Viking's Claim (Kilts & Kisses #4)(6)

The two men keep dragging me deeper and deeper into the camp, moving towards the biggest fire of them all. And there, slouched in a huge wooden throne of sorts, his eyes blazing right through the fire to me, is Tor.

He looks every inch the savage lord—his big broadsword leaning against his knee, his eyes wild and untamed, and a huge flagon of something in his big hand. He roars at some joke someone says, but his eyes are locked on me as they bring me forward.

“Here,” he growls, beckoning. The men pull me towards him, and at his command, they let me go right in front of him.

“Sit, little one,” he growls, nodding at his knee. I glare at him, pursing my lips. Tor just grins.

“Or sit on the ground, though I doubt it’s comfortable.”

“The ground is just fine,” I snap, gathering my skirts and sitting at his feet.

“Ale?”

I glance up to see Tor offering me a giant flagon of something, but I shake my head.

“Not a chance.”

He chuckles again, shaking his head. “You should enjoy yourself.”

“And why is that?”

“Because this party is for you, princess,” he growls.

My brows shoot up.

“For me?”

“Well, for us.” He grins. “It’s in celebration of our marriage.”

My jaw drops as I stare daggers at him. “We are not married!”

“No, but we’re going to be,” Tor says easily, leaning back in his big chair and downing the mug he’s just offered me. In front of us, savage and terrifying men with beards and scars and leather-bound clothes get up and dance and shriek at the fire. There are women there too—wild, half-naked, beautiful women who howl at the fire and drink ale with the men.

I’m so engrossed in them that I don’t notice the men approaching until they’re standing right in front of me.

“Well now,” one growls, eyeing me in a sickeningly hungry way.

“Now what’s this pretty little thing?”

I glance back and realize Tor’s chair is empty, and I shiver. I turn back to the three men standing in front of me, my mouth pursed shut.

“A prize I’ve not yet been told of, eh?” The one man—the leader of the three, perhaps—leers, his eyes gliding over me in a way that makes my skin crawl.

“I—I’m not—”

“Why don’t take that fancy dress off and give us a show, eh?”

I freeze, coldness tingling over me as I hug myself tighter.

“Please, I’m just—”

“She’s mine!”

Tor’s roaring voice comes out of nowhere, and both me and the three men whirl at the sudden and savage sound of him. Two of the men glance at each other and slink away. But the ringleader just glares right back at Tor.

“Prizes are to be shared, my jarl,” he spits.

“Not this one,” Tor rumbles right back, his muscles clenching, his hand resting on the pommel of his sword. “Look away, Haggar,” he hisses.

The man, Haggar, scowls. “You know the rules of the clan, jarl. She is to be—”

“You have three seconds to walk away and never look at her again,” Tor snarls. Haggar glares right back.

“One. Two.”

Haggar’s hand darts out for my wrist “Come give me a taste, little—”

He screams in agony as Tor’s hand jerks out, grabbing him by the forearm and wrenching before his hand can close around my wrist. There’s a sickening crunching sound, and Haggar screams in pain as he goes stumbling back, clutching his wrist. His hand hangs at an awful, unnatural angle, and he screams again as Tor stands. The big Viking lashes out with a booted foot, kicking Haggar in the chest and sending him sprawling across the dirt by the fire.

The partying goes quiet for a moment, everyone turning to eye the huge Viking commander and the broken, sniveling man on the ground.

“You—I think you broke my arm!” he screams at Tor. He starts to scramble for his feet, reaching for his sword, when suddenly, six other men are holding swords to his neck.

“Easy, Haggar,” a huge, gruff, wild but handsome bearded man growls. His eyes dart to Tor, and he winks before turning back and hissing as he presses the tip of his blade against Haggar’s throat.

“He did warn you.”

Haggard huffs, sniveling, but slowly, he nods his head. He looks up, his face simpering as he glances at Tor.

“My apologues, my Jarl. I—I’ve been—”

“You’ve been drinking,” Tor growls. He glares right at him before he sighs, waving the man off. He nods at the blond-haired man, who nods back before disappearing back into the crowd.

“Come,” Tor growls, standing and reaching out to me. I hesitate, but when our eyes lock and I see the fierceness there, I shiver as I nod. His huge hand envelopes my small fingers, and he easily lifts me to my feet before turning for a huge tent behind him, pulling me along.

He pushes the heavy furs aside, pulling me after him into a large tent illuminated by glowing lanterns hanging from the ceiling. He lets go of me, striding to a table and pouring himself a cup of ale, his back to me.

“Thank you,” I say quietly.

Tor knocks back his glass before setting it down and turning to me. And I shiver when that fierce gaze sizzles through me, one of his brows arcing.