Page 28 of Storm of Fury
“Pure, common sense,” she growled, hammering at him.
Axe, shield, axe…. He met each blow, driving her back.
“No one ever thought I owned much sense, Bryn. I love hard, I laugh frequently, and I never think of the risks. Life is meant to be lived. A heart is meant to be given.” When her sword hit the shield, he slammed her back, ramming her into the tavern wall, where she was pinned behind the shield. Her heated breath licked over his lips, and Tormund leaned close enough to kiss her. “Even if you break my heart, it will be worth it for the sheer glory of every moment we share.”
Bryn froze, strands of red-gold hair falling into her eyes.
“You’re a fool,” she whispered.
He gave into temptation and kissed her. Hard.
A soft gasp escaped her and he tasted her breath on his tongue. Those lips were just as soft as they looked, and twice as tempting. And there was a moment where she wilted into him, kissing him back.
But he felt her begin to shift, and twisted his hips to the side as her knee drove up into his thigh.
Backing away with a laugh, he gave her a wink. “Not nice, Bryn. Not nice. But I think I’m working out how to disarm you.”
She wiped her mouth, and glory to the gods, she looked furiously roused. “You son of a bitch. You reckless”—she slammed the sword at his shield, not even bothering to strike at him—“foolish”—another ringing blow—“bastard.”
“Was it the kiss?” he dared ask, the second her sword gave him the chance to breathe. “Or the fact I pinned you?”
A small scream of fury echoed in her throat, and then she darted at the wall beside him, driving one foot off it as she launched herself high in the air. He was forced to one knee, slamming the shield up between them. The jarring screech of steel squealed in his ears, but he surged upright, using the shield to fling her off.
“Both,” she snapped.
“Your eyes were saying ‘kiss me.’”
“Maybe they were,” she shot back, circling him like a rabid wolf. “But you haven’t won a kiss yet.”
“Oh”—he leaned back as the sword whined past his nose—“is there a kiss on the table now?”
“Not anymore. Second rule: When on the back foot, attack hard.”
She launched forward, swinging a nasty combination of strikes at him. He deflected each one. Barely. But she moved as if she’d been born to battle, and she was both cunning and ruthless.
And his shield arm was starting to tire.
“There it is,” she said breathlessly, as he didn’t quite lift the shield high enough.
“You’re starting to flag. Fight back. You need to finish this quickly if you’re to stand a chance at beating me.”
“I don’t want to—”
“If you say ‘hurt you’ then I’m going to stop being so kind.”
Fine. His temper roused.
The second she lanced in for a snaking strike, he spun and snapped his elbow up in instinct. There was a loud crunch and then she was staggering back, landing on her arse in the snow with blood droplets spattering her upper lip.
“Shit.” He lowered his axe. “I didn’t mean to—”
Those glorious green eyes narrowed. Then her hips were swiveling, and her foot flying. A boot locked behind his, and down he went, slamming into a snowdrift.
Two seconds later she was upon him. The sword was gone. So too was his axe. His left arm lay pinned by the shield. Tormund barely had time to breathe.
The edge of a knife kissed the skin of his throat and Tormund froze, looking up into the coldest expression he’d ever seen as he slowly arched his head back in surrender.
“Fine,” he told her in an amiable voice. “I’m dead. You’ve proved your point. Now”—he winced and shifted a little—“unless you want my trousers to split further, you may have to stop sitting on me.”
