Page 22 of Storm of Fury
The question threw her. “Why not?”
He nodded.
Bryn’s gaze dipped, and she stirred the steaming waters. “I’m a mercenary, Tormund. I go where the coin is good. And I don’t form connections. I’m not a nice person. And you would be wise to reconsider this foolish attempt to seduce me.”
“I’ve never been wise,” he said in a silky voice, his lashes spiked together with water. “And we don’t have to part on bad terms. It could be just a little bit of fun between two people who are attracted to each other.”
“How do you know I am?”
He shot her a roguish smile. “Because I know, woman. I know when your gaze lingers on me. I know when you get that little bit of pink in your cheeks when our eyes meet, before you brusquely look away. And I know because you look away all the time. You won’t let me close. You won’t let yourself linger. And yet, you can’t resist the urge to go sword to sword with me.” He leaned closer. “Tomorrow, I am going to meet you in the yard and we are going to spar, and there’s going to be no holds barred. It’s going to be hard and fierce, and we’re both going to end up sweaty and sore. And there’s a little part of you that doesn’t know who will win. It makes you wet and I know it.”
She licked dry lips.
Stared at the foot she had planted very firmly in the middle of his chest. “Fine. There’s an attraction there. I’ll admit it. I like big men.”
His hand returned to her foot, and he dug his thumb under the arch, rubbing soap across her toes. “Then you’re in luck, my love. I’m big all over.”
The stroke of his hands wooed her. Bryn leaned her head back against the bath and shut her eyes as his fingers caressed the lines of her foot, massaging her toes.
“We would be glorious in bed,” he continued. “But I’ll warn you: You may be able to beat me with a sword in hand, but if I get you in bed, then you’ll be on your hands and knees, Bryn, and you won’t be in control.”
Her eyes jarred open, and she was a little shocked by the surge of heat that went through her at the thought.
Tormund slid her foot up his chest, biting the side of it. Their eyes met, and then he suckled one of her toes into his mouth.
And she could sense her control of the situation slipping, sense herself falling into a deep, dark hole from which she couldn’t return.
She yanked her foot free, offering him a warning arch of the brow. “As tempting as it sounds, I meant what I said. It’s not wise to form any sort of attachment when gold is involved.”
His smile held a thousand sins as he leaned back against the tub, and though she’d denied him twice, this time she knew he was aware she’d hesitated. “Now I know you’re not talking tome. Try to be wise, Bryn. But if you’re ever feeling unwise, my blankets are always warm and my arms are always welcoming.”
She shivered.
Dangerous. Very, very dangerous.
She’d given an inch and he’d taken a mile. And now she’d let him glimpse the attraction she felt, he’d be twice as hard to dissuade.
“So your mother is a fierce woman?” she murmured, mostly to change the topic.
“She was, yes.” He scrubbed a hand through his beard.
“Was?” Bryn faltered. He’d spoken of her as though—
“Was.” The vaguest hint of grief darkened his eyes. “She died when I was nine, of a fever we couldn’t fight, and I will never forget her or besmirch her name.”
Nine.
The same age she’d been when her mortal father tossed her from his keep and told her to beg for her mother’s mercy.
The same age she’d been the first time she nearly died, lost in the snows and starving, but determined to find the mother who’d left her on her father’s doorstep as a baby. All she’d had of her mother’s was the locket of a falcon, though that had been poor comfort in the freezing snows.
She’d found Sýr then.
Or perhaps the merlin had found her, ghosting across silent snows to land on her back, and pecking at her shoulder until she roused from unconsciousness.
She’d forced herself to her feet as Sýr flitted from tree to tree, leading her to… salvation.
Or so she’d thought.
