“We should get moving, there’s one last thing I want to show you,” she said as she rose and offered him her hand.
“Where to?”
“Back to the castle. From there, it’s a surprise.”
Though he loathed admitting it to himself, Sigurd found Bryn’s homeland truly beautiful and each day of their eastward journey had introduced him to another delight.
As they stood on the tallest spire of the fortress, facing the western watchtower in the distant mountains, the snowy peaks reminded him of Eisland. There, Sigurd would have listened to the ocean roaring against the shore and watched the white spray crashing against the cliffside of the peaks protecting Icedale Castle. Here, there was uneasy silence and the occasional howl of the wind. He missed the water’s endless stretch into the horizon, though lately, he’d taken comfort in the crisp scent of snow and pine.
In Ridaeron, he’d seen little water in the vast and sprawling land mass, despite traveling for days alongside Brynhildr on multiple occasions. Occasionally, he crossed a river or tranquil lake gleaming beneath the blue skies, but it wasn’t the same as sailing for hours, or even days away from the coastline in a fishing vessel. Here, there were only more mountains laced with turbulent rivers, icy plains, and thick forests as far as the eye could see.
“There is no better place in all of Ridaeron to watch the sunset,” Bryn murmured.
“It’s beautiful.”
The sunset painted the sky purple and rose, streaked with orange and deep indigo fingers crawling through the fading cloud cover. The mountain peaks sparkled like multihued gemstones, first pink and gold, then red. Yet as lovely as the sight was, his gaze kept shifting to the woman at his side. Bryn’s eyes glittered, reflecting the colors in the sky, the dimming light gilding her high cheekbones. He wanted to kiss each one, startled by the ferocity of his desire to taste her mouth and run his fingers through her glossy hair.
For the first time since her awakening, she wore no war braids, her magnificent mane of strawberry-blonde hair running over her shoulders and to her waist. He fought the urge to run his fingers through it.
“Bryn?”
“Hm?”
He slipped his right arm behind her back and placed a hand on her waist. She didn’t jerk away, and his heart soared when she leaned closer. “I’ve given thought to something over the past few days of our journey.”
“Mm?” Her gaze was fixed on the distant tower.
“This is my home now. Eisland will always have a place in my heart, but it no longer holds the largest share,” he said, speaking the words that had stuck to his tongue earlier that evening. “Ridaeron does…and you.”
Bryn stilled. He watched her face in profile, observed her eyes widening. She didn’t speak.
He didn’t need her to.
In the end, what Sigurd had rehearsed didn’t matter at all. His heart spoke for him, and once the outpouring began, he didn’t know if he could stop. “I had the chance to leave, even after Frigga warned me. But I couldn’t leave you, Bryn. I couldn’t leave knowing you were counting on me.”
She twisted to face him, the breeze blowing tendrils of copper-gold hair into her face. The hand that had been on her waist met the small of her back and flattened, urging her close against him until their bodies were flush, until her warmth was on his chest. With his other hand, he tucked those strands behind her ear, allowing his fingertips to linger and caress its ivory curve before skimming her cheek.
They leaned in at the same moment, gravitating toward another like two celestial bodies. One moment, he was gazing into those blue eyes, lovestruck, and positive there would never be a more beautiful sight. In the next second, Sigurd slanted his mouth over her lips to convey his heart with a tender kiss. The spark that leapt between them had other ideas.
Her lips parted in silent invitation, and he accepted by sweeping his tongue inside her mouth. One of her hands curved against the back of his neck while the other delved into his hair. Her quiet sound of satisfaction sent his heart soaring. Kissing her wasn’t enough. He’d wanted her for so long.
He’d denied it for months. If he was honest with himself, he’d been denying his lust for Bryn since the first moment she visited his private bedchamber in a gauzy, semi-translucent dressing gown, and he’d rejected her advances.
Sigurd turned, bringing her with him and nudging her against the stone wall. He could have spent the entire night kissing her, and he would have if there weren’t other dire needs on his mind. His body was alive with pleasure and lust, needs he’d buried for his long year of captivity surging to life once more. Hot and harder than he’d felt since setting from Eisland’s shores so long ago, he aligned their hips.
Bryn’s happy moan of pleasure encouraged him to grind against her. Then her hand was between them, stroking down the front of his trousers. She sought out the hot, hard outline of his erection and squeezed.
“Oh, fuck,” he groaned as she stroked and petted him through his clothing.
“I’ve waited a year to touch you like this,” she whispered against his mouth.
“I know.”
The next kisses were unhurried and slow, without rush, something to be savored and enjoyed. His tongue glided into her mouth again. With a deft touch, she unfastened his belt. In another few movements, she had him in her hand. It took everything Sigurd had not to explode at the moment when her fingers wrapped around his length. The pleasure of her touching him so intimately took him by surprise. He barely noticed her reversing their positions, putting his back against the stone instead.
“Bryn,” he said in warning. “It’s…been a long time for me.”
“I know.”
Then she sank to her knees in front of him and Sigurd wondered if he was dreaming. He had to be dreaming. Of all the things he anticipated from his proud warrior goddess, none had been further from his mind.
Her lips parted around the tip of him, and he almost died on the spot. Wet heat engulfed him, left him shuddering. He tangled his fingers in her red hair.
“Bryn. I’m—I can’t—”
He wanted more from her. His mind danced with a dozen fantasies that could at last become a reality.
Bryn sucked him in deeper with a hard pull that he felt all the way to the bottom of his toes. He cried out, so close he felt the tightening in his loins and tension drawing from the pit of his stomach. His breath quickened, and then her mouth slipped back to the tip.
Those gorgeous blue eyes locked on his face. “Let go. There will be time for many more after this one.”
He gripped the rail with one hand and held her hair in the other. Just one thrust, one more thrust, and he’d—
The deep bellow of a battle horn blew from the western tower in the mountains. Months of captivity at Steinblomst Keep had taught him the clarion warning tone of an approaching army. His slavers had never suspected it, but he’d spent each day learning their routines, their signals, and their defenses.
That studious observation had taught him one thing: they were under attack by none other than the king’s forces.
Chapter 14
In the distance, a horn sounded in a precise warning rhythm. Long ago, one of Bryn’s ancestors had each watchtower outfitted with special horns designed to carry miles on a still and calm night.