Lord of Rage

“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.”

Bernt’s cheeks began to flush. Flattery always worked on men.