Edge of Control: (Viking Dystopian Romance) (9 page)

“What’s the real problem, then?” she demanded, because she wasn’t so sure that he hadn’t meant exactly that. “Are you nervous? A little bit afraid that maybe
you
can’t handle it? Worried—as you should be—that the next time you call me
babe
I’m going to cut your fucking throat?”

“Enough,” he bit out, and the look he threw at her then made her wonder if she’d hit a nerve . . . But that was a one-way trip to crazy. There was no point imagining that Riordan could ever be someone he’d proved a thousand times over he wasn’t. Nothing was ever hard for him—certainly not her. She knew that, if nothing else. “I’m not putting up with your shit for months on end. We’re dealing with this now.”

“I hope that’s code for you turning around, walking your ass back down to camp, and letting me get on with my watch.” She glared at him. “If it’s not, it should be.”

But Riordan paid her no mind, as ever. He shrugged out of his weapon harness and dropped it on the ground with a heavy
thunk.
Then he spread his arms wide, and she didn’t need that shit. Riordan, clad in nothing but the moon and a low-slung pair of trousers that made it impossible not to trace the indented, diagonal furrows of hard male flesh stamped low on his torso that pointed straight toward his cock, which she knew all too well was nothing like a wand at all.

“You’re such a badass?” He was taunting her. As if he knew all the desperate, dirty things she liked to pretend didn’t flood through her every time she looked at him. “Put down your weapons and come at me.”

It was scary how much she wanted to do exactly that.

Eiryn cocked her head to one side and regarded him for a moment, trying to get the wild kick of her heartbeat under control. Or barring that, her breath.

“Why would I do that?” she asked mildly, when she was sure he couldn’t hear any hint of the chaos inside of her, hot and needy, in her voice. “You outweigh me by at least a hundred pounds. You want to bare hand it while I use my blade, go ahead. I’ll make sure your funeral pyre burns nice and hot.”

“Talk, talk, talk.” Riordan folded his arms over his chest and shook his head at her. “You’ve been talking at me for years. A little dig here, a snide comment there. Enough. Take a swing, if you’re so tough.”

“I’m sorry.” She let her hand play with the hilt of her blade, knowing he was watching her every move and deliberately drawing that tension out. “Are you suggesting that
I’m
not tough? Me—widely regarded as the fastest blade in the clan? Handpicked to be the king’s bodyguard while you . . . fetch things on command, like one of Gunnar’s pit wolves?” She smiled at him, with so much sharp-edged condescension it should have hurt her face. It didn’t. “Riordan, Riordan. Did the pussy go to your head? Are you confusing me with one of your camp girl conquests?”

If anything she said got to him, he didn’t show it. Not with so much as a flicker.

“It’s time to put your money where your mouth is, babe.” He smirked. “Unless you’re afraid, of course.”

Eiryn’s hands actually curled into fists at her sides. It took everything she had to keep herself from launching straight at him, the smug asshole. But then, he
wanted
to provoke her. She knew that perfectly well. She was fast and she was vicious, but not only was he bigger and stronger by virtue of that cock of his that made him so proud, they’d trained together. He knew exactly where and how she liked to strike if she was lured into a fistfight and would block her. He might throw her off-balance, get in one of his powerful hits. She could hold her own with an enemy because they never expected a woman to be as dangerous as she was, but Riordan already knew not only her weaknesses, but her strengths. There was a high likelihood he’d be able to slip in and exploit them.

More than
a
high likelihood.
That was obviously what he wanted. He’d even called her
babe
again, no doubt to push the issue.

And there wasn’t much in this grim little life she liked more than doing exactly the opposite of whatever the hell it was Riordan wanted.

So she took a breath. She shoved that red, murderous haze inside of her back a few inches.

“What you should be afraid of is what Wulf’s reaction will be when he finds out that our enemies snuck into camp and gutted his men while they slept, all because you were up here distracting me during my watch.” She smirked at him. “Or worse than that, what Tyr will do about it.”

Riordan threw a sharp look over his shoulder, assessing the quiet beach below.

“There’s no one this close to that smoldering heap of shit of a temple but us. The camp is fine.”

Eiryn made a shooing motion with her hand, as if he were an irritating mosquito instead of a deadly raider brother.

“Go away. You’re not my winter husband yet. I don’t have to listen to you and believe me, I don’t want to get started on pretending otherwise until I have to.”

Riordan didn’t move for a long while, as if he was fighting himself. Eiryn stared back at him coolly, hoping she looked impassive. Unmoved. If anything, faintly annoyed.

He couldn’t hear the way her heart kicked at her, low and insistent. She was the only one who thought it echoed off the surrounding cliffs, alerting the entire mainland. He could imagine anything he liked, but he couldn’t
see
anything unless she showed him.

And she was determined not to show him a goddamned thing. Not even if it killed her.

After what felt like a taut hour, he reached down and grabbed his harness, buckling it back on while she stood there and pretended she was dutifully watching all the approaches rather than the ripple of his packed muscles beneath his skin, as dark and as compelling as the night sea.

You’re an idiot,
she told herself, with as much self-disgust as despair.
Such a monumental, pathetic idiot.

But that, too, was hers to keep secret. To hide. Where no one but her would ever find it.

“You need to think long and hard about how you want to play this,” Riordan told her when she’d started to think he would simply melt off into the darkness without saying another word. Or maybe she’d only hoped he would.

“So far I’m playing it without a lot of vague threats and odd theatrics about sex,” she retorted, from between her teeth. It was getting harder to just lounge there on a freezing cold rock as if she was bored half to death, when every part of her body wanted her to fight him, fuck him,
feel
him somehow, and
right now
— She needed to shut this down. Now. “Maybe you’re the one who needs to do a little thinking, Riordan. Consider that a little bit of friendly advice, before you make an even bigger ass out of yourself.”

“Once we head out for the western highlands it’s just you and me,” he pointed out. Unnecessarily, she thought. As if she’d been thinking about anything else since she’d impetuously opened her mouth at the fire. “No clan. No brotherhood. No blood brothers to watch over you, no king to keep either one of us in line. What happens then?”

She pressed her lips together. “What makes you think anything will be any different?”

Riordan laughed. It wasn’t that merry, happy laugh that made everyone around him melt and join in. This laugh was much darker. She’d heard it before, but only while both of them had been naked. And alone. And in a very different space than they were now. It tore through her tonight, punching deep and hard into her gut, then blooming hot and red.

Everywhere.

“I’m sure you’re right,” he said, in that same dark red way, like a long, slow lick deep into her aching pussy. Like a promise. “I’m sure it will be fine.”

Lessons in compliance started the next morning, not long after the sun came up and the day turned, if not precisely hot, much warmer than it usually was on the eastern islands even at the height of summer.

After slugging down her usual hot drink to make sure she was reasonably alert and slightly less openly murderous than she’d been the night before, Eiryn nodded at Riordan where he waited on the other side of the campfire. He rolled to his feet in a graceful, athletic way that was just annoying, but she shoved that aside. Then she fell into step with him on a short trudge down the beach.

“Ready for this?” he asked as they walked across the morning sand, and she was instantly furious.

She hated that fake-friendly voice of his that he used on captives and enemies and misbehaving clan members alike. She really hated that he’d used it on her. And she hated most of all that she could tell the goddamned difference.

“I’m not ready for any irritating small talk, thanks,” she said coolly, without looking at him. She kept her eyes on the thick forest to their left. The encroaching sea to their right. The sand that stretched out before them.

Anything but him.

“Whatever you want,
brother,
” Riordan replied, in that same happy-go-lucky way of his that made her bones ache with the urge to
do something
to him. Shake him up. Make him stop. Mess him up, somehow, so he couldn’t stroll around all devil may care and carefree in public when she knew—
she knew—
how dark and intense he was when no one but her was watching.

Dick.

Helena and Maud, the most recent additions to the clan this summer, both previously compliants, were waiting with their mates in a shady spot beneath a set of trees that hadn’t been touched by the previous night’s fire. Eiryn had to lock down her natural inclinations—which were to shoot her mouth off and issue a few execution-level threats with the force of her glare alone—when she saw Tyr and Gunnar were taking part in this exercise. Apparently. Or at least lounging there for the moment, all possessive and revolting.

Dicks.

And then she had to fight off an entirely different sensation when she realized the fifth figure sitting there with the others was Lyla, the brown-haired, golden-brown skinned, voluptuous camp girl she’d last seen riding Riordan’s cock next to the fire as if the sheer pleasure of him inside of her had about ripped her in half. Yet Eiryn couldn’t help but notice, however sourly, that despite all that screaming she appeared to be in one piece today.

Contrary to what she’d told Riordan last night, Eiryn didn’t actually think the camp girls faked anything. They couldn’t. The brothers would notice that kind of thing fast, the way they noticed when the new girls were too competitive or too clingy, attributes that were perfectly fine in other aspects of raider life but had no place in or around the brotherhood. And it was in no one’s best interest to have unhappy camp girls or irritated brothers, no matter the reason. Lyla had no doubt been enjoying herself last night, exactly as it had appeared she was.

Eiryn’s real issue, which shamed her to admit even to herself, was that she knew perfectly well that Lyla hadn’t been faking a thing with Riordan. Because it might have been a long time ago, but Eiryn still remembered every single touch—sometimes with a vividness that shook her. He really was that good.

She wished she could scrape her mind clean of
how
good. That it could still mess with her all these years later was driving her crazy and setting her teeth on edge.

Not that she cared who Riordan fucked, Eiryn thought darkly as she dropped into a comfortable squat near enough to the little circle of once-compliant women and their unnecessary bodyguards. Near enough to participate in this discussion, as ordered, but not so near that she couldn’t get up and start kicking ass if things got messy.

And things had a habit of getting messy when she was this close to either the war chief or Gunnar, she could admit. She didn’t want to start off in one of those inevitable swamps of acrimony, so she kept her gaze off of the two mated couples. Unfortunately, that meant she had no choice but to stare straight at Lyla. Not that she saw her, exactly. Instead, Eiryn saw the image of her from last night, spread over Riordan’s thighs while he pumped himself into her and made her come and come and come.

Not helpful.

At least Lyla was clothed this morning, she thought as she blinked the campfire scenes away. Insofar as camp girls actually
dressed
. Lyla wore a flowy sort of shirt that seemed to require an undue amount of fiddling as it slid up and down her smooth, golden brown shoulders and danced down to her hips, the usual butt-and-thigh-emphasizing tiny little shorts, and a pair of so-called boots that were all straps and no leather, wound around and around her calves. The most impractical outfit Eiryn could possibly imagine wearing on a raiding party, or really anywhere at all. Still, she was thankful for it. She had the suspicion—however irrational—that if she had to look at the other woman’s jiggling, oversized tits directly all day, she’d go after them with the dagger she wore strapped to her thigh.

You’re being a giant asshole,
she snapped at herself. And Eiryn couldn’t bear to really let herself analyze the reasons why she might be sitting there like a pissy little brat, jealous and dark, tearing another woman down because of empty, raw
thing
deep in her gut that she couldn’t even name as it gnawed at her.

She made herself smile at Lyla, apology and penance in one, and then felt even worse when the other woman smiled back so easily and sunnily that it seemed impossible she’d ever harbored a single malicious thought in her voluptuous body. She probably never had. Eiryn instantly felt like a hulking black angel of death and all dire things in comparison, which did not exactly help her mood after last night’s few rounds with Riordan.

Who, naturally, looked well-rested, well-fucked, and wholly at his ease as he stood there, gleaming in the morning sunlight.

Asshole.

“You both hanging around to pick up some tips on compliant living?” Riordan was asking Tyr and Gunnar, in an easygoing, friendly sort of voice that Eiryn thought still managed to suggest he wasn’t all that thrilled they were doing this. Or maybe she was projecting. “Maybe work it into your next attempt at sexy role play? That much missionary position sounds hot, you have to admit.”

“I asked Helena to winter marry me,” Tyr replied, not quite grinning as he lounged on the ground with his head propped up on his woman’s lap. “She told me to go fuck myself, which is pretty much the same thing, as far as I can tell.”

Helena laughed. And yet Eiryn doubted very much that the pretty, soft, breakable brunette Tyr had picked up in a raid earlier in the summer had ever stood up to the war chief like that at all. She imagined Helena worked a huge douche like Tyr the way the little blond nun Maud worked a known lunatic like Gunnar. The way weaker women always seemed to work their particular magic on the naturally overbearing men who made up the better part of the raider clan.

Eiryn had watched that magic in action at her own mother’s knee. Soft, sweet Alynna had spent the first part of Eiryn’s life contorting herself around Amos’s famously black temper and fondness for drink. Now Alynna did much the same thing with the stoic, unapproachable fisherman she’d hooked up with after Amos had been crippled and had thrown her out. She bent, she suggested, she accepted what she was given. She flattered and manipulated her way into what she wanted. She made everything seem as if it was her mate’s idea, until even he believed it had been. And she was baffled unto her very soul that her only child had turned out so hard and tough and unlike her.

That was the way of most women, Eiryn thought, and fair enough. Raiders were a hardy, tough breed no matter what role they played in the clan. And whether he was a random shopkeeper or warrior brother, everyone knew that a man was far more likely to listen to a soft whisper in private than a loud, public challenge, no matter who was issuing it.

A lesson Eiryn herself had not particularly wanted to learn, which was why she’d made certain she was better with a blade. She could challenge who she liked. No smiling or whispering or machinations involving penises and/or male egos necessary. But her tendency to fling herself blade first into things didn’t really do much for her when diplomacy was required, like today.

Eiryn settled in for a deeply annoying morning.

“First of all,” Helena said matter-of-factly once everyone quieted down and looked at her expectantly, because she was the one who’d started the clan on this course in the first place and did a lot of talking about how it should go down, “your braids are a problem.” She reached down and tugged gently on one of Tyr’s. Then returned her attention to Eiryn and Riordan. Almost apologetically. “They have to go.”

“Like hell.”

“Over my dead body.”

Eiryn and Riordan spoke at once, harsh and fast—then turned to look at each other. But it was daylight now, and looking at him was dangerous. There were no shadows to hide the sculpted beauty of his face, or that heated thing she was sure she could see lurking there in his dark eyes. Eiryn jerked her gaze away from his as if he’d reached out and grabbed her with it, and focused on Helena again.

“We’re attached to our braids,” she said.

“You can’t wear braids that clearly mark you as warriors if you’re not warriors,” Helena replied patiently. In the tone of one who’d expected this response and might even have prepared for it. “And that’s the point, isn’t it? You’re going to go out there into the western kingdoms and pretend that you’re not warriors. Both of you.”

Eiryn had the impression that the other woman’s gaze lingered a little too long on her instead of on Riordan, as if Eiryn was the bigger potential problem. She didn’t like that much, and found herself scowling.

“I earned these braids.” Riordan wasn’t scowling, of course. Riordan was a delight to each and every person he encountered, as long as that person wasn’t Eiryn. He grinned and Helena smiled back at once, because that was exactly how infectious he was. Like the diseases in the old stories that had supposedly wiped out whole cities in their time. That was Riordan. A plague. “Every last one of them. Cutting them off is a mark of dishonor.” He nodded at Tyr. “I’m sure the war chief told you so.”

“Your other option is to wear a hat,” Gunnar said gruffly. He was sitting higher on the slope of this grassy stretch of beach than Maud. She knelt the way she always did, right there between his legs with her typical grace and distracting stillness, while he lounged behind her and toyed with her collar. “All the time. For six straight months. With absolutely no room for error, because if anyone gets a look at those braids you’re exposed.”

“This is bullshit,” Riordan muttered. “I’m used to tracking things and hiding out if I have to, not mutilating myself to get a little information.”

“It’s fine,” Eiryn said after a moment. It was not fine. It made her stomach hurt. The thought of walking around without her braids made her feel sick and wrong, a shameful failure. As if getting rid of them meant she was letting go of this position she’d fought so hard to earn. But she didn’t have to be told the thousand reasons why a compliant woman wouldn’t sport the markings of a warrior. It was obvious, no matter how little she liked the idea.

Riordan laughed at her as if they were buddies, because in public she got the merry version of him that he showed everyone else. It made her want to punch him straight in the mouth. She felt her hand flex of its own accord and somehow kept it to herself.

“How the hell is it fine?” he asked. Ha ha ha, so merry. She thought of him bleeding, and let that soothe her. “You earned yours too.”

Eiryn didn’t even look at him directly. She just made the same hideously dismissive shooing gesturing she’d made last night, pleased when she felt the murder in his gaze. She could see he was still maintaining that smile of his out of the corner of her eye, and that was almost as satisfying as punching him.

She looked at Tyr instead. “Why don’t you make yourself useful and take him somewhere so he can properly grieve the coming loss? Because you do realize he’s probably going to have to cut his braids off entirely. Unless you all want to sit around and unbraid his hair for the rest of the day like a pack of teenage girls.”

“Watch your fucking mouth,” Tyr suggested, a hard look in his dark eyes. “Or you and I can have a conversation about who’s useful right here, right now. I have a few thoughts on the subject.”

“My apologies, war chief,” Eiryn murmured in a voice that could almost have been confused for respectful, though she doubted anyone within earshot would make that mistake. “I didn’t realize you were such an expert on compliance. I’m all ears.”

It was like she wanted a fight with him after all. Eiryn knew that she was baiting him and that it was stupid. Beyond stupid. She knew she was still being an asshole, first Lyla and now this. Picking a fight for the sheer joy of it was a time-honored tradition in the brotherhood, because who didn’t like a brawl? But poking at Tyr was like picking a war. She knew the only reason he hadn’t come after her for her long-term bad attitude sooner was because Wulf had forbidden it—for his own selfish reasons. How sad that she’d imagined he was protecting either one of them. She should have known better. But now she knew the truth, it seemed neither she nor Tyr knew what to do with all that leftover animosity.

Why the hell couldn’t she keep her mouth shut for once? When Tyr was the least of her problems? Still, she couldn’t seem to do anything but glare back at him as disrespectfully as possible, raise her chin in a plainly stubborn and reckless manner, and all but dare Tyr to come at her.

For a long moment, everything was very, very still. The tension between her and Tyr practically sang out, sharp and bright into the summer morning. She felt more than saw Riordan beside her when he shifted his stance as if he was getting ready to do battle himself, and out of the corner of her eye she saw Gunnar tense as if he was, too. She had no doubt that they wouldn’t be jumping in to support her, the assholes.