Page 23 of Storm of Fury
It felt seared into her memory.
A small fire, and the woman standing with her hand on the hilt of her sword as she called out, “Who’s there?”
It was like seeing the Goddess of War come to life, and Bryn had staggered out of the darkness, her stomach growling at the smell of the rabbit cooking on the spit. Starving. Ravenous. Barely caring about danger until she had a mouthful of that hot, half-cooked meat. It was only when she’d filled her belly that she realized the woman was watching her like a hawk—or staring at her locket, more to the point.
“Who gave that to you, girl?” the woman had asked, stroking the little merlin’s chin.
“It was my mother’s,” Bryn had told her fiercely.
“That locket belongs to Kára of Valmar. And she has birthed no child.”
Those words should have been warning enough, but she’d been curious then. Desperate to know the mother who’d abandoned her.
And why.
“Bryn?” Tormund’s rumble of a voice dragged her out of the reverie.
She shook off the memory, hardening herself against sympathy. They’d both lost parents young. It didn’t mean anything. She couldn’t allow herself to soften now, when she was so close to regaining all she’d lost.
“I’m sorry for your loss,” Bryn told him. “Your mother raised you well.”
“As well as she could,” he told her with a shrug.
Bryn grabbed the soap and began to wash the grime from her hair. “I’ve heard the others’ names before. Haakon Dragonsbane, a man so cold the arctic wind slips right over his skin without piercing it. And the Blackfrost, the brutal warlord of the north who makes growndrekitremble. But I’ve never heard your name mentioned before.”
“It’s mostly whispered,” Tormund told her, with a twinkling eye, “or cried into a pillow along with ‘oh, please, don’t stop.’”
She splashed him. Would the man never be serious?
“And if you’re trying to get a rise out of me”—he shrugged, water sluicing over his forearms—“then know that many men and women have tried before. And failed. As you will. I will earn my name, Bryn Brightfeather, sooner or later. A legend’s name. And until then. I will serve my cousin without spite or rage.”
“Brightfeather?” A little knot twisted in her heart. “Why would you call me that?”
“Because of your hair,” he replied. “And your Valkyrie sword. Brynhild the Bold, they called her. Bright of hair and feather. The most glorious of Valhalla’s shieldmaidens. As fiery as the boldest bonfire.”
“Don’t.” Her tone could have iced over the entire bath. “Don’t call me that.”
Tormund stilled, his gaze turning watchful. “As you wish.”
Silence fell, and she couldn’t help becoming aware that she’d begun to fall for his teasing tones too. He’d somehow lulled her into a smile before he ruined it.
“You’ve been in here long enough,” she told him coldly.
“And there she is again. My Snow Queen.” Tormund merely sighed, wading on his knees through the water to the edge of the tub. “I’ll take that as my cue to head to the steam room. Now, unless you want to see what the gods gifted me with, I’d avert your eyes.”
Water churned as he gathered his legs beneath him.
Bryn met his gaze as he slowly pushed to his feet, water splashing and tumbling into the bath. “I’m not afraid of a little bared skin.”
He threw his head back, water spraying everywhere. The white flash of his smile caught her off guard. He was enjoying this. Enjoying the sensation of her eyes upon him.
And so she looked her fill.
“The gods were kind,” she finally admitted.
He scraped a hand through his shoulder length hair, the muscles in his biceps rippling. “Aye. Though the real gift is what I can do with it.”
Again, he disarmed her.
