Page 6 of Storm of Fury
“Oh, I think you’ll be interested.” Bryn draped her dripping cloak over the back of the chair. A tunic of braided leather covered her breasts. “He came through here. This prince you’re looking for.”
“How do we know you’re telling the truth?” Tormund asked, because pretty or not, he wasn’t interested in traipsing all over these mountains looking for something that didn’t exist.
“Because he has a golden crown tattooed on his ass and the smile of a devil.”
Haakon considered Bryn for several long seconds.
And then he opened the pouch of coins and slid a pair of them across the table toward her.
Bryn sank into the chair, her eyes glittering. “He was seeking directions for the völva of Grøa.”
“Völva?”
“She lives in the hills and practices seidr. Some say she dabbles in darker arts too, and it is known that those who seek to find her often don’t return.”
Fucking magic. Dark magic. Tormund pinched the bridge of his nose. He knew what was going to happen next.
“How do we find this völva?” Haakon asked.
And there it was.
Bryn smiled a wolfish smile and swept the handful of coins toward her before making them disappear. “I will show you. I too have questions for her and will act as your guide.”
* * *
“Guide, hmm?”Tormund bent and hauled his pack up onto his back, glaring at the sun as if it had done him a personal grudge by rising.
Bryn continued buckling the enormous leather belt around her waist, ignoring the way his gaze settled on her. The second he’d seen her, he’d made it clear he found her attractive, but it was her first glimpse into those deep, dark eyes that knotted her tongue in her mouth.
The man looked like pure sin poured into leather and fur.
He had a smile like Loki, a set of arms to send Heimdall weeping, and a pair of thighs that would have made Thor green with envy. Thick dark hair was gathered back into a leather thong at the nape of his neck, and a neatly trimmed beard lined his jaw. Every inch of him was either carved by the gods or molded directly from her dreams.
And hetoweredover her.
Her personal weakness.
Freyja, grant me strength.
Bryn forced her tongue to work, but the words came out awkward and snappish. “Did you think me a lonely shepherdess or a farmer, looking for a man to warm my bed of a night?”
“Not with that knife, no.” His gaze slid to the sword strapped to her hip. “Or that sword.”
This was easier to counter. Bryn smiled dangerously and leaned closer. “Scared?”
He closed the distance between them until his nose was almost touching hers. “Not precisely the right emotion. Besides, you haven’t seen the size of my weapon. Yet.”
“Ever.” She broke away, heading into the street. “I don’t mingle when I’m on a job.”
“I wasn’t talking about ‘mingling.’” He winked at her and sent her a slow, heated smile that warmed her from the inside.
Ragnarök’s breath. It wasn’t as though men didn’t attempt to woo her on a regular basis. And if she was being honest, usually she would have been more interested in his friend, Sirius, who had dangerous written all over him.
But there was something about Tormund that caught her eye.
His smile perhaps; the type of smile that stopped her heart in her chest.
Or the calmness that leached off him. He radiated confidence, as if it didn’t matter how many punches the world threw at him, he would simply keep striding inexorably forward.
