torn from his erotic thoughts by a throat clearing, he waited for Slim to speak, not even bothering to remove his sight from Skathi. In a blink, the desire in her eyes sputtered, disappearing altogether when she dropped her gaze from his.

He felt the loss of it like a limb.

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