Her Viking Wolves(27)

She is his. He knows this from the moment his eyes lock with her frightened ones. Her face pressed into the strange bed…as his brother attempts to rut her.





13





One minute I’m yelling for the big wolf to get off me. The next…

He does exactly that. But not because he’s obeying my command. Something pulls him off. No, not something. Someone.

Surgical instruments and medical equipment fly in a huge cacophony of clatter as the wolf-bound Viking fights with…

Well, I’m not exactly sure. Another Viking? He’s dressed in what looks like a long leather shirt and leather bellbottoms, but he smells almost exactly like Olafr. I inhale deeply through my nose, catching their deeper scent in the mayhem. Like woods and snow and ash. And this other wolf also has red hair. Maybe they’re brothers?

The new wolf is taller and more trim than his maybe-brother. And unlike Olafr with his Tarzan dreads, he has red curly hair tied back in a mountainous top-knot on top of his head. And the new Viking’s red beard is tame compared to the unkempt mess on Olafr’s face, well-combed and neat, and even braided neatly at the bottom.

Also unlike Olafr, he doesn’t seem at all confused about what is going on.

He throws the larger Viking into the hallway with what looks like deadly intent. Then he elbows the hell out of Olafr’s face, sending him flying backwards with a spray of blood coming out his nose. Beyond Olafr’s fallen body, I see Alisha, Uncle Tikaani, the other kings, and Dr. Leesma at the end of the hallway, all watching the fight with their mouths open.#p#分页标题#e#

It should have been over in one blow, considering Olafr just had a silver arrow pulled out of his back.

But with the strength of an angry shifter, he rises to his feet with a low, threatening growl. After that, the two throw themselves at each other in a style of fighting I can only describe as a mix between wrestling and the no-holds-barred cage shit you see in post-apocalypse movies.

I am so confused. They look and smell like brothers. But they’re fighting like mortal enemies, scattering the wolves in the hallway as their fight moves into the clinic’s tiny waiting room.

“Stop!” I shout, following after them.

They don’t stop. In fact, my voice only seems to make them go at it harder with louder growling and even more Mad Max-like moves. In less than a minute, they’ve destroyed at least a few thousand dollars worth of medical equipment and pretty much everything that’s not nailed down in the waiting room.

I’m half afraid they’re going to send each other flying through the plate glass windows, when Grady, Rafe, and Mag finally manage to get between them and break it up.

Grady, with his tank of a body, subdues the one who attacked Olafr. But it takes both Mag and Rafe to hold poor wolf-bound Olafr back.

“What the hell, man?!” Rafe shouts at the new Viking wolf. “I thought you two were brothers!”

Instead of answering, the wolf starts spitting words at Olafr in what I can only assume to be Old Norse. He’s glowering at him, even as he tries to break Grady’s hold.

Olafr shakes his head back and forth, his eyes glittering with anger beneath the clinic’s fluorescent lights.

Meanwhile, I move next to Alisha who’s hovering nervously near the clinic door. My heart is pounding: with confusion, anxiety, and most all, dread.

So much dread.

Because I don’t know what’s going on, but I know it can’t be good.





14





“You must learn to control your wolf.”

The disappointment in his father’s voice was so palpable, Fenrisson could barely manage to keep himself from sniveling like a pup not fully weaned.

But he would be the next fenrir. And he knew the only thing that would cause his father even more disappointment than he already had in him would be for his oldest son not to take this censure like a warrior—even if he were only nine winters.

So he kept his head raised, training his eyes on the town below the mountain upon which they stood side by side. This morningtide, their village was in full bustle, with many shifters taking advantage of the early light to do the farm work that would sustain them during the dark winter months.

“You will be the fenrir of our land one day,” his father continued beside him. The flame-haired Viking, so much larger and paler than his oldest son, turned to regard him with stony expression. “Would you have yourself known as a fenrir who cannot control his wolf?”

Fenrisson’s jaw clenched. “No.”

Then because he knew it to be expected of him, he added, “I have caused you shame. For this I apologize, Father.”

“It is not I to whom you should give apology, but to the family of the male you did slay.”