Page 20 of Storm of Fury
“Want me to drown you?” Bryn dumped her leather travel bag on the chair beside the tub. “You’ve been in there a good half hour.”
A shrug. “Water’s piped in from a hot spring. I keep meaning to get out and head to the steam room, but then I feel a brisk chill from the breeze slipping under the door and my balls threaten to tuck tail and run. You can always join me.”
“Would you make your cousin join you?”
“Of course. Only… I wouldn’t want to embarrass the poor lad.”
Bryn stared at him.
Tormund stared back.
“You’re talking about the size of your cock, aren’t you? Men always have to brag about their size, though I find they frequently overestimate themselves.”
“Oh, Bryn.” He laughed. “You’re a hard woman. But there’s room enough for two, and I won’t take it askance if you want to test my claims.”
How typical. “I’m sure you won’t.”
He closed his eyes, dropping his head back against the edge of the wooden tub. “Climb in. I won’t look. And I won’t touch.” His lips curved in a dangerous smile. “Unless you ask it of me.”
Bryn eyed him suspiciously, but he made no move to peek. “Chivalry? I thought such a notion long dead.”
Tormund swished his fingers back and forth, as if enjoying the water. “My mother would cut my eyeballs out with a spoon if she thought me the kind of man to force a woman into an uncomfortable situation. And I’m not the sort of man to push my attentions where they’re not welcome.”
Music swirled through the timber walls of the bathhouse as Bryn considered the proposition. Inside the tavern, half the village had gathered. But out here, steam curled off the water, beckoning her with wispy tendrils. Every inch of her ached—a curse of this half-mortal body she wore. She’d never so much as strained a muscle before she was cast from Valhalla and her Valkyrie side was suppressed.
And she stank.
“If you lay a single finger on me,” she warned, “I’ll do worse than your mother could ever dream of. And I won’t be so kind as to go for your eyes.”
“Understood.”
She eased the laces of her boots loose and slipped out of them. Trousers, socks, and braided leather body armor went next, and then the tight linen she bound her breasts with.
Tormund never so much as moved.
Stepping over the edge, Bryn sank into the tub. The hot water enveloped her aching body. Frigg’s mercy, but it felt nice. And the tub was big enough for four, so she had no fear her foot would brush against his.
Sinking up to her shoulders, she glared at him. The man had her at odds and ends. He brushed off her jibes with a shrug and laughed when she called him an idiot. He’d made it clear he was interested in her physically, and he didn’t even seem to care if her braid was bedraggled with blood or she wore half a day’s sweat.
“You’re staring,” he murmured.
“You said you wouldn’t peek.”
“I haven’t. I can feel you looking at me.” He swam his arms back and forth, sending ripples across the water. The lump in his throat bobbed. “Like what you see?”
An exasperated laugh escaped her. “Do you never admit defeat?”
“Defeat? Never heard of the word.”
“Nor humility either, I’m sure.”
A dangerous smile. “What is to be humble about? The gods granted me the body of a warrior and the hands of an artist. I’ve never had a woman complain.”
She couldn’t help examining the truth of his claims.
Water gleamed off his broad shoulders. He had the kind of physique that drew the eyes. With her height and breadth, she’d never so much as glanced at a man who wasn’t strong enough to handle her, but Tormund dwarfed her in all aspects.
And though she’d never been partial to beards, his was well-groomed, and his smile so blinding that a part of her wondered what that beard would feel like against her skin….
