Viking's Claim (Kilts & Kisses #4)(5)

“Is it money you want?” I say it louder, annunciating my words.

“Mon-ney!” I yell, rubbing two imaginary coins together with my fingers. Tor looks at me blankly and I shiver.

“Coin? Money? Gold?” I yell. I mime holding a bag of coins in my palm, hefting it. A slight smile crosses Tor’s face, but his blank look remains.

I huff, hugging myself.

“Well if you don’t even speak English, you big oaf, why in the seven hells are we even here—”

“I speak English just fine,” Tor suddenly says, in, well, perfect English, though tinged with a Norse accent.

My breath catches, my eyes going wide before I scowl at him.

“Well why would you not mention that?”

He smirks. “I was too amused watching you.”

I glare at him as he chuckles.

“What was that second motion you made? With your hand? Was that supposed to be the universal sign for cupping my balls?”

I blush violently, my jaw dropping at his crude crassness.

“Why you disgusting—” I purse my lips shaking my head. “And you didn’t bother to let on that you spoke English bef—”

I clamp my lips shut before I can finish the word.

“Before?” Tor rumbles, saying it for me anyways.

I blush, looking away, and I hear him chuckle.

“Perhaps I was too busy kissing you.”

I gasp as his hand shoots out, grabbing my ankle and yanking me towards where he stands at the foot of the bed. He growls, leaning down over me, locking those fierce eyes onto me.

“Something I’ve very much been wanting to continue,” he growls lowly.

I shiver, swallowing thickly.

“You wouldn’t dare.”

Tor grins, his eyes sparking. “Little bird, I’m not sure you’re ready to know all the things I would very much dare to do.”

My lip catches between my teeth, and I shiver at the heat in his gaze.

“Don’t you dare touch—”

“I could damn well tear this pretty little wedding dress right off of you right now and have my damn way with you any way I please,” he growls, and I whimper at the thundering baritone of his voice that rumbles through my very core. I whimper, and I know he hears it.

…And it might be more than me just being scared. It might—might—have something to do with the powerful, huge, somewhat terrifying but completely beautiful savage of a man looming over me, eyeing me like he wants to devour me.

…Like he did both of those times before. And both of those times before, I ended up kissing him until I felt like my heart might just beat right out of my chest.

Slowly, Tor grins, a chuckle rumbling through him.

“Now why do I get the feeling you might just like it if I did, little one.”

I swallow, pursing my lips as I glare at him.

“You’re disgusting.”

“And if that helps with you trying to keep your hands off of me, you go right ahead and keep telling yourself that.”

My jaw drops.

“You—!”

“Brute? Savage? Beast?” He chuckles again. “I’ve heard it all, princess.”

I bite my lip, eying him.

“What do you want with me?”

Tor grins again, his fierce eyes blazing as he leans closer over me, making my pulse jump.

“Is it not obvious?”

“If it was, do you think I would be asking—”

“You,” he growls out fiercely as he leans so close to me, his face inches from mine.

“I want you, little bird.”

He leans in, and when I feel his lips brush just shy of touching mine, I can’t even stop the little whimper that tumbles out of my mouth.

And Tor grins.

“Bad girl,” he growls, before suddenly he whirls, pulling away from me and leaving me panting with my head-spinning on the bed. He turns and strides for the door, pausing just before he opens it to glance back at me.

“I found you again, my little bird,” he growls in that deep, gravely baritone that rumbles through my very core.

“And this time, little one,” he purrs, his eyes blazing through me. “This time, you’re mine.”





Chapter 4





Rhona




I don’t know how long we sail for, but at some point, I’m aware that the boats have stopped moving. There’s the sound above deck of men yelling, and of ropes being tied off and sails being stored.

The door swings wide, and this time, it isn’t Tor. Two other savage, wild looking men in furs with beards and swords advance on me, ignoring my screams and curses as they grab my arms and haul me from the cabin. Up to the deck we go, over the side again, and down into another rowboat. It’s dark out now, and when we start to row for the shore, my eyes are drawn to the tall, roaring bonfires illuminating the rocky coast and flickering over the water.

On land, the two men haul me up the shore towards the fires. The rocks give way to grass, and then suddenly I realize we’re entering a camp. Wood and hide-skin tents and lean-tos dot the small clearing, bonfires roaring all over the place like some sort of scene from a pagan ritual. The Viking marauders themselves are hard at celebration—drinking from flagons, tearing meat from spits over fires, mock-fighting each other, and roaring with mirth and laughter. It’s utter savagery around me, and I shiver as eye after eye lands on me and holds, drinking me in.