Page 21 of Storm of Fury
“You can open your eyes.” She was well covered.
Tormund gave her a lazy-lidded look as he blinked, as if coming awake from a thousand-year sleep. “You’re not a very trusting person, are you?”
“I’ve known a lot of men in my time.”
“You’ve never known one like me.”
Bryn snorted, but he stole a smile from her. “I’ve met men like you. You think yourself quite the gallant, don’t you? A silver-tongued rascal who can win his way into any bed.” Though she conceded a nod. “One who prefers to use wiles, rather than force.”
“It’s called charm.”
“It’s called pointless.” She submerged her head, almost moaning at the feel of the day’s dirt and grime sluicing from her hair. Scrubbing water from her eyes, she told him, “I will never share a bed with you, big man. You’re wasting your breath.”
“Who said anything about a bed? I don’t intend to let you sleep.”
She smashed a fistful of water at him and he laughed, before holding his hands up in surrender.
“Truce,” he offered. “No more teasing.”
“Now I know you’re lying. You live for teasing.”
He laughed at that, then examined her, though not in the way a man examined a woman. “You fight well. Exceedingly well. I could barely breathe when you were flying through the air toward that foul creature. You were glorious.”
Though the compliment soothed her, this was another conversation she didn’t particularly wish to have with him. “You’re not so bad yourself. All brute strength and bravado, but you’re fierce enough that it would be difficult to break through your defenses, weak as they are.”
“Weak?”
She enjoyed the twitch of his brow as she reached for the soap and started lathering her arms. “You’re aggressive in combat and fight with no care for yourself. You’re large enough and strong enough that when you attack, your enemy is usually on the back foot. Today that didn’t work—the draugar feel no fear, and they were bigger and stronger than you are. You nearly died. Should you face a foe with greater experience and little fear, you would be in trouble.”
His eyes narrowed. “I’ve faced a great many enemies over the head of my axe, and not a one of them is still alive today.”
“Luck. As I said, you have the advantage in terms of strength and reach. If you and I fought, it would be a different matter.” She considered him. “You would charge. I wait until the last second, as you swing your blow down, and then I slip beneath it and”—Bryn made a sharp gesture with her hand, from sternum to hip—“right through there. Instant death, even if it takes you a while to realize it.”
He stared at her for a long second.
And then he laughed.
“Tomorrow we will fight then. And you will teach me how to strengthen my defenses.”
She didn’t know how to feel about the offer. Most of the men she’d encountered didn’t like to be told they owned any weaknesses. Tormund’s words stroked her pride, though she called herself a fool for even thinking warmly of him at all.
But there was a large part of her that did want to fight him.
His strength pitted against her cunning and speed.
A thrill lit through her veins—the thrill of a challenge she couldn’t resist.
“Tomorrow then,” she said, in the kind of voice usually reserved for the bedchamber.
“Mmm.” He shivered. “Why is it that of all the things I’ve said, the offer to fight me is the one that makes your eyes melt.”
“Because it’s the only sincere offer you’ve made.”
Tormund shifted closer. “Trust me, sweetheart. That wasn’t the only sincere offer.”
Bryn set her foot to his hairy chest. “No,” she said, quite loudly and distinctly. “You and I are never meant to be.”
He clasped her foot, but he did nothing more than bite his lip in frustration. “Why?”
