Lord of Rage

If they still lived in their homeland and he was any kind of good big brother, Bernt would have already tested his strengths as a warrior at his Bärenjagd by now. Guilt slammed into Osborn. He should have prepared his brother better, led him to the rites that would make him a man before his people. Before all of the Ursa realm.

But there was no Ursa realm anymore.

What good was the Bärenjagd, the berserkergang, if he couldn’t save his people? If it left him hunted like an animal? Nothing better than another man’s mercenary?

Yet a restlessness hovered over his brother. A need not fulfilled. Bernt had become prone to taking off into the woods, with dark moods and fits of anger that didn’t resemble the avenging rage of a berserker.

Unfulfilled destiny.

Osborn would have to do something. And soon. An urgency now laced the air. Doubt after doubt crashed into him. Had he worked with Bernt enough on handling his spear? Keeping his balance in combat? Steadying his nerves?

Osborn scrubbed his hand down his face. More than likely, his thoughts mirrored the worries and reservations of his own father. Thoughts his father must have hidden as he’d stared into the fire while his young son Osborn slept nearby.

Only Osborn wasn’t Bernt’s father. Didn’t possess his wisdom. What could he teach about honor? He’d lost his years ago.

His brothers zipped past him, racing for the door. Bernt was in a good mood today. A rarity. Chopping wood for hours under the blazing sun had bled the aggression from him. For the day. The two crashed through the front door, knocking off each other’s hats, and generally being loud. But then when were they not loud? At least he’d given them a childhood of carefree days. At least he’d given them that much.

The pot of oatmeal he’d thought he’d left on the stove now lay on the kitchen table. The ladle lay discarded on the scarred wooden countertop, slops of grain sliding down the sides and waiting to be cleaned.

“Who did that?” he bellowed.

The lemonade pitcher was filthy. Dried glops of oatmeal stuck to the handle and it appeared someone had taken a drink directly from the spout.

“No one’s going to want to drink from this now. How hard is it to get a cup?”

And when had he become an old woman?

“I didn’t do it,” Torben said.

“Me neither,” Bernt replied. Already his shoulders were stiffening, his brighter mood growing stormy.

“I don’t care who did it.” How many times had he said that since taking over the care and responsibility of his younger brothers? “Both of you can help clean it up.” And that?

Osborn moved, and the sound of splintering wood broke the tense silence. “Look at the chair.” He pointed to the remnants of Bernt’s attempt at furniture.

“There’s another one that’s busted,” Bernt grumbled.

“You’ll get the hang of woodworking,” Osborn told him, forcing as much reassurance into his voice as he could muster.

Bernt’s look grew defiant. “I’m supposed to be a warrior.”

Yes, and there lay the problem.

“Well, now you’re a would-be warrior who works with wood,” he said simply, as if it fixed and explained everything. But how long could the three of them pretend?

Torben crouched and reached for one of the busted chair legs. He tossed it from hand to hand as Osborn had once done with a spear. Osborn had been ignoring the fact that his other brother also exhibited every sign of being a warrior.

“This chair didn’t fall apart by itself. It broke with force.” His brother met his gaze. “Someone’s been here.”

“Told you I didn’t make the mess,” Bernt said, his voice still a mix of defiance and triumph. “Someone’s been eating our food.”

“And someone’s been sitting in our chair,” echoed his brother.

But Osborn barely heard. All his senses were focusing. Narrowing. The cold began to creep down his limbs, hardening his muscles. For the first time he noticed the tiny bits of grass leading to their bedchamber.

His fingers slid down his boot for the blade. His brother was already handing him the pack sheltering his berserker pelt. The pack was always within reaching distance of one of them.

He crept silently across the wooden floor. Telling his brothers to stay back would be useless. Someone had invaded their home. Any warning Osborn issued to them could not compete with Ursan warrior instincts.

A soft sound, like a moan, drifted from the bedchamber. The chill began to subside. His berserkergang sensed whatever made that noise was no threat, and began to stand down. But that moan … it shafted through his body, alerting all his senses in a different manner. As a man.

The three of them peered inside the room.

“Someone’s sleeping in your bed. And she’s still there.”

Osborn stalked into the room. The woman lay on her stomach on his bed, her long blond hair fanning across his pillow. Something primal kicked him in the gut.

“Is she dead?” Torben whispered.

His gaze lowered to the even rise and fall of her back. He shook his head, relief chasing the last of his berserker’s nature away. “She’s asleep.”

Why were they whispering? This woman had invaded their home, messed his kitchen and destroyed his property. But he couldn’t work up any sense of outrage.

The woman looked as if she’d fallen onto his bed, and gone to sleep. Like a dream come true for most men.

She sighed, a soft delicate sound, and hiked up her leg. No covers hid her from his view. Her legs were bare, and his gaze followed all the way up.

Holy hell. What was left of her skirt has been ripped away, and he could see the rounded curve of her ass. Desire, hot and heavy, hit him. Hardened him. Sweat broke out along his brow.

He forced his eyes downward once more, this time noticing the deep cuts and abrasions all up and down her legs, marring her delicate skin.

How did—? Who would—?

Something deeply buried rose within him. A force as strong as his bear spirit. Not warring, but mingling. Joining and growing more powerful. His.

“Leave,” he ordered his brothers.

Neither needed a second command from Osborn. They recognized the chill in his voice. The forces charging through him. They fairly tripped over each other fleeing the room.

A line crossed her brow as the clumsy shuffling footsteps of his brothers escaping the bedroom penetrated her sleep. She rolled over and his gaze traveled down once more. He’d never seen a face so delicate, her bones fine and skin that looked almost too soft to touch. Her chin was another thing—not softly rounded like the rest of her, but stubborn. The flaw only made her more appealing. Pink tipped her cheeks and nose, like someone who’d been in the sun too long. The material of her bodice was dirty and torn, many parts missing, but Osborn could tell it had once been fine. Expensive.

Who was she?

The woman took a deep breath, her breasts rising and drawing his attention. Osborn could not look away. Flashes of her bare skin peeked through the rips of her clothing. His eyes narrowed and he could see the rosier skin of her nipples.

His.

The primal conviction drove a harsh thrust of heat and desire through him. Osborn stepped toward her. Peered down at her sleeping figure in his bed. He could see every line of her face. The dark fan of her eyelashes. The soft curve of her bottom lip. He forced his hands down to his sides. Fisted his hands so he wouldn’t be tempted to touch her. Trace his fingers along the skin of her arm. Her cheek. Find out for himself if she was as soft as she looked.

What the hell was he thinking? She wasn’t his. One person didn’t possess another. He willed his body to back down.

Just then her eyes opened, green and sleepy. His gaze darted to her lips, which were turning into a smile. A smile for him.

“Warrior,” she said, and hugged his pillow to her chest, still more asleep than awake.

Everything in him controlled and restrained disappeared. Osborn needed to feel her in his arms, kiss that mouth. He reached for her shoulders, dragging her unresisting body toward him. Her eyes widened as he dipped his head.

He tasted the sweet tartness of the lemonade on her lips. But nothing in this world he’d ever sampled was as good as her. Osborn wound his fingers in the messy strands of her blond hair, drawing her still closer. Smashing the softness of her breasts against his chest.

His heartbeat pounded, and he took advantage of her unresisting lips and plunged his tongue in her mouth, savoring her, twining his tongue with hers. No, nothing he’d ever had tasted this good. Felt this good. Made him feel this good. Except …

Except one thing. The woman who invaded his dreams. Tormented his nights. Left him alone feeling tortured, battling a fierce wanting and hungry for more.

He pulled his mouth from hers. Thrust her away.

The sound of their harsh breathing filled the small bedroom. The woman blinked up at him, confusion pulling her brows together. A flush rose along the delicate chords of her neck and across her collarbone. She’d been as affected by that kiss as much as he had. Satisfaction curled in his gut.

She ran her fingers along her lower lip, and he longed to trace that path with his tongue. Suck those fingers into his mouth. All the torment and hunger and wanting torturing his body when he awoke from his dreams with her was magnified tenfold, a hundredfold, for having the real thing in his arms. This wasn’t a dream … was it?

“You’re real?” he asked, his voice raw and harsh.

Her nod was slow in coming.

Then he knew. The woman in front of him wasn’t some dream girl his imagination had conjured to taunt him in the night. The haze that seemed to surround her in his dreams was gone. She lay before him in sharp focus. Osborn remembered the utter helplessness he’d felt, raged against, when he tried to draw her back to him that last time. How he’d failed.

Somehow she’d put herself there. She was responsible for all the anguished desire he’d felt. All his want. Need. His yearning for something he could never have.

Thought he could never have.

His.

Yes, she was his.

His berserkergang was wrong to back down, assessing the woman in his bed posed no risk. Everything about her was a threat to him. And still the chill signaling the approach of his berserkergang did not hit him.

Something must have been in his eyes, or the set of his lips must have alerted some self-preservation instinct inside her. He reached for her again. And that’s when she screamed.

Chapter 3

Breena had never been so terrified in her life. She’s always thought that if she actually met up with her warrior in the flesh she’d be frightened … and she was right. The man who’d woken her up—his face tight with desire, outrage and stunned disbelief—was huge. Broad shouldered with the kind of muscular arms that easily proved he wielded a sword. Fearsome. A fighter.

Although he wasn’t fighting, whatever was inside him drove him right at her. He quickly approached her, leaning toward her with determination and intent burning in his eyes.

What he intended to do, she didn’t fully know, as her dreams never really went much further than the kissing, but whatever it was … it had to be dangerous.

There was a reason princesses were locked up in towers and hidden away in far-off places, guarded by magical creatures. It was to keep those princesses safe from the kind of danger this man radiated. Because despite her fright, some small part of her wanted to know what all that danger was about. She screamed louder.

His hand covered her mouth to stifle her.

That was the second time someone had muzzled her, and it would be the last. Maybe it was the food, or that she’d finally snatched a bit of rest or just plain fear, but Breena, princess of Elden, had had enough.

With every last bit of strength she possessed, she pushed at his shoulders, her scream changing to a grunt, then finally silent.

He didn’t budge, but his hand fell away. The sound of her labored breathing filled the tiny space of the bedroom. His dark eyes searched her face, lingered at her breasts and followed down her legs. Then his gaze slammed into hers and he reached for her again.

“That’s far enough,” she said, scrambling to the floor, putting the bed between their bodies.

He lifted a brow at the protection she’d chosen. A bed—not the safest of barriers.

“Who are you?” she asked.

“I’ll ask the questions,” he told her, his voice gruff and rumbly.

Breena pursed her lips and nodded. The warrior did have a point, she had invaded his home.

“I’ve dreamed about you,” he said, angry wonder lacing his words.

She’d been expecting questions, demands; instead, his statement sealed the connections she had with this man. Her dream lover. Her warrior.

She wet her bottom lip with her tongue. “You’ve been in my dreams, too,” she admitted. Because I put you there. She’d just leave that little detail out of her explanations. Every instinct told her to be cautious, to not offer him too much information about herself.

“But there’s never been fear in your eyes.”

No, she could imagine what her gaze had conveyed in his dreams. A woman who wanted. Wanted him.

Faster than she thought such a large man could move, he was around the bed that separated them, and at her side. Crowding her. Breena took a step backward. And another. The wood-beamed wall of the cabin cut into her shoulder blades.

He’d backed her into the wall, and there was no escape.

“I’ve wondered a thousand times what your skin would feel like.” The back of his hand smoothed down her cheek. His nearness was devastating to her senses. The scent of him, like the woods and fresh air, made her long to breathe him in deep. Heat radiated from his body, chasing away the chill to her skin from wearing tattered clothing.

Blood pounded through her body, rushed in her ears. Her eyelids fluttered at the first touch of his skin against hers. She’d been so alone for the past few days, so afraid, and his touch made her feel safe for the first time.

He’d wondered what she’d feel like outside of a dream. “So have I,” she told him, and her fingers lifted to his face. Touched the line of his jaw.

His large hand captured her exploring fingers, drawing them to his lips. “Tell me your name.” It was a gentle command. “I’ve wondered.”

“Breena.”

“Beautiful name,” he said, his gaze lowering to her lips for a moment, then back to meet her eyes. “You look exactly as you appeared in my dreams.” He dropped her hand to pull a twig from her hair, rub away some of the dirt from her cheek. “Who’s done this to you?”

The caution she’d felt earlier returned. “The details are fuzzy.”

Okay, not truly a falsehood. The fine points of how she’d arrived in this strange kingdom, how long she’d wandered around in the wilderness or even eaten, were fuzzy. She tried to concentrate, to come up with some piece of information that would allay his curiosity … but the only picture she could conjure in her mind was the sinister, bony frame. The frightening creature with the eight legs that made a shudder slide down her back. The blood of her parents spilled on the floor of the great hall where they’d once danced and once ruled over a kingdom. That was clear.

She swallowed down a quiet sob, her body quaking, remembering her terror that night.

“In my dreams there was no fear in your eyes. Don’t be afraid of me.” He reached for her hand again, drew her fingertips to his mouth. The warmth of his tongue sparked a carnal response from deep inside her. Breena found it hard to breathe, hard to concentrate on anything but this man. His warmth. His dark eyes, and what he was doing to her body with his lips.

Breena suspected he meant his actions to be soothing, or to draw her attention away from her fear. Instead, she was more afraid of him than ever.

The warrior drew her hand from his mouth and placed it on his shoulder. She sunk her fingers into the dark strands at the nape of his neck. She gasped when his lips grazed along her collarbone, his tongue teasing the sensitive place beneath her ear.

“Tell me why you’re here,” he urged.

To survive. To kill.

She shrugged her shoulders, wanting the voices out of her head. Breena leaned her back against the wall, giving him better access to her body. Her skin. Her. “I don’t know. I thought it was an accident that I found your cottage, but now … now I wonder if maybe I was drawn here.”

He seemed to like her response because he tugged the lobe of her ear into his mouth.

Her throat tightened with relief. The man whose dreams she’d visited was perfect. She’d always dismissed her magic as being weak and inadequate, but her powers must have led her to the door that was the gateway into this man’s dreams. A warrior who could help her return to Elden, defeat the invaders … just like those heroic princes from her stories.

“Now you can help me,” she said, her body beginning to shiver as he traced the curve of her ear with his tongue. Even the feel of his breath, warm and heavy against her skin as he exhaled, did strange things to her body.

“Don’t worry, I’ll help you all you want.” His voice was a promise.

“You can amass an army?” she asked, daring to run her hands along the broadness of his shoulders, delighting in the dozens of muscles roping his arms.

His lips stopped their exploration of her neck. “An army?” He leaned away from her, his eyes heavy-lidded and filled with desire and confusion. “Just what kind of help are you needing?”

“I only—”

But her warrior was already cutting her words off with a slicing arc of his hand. “My sword is not for sale.” His gaze crept down to her breasts. “For any price.”

“My family is in danger.”

“It’s not my concern,” he told her, his voice indifferent, his stance nonchalant.

“But … You’re supposed to …” she sputtered. He was her warrior. He was supposed to help her. Wasn’t this some kind of requirement of the fairytale code?

His gaze dropped to her nipples poking at her shredded bodice. “I’ll have Bernt try to find you some better clothes. But you are leaving.”

For the first time since waking up in her bedchamber with Rolfe ushering her to safety, Breena felt completely worn out. Defeated.

Survive.

The command echoed through her head. That’s what she was trying to do.

“I need your help.”

He cupped Breena between her legs, and her breath lodged in her throat with a hiss. “If the help you need is here, I’m happy to please.” His fingers caressed her sensitized skin, her tattered clothing hardly an obstacle. “And I would please you, Breena.”

Her nipples hardened at the carnal guarantee in his words. Her skin heated, and she felt wetness between her thighs.

Then he dropped his hand. His expression grew hard. “That’s all the help I’ll be offering.”

She watched as the man of her dreams left her to walk away, slamming the door behind her.

For months Osborn had woken up in an agony of frustration and wanting. Hunger and need for one woman. After holding the real thing in his arms, caressing her soft skin, tasting her sweet lips, he knew nothing could ever satisfy him.

Nothing but turning around, tossing Breena on her back and burying himself in her sweet flesh.

He couldn’t remember when the dreams had first begun, and now he saw those dreams, those fantasies, for what they really were—nightmares.

His brothers were grouped by the kitchen table. The wood from the broken chair already swept away, the table clean of the leftover dried oatmeal. All traces of Breena’s visit gone … except he felt her in his home now. Felt her presence in him.

His skin began to chill. His berserkergang grew wilder inside him. The walls of the cabin he’d built alongside his brothers, his sanctuary, now boxed him in and imprisoned him. “I have to get out of here,” he told Bernt and Torben, grabbing his pelt bag and ignoring the curious glances of his brothers.

“What about her?” Bernt dared to ask.

Osborn turned on his brother, a roar of anger on his lips. “Get rid of her before I get back.”

“But she’s …” His younger brother Torben swallowed.

“What?” he bellowed his question.

“She’s a girl.”

And his cock knew it.

Bernt cleared his throat. “We thought maybe she could stay. Make our meals.”

“And clean, and do the laundry. Girls like to do that stuff.”

Obviously he’d kept his brothers away from civilization for too long. He could just add it to the list of his faults and deficits where his brothers’ raising was concerned. “We’re not a houseful of dwarves, and she’s sure as hell not staying.”

“But—”

Osborn shot his brother a look, and Bernt was smart enough to know when to shut his damn mouth.

“Get her some clothes and get her out of here.” Osborn slammed the door behind him, making every beam of wood and pane of glass rattle.

“What do we do?” Torben asked.

Bernt shrugged. “Get her a pair of pants, one you’ve outgrown. I’ll see if I can find an old shirt and shoes small enough to fit her feet.”

“I don’t see why she can’t stay,” Torben said, happily defiant when his oldest brother wasn’t around.

Bernt only shook his head. Nothing about today made much sense.

The door to the bedchamber opened, and the woman poked her head around the corner.

Breena had heard the voices from the other room. But then how could she not? She was pretty sure her warrior had left, and she was also plenty sure the hinges of the front door had taken a beating with his retreat.

Why was he so angry? It just didn’t add up. Her magic had drawn her to him; it must have. Why would she be able to put herself into the dreams of a man so powerful, so fierce, one who could surely help her, help her family, if she weren’t supposed to use that gift?

Two boys stared at her from the other side of the door. They had to be his brothers. They all shared the same dark hair and dark eyes. Tall and lean, like gangly youths, but soon they’d fill out and be as muscular as their older brother. The youngest might even grow to be taller than her warr—

Okay, she was tired of calling him warrior. “What’s his name?” she asked.

The youngest looked over at his brother, as if spilling that beast’s name could be construed as some kind of betrayal.

“Osborn,” the older one said. “And I’m Bernt and this is Torben. We’re going to find you something to wear before you leave.”

Osborn. She allowed his name to roll around in her mind. In all the nights she’d visited this man as he’d slept, she’d never really thought of him as something other than her lover. The warrior in her dreams. Never imagined him in real life, as a man with a family, and responsibilities and a name.

There was another personality trait many of the princesses shared in the stories she’d read, selfishness, and she’d only ever thought of Osborn as someone to help her.

But was hoping to protect her family selfish? Her kingdom and all her people were dying. In truth, they might even now be dead or enslaved.

Breena squared her shoulders. Osborn might want her far away from him, but she had no plans to go. Her magic had brought them together, and her warrior might be reluctant but he was going to help. She eyed the front door. Apparently he wanted his brothers to get rid of her before he returned.

Not going to happen.

Kings and princes might rule through sheer force of will and strength, but as her mother always told her, a queen knew how to get what she desired with nothing but a smile and her brain. And she’d taught those skills to her daughter.

Breena flashed that smile at the boys right now. “Thank you for your hospitality. I’m so sorry I broke your chair, and it was such a fine work of craftsmanship, too.”