The Barbarian's Stolen Bride (Northmen Barbarians 1)

I had no idea when Fenrir would show up, so I made a direct path right to that decanter and poured myself a generous horn of mead. I drank it almost greedily, the honey flavoring coating my tongue and sliding easily down my throat.

I wasn’t used to fermented beverages, and coupled with the wine I’d had earlier, that first sip of the strong mead had me stuttering and coughing. The liquid burned my throat before settling in my belly, and instantly I felt scorching heat move through me.

Gods, the mead was far more potent than the wine, and I wondered if that’s why Lila and Greta had given the latter to me instead.

I didn’t care though. I needed the haze that alcohol would give me, so I finished off my drink and was in the process of pouring myself another one when I heard the doors open behind me.

For a moment I was frozen, unable to turn around, my heart in my throat and my hand starting to shake as I held that horn goblet. I heard the doors close, and although I had yet to turn around and see him, I felt him. His presence encompassed the entire room, this powerful, masculine feeling that washed over me as if an intimate caress.

I felt goose bumps prickle along my arms and legs, and another chill stole over me.

Turn around. Just do it and face him and get this over with.

Tingles raced up my spine, and my breasts felt heavy, sensitive. I was hyperventilating, my chest rising and falling from how hard I started breathing.

I tightened my fingers around the goblet so hard I thought for sure I’d have the strength to break it, even if that was impossible. But right now it seemed wholly possible.

He said nothing, and I still didn’t turn around. I was terrified of what all of this meant. I was his now, wife of the Destroyer, his property by the laws of our world.

I heard no footsteps closing in on me, didn’t even hear him breathing. I could picture him just standing there looking at me. I remembered how transparent the shift was and knew he could see the outline of my form and the shape of my bottom through the fabric.

I closed my eyes and breathed out slow and easy, my hand still wrapped tightly around the goblet, the mead sloshing against the rim because my hand kept shaking. I curled my fingers around the edge of my gown and slowly turned around.

With my head lowered and my focus trained on the floor, I told myself over and over again to breathe normally. To calm myself. I didn’t want him seeing how nervous I was.

Long seconds passed where I stared at the floor, not moving, not even breathing, but then I heard his heavy footsteps coming closer. My hand started shaking harder, the mead spilling over the edge of the horn rim and splashing on my hand.

I saw his big, dark boots come into view and felt my eyes widen. His feet were huge, a testament to his sheer size. Because the body attached to feet that large had to be massive.

My heart was thundering, my throat tight. Could he hear it? I felt it shake my entire body. And speaking of shaking, my hand had tremors so bad that mead kept spilling over the rim. And when I felt his fingers brush against mine, my entire body froze.

He took the goblet from me and set it aside, but still I couldn’t meet his stare. And when he brushed a cloth over my hand, wiping away the alcohol that covered my skin, a shiver moved through my body that had nothing to do with nerves and everything to do with his very touch alone.

After he set the cloth down, I expected Fenrir to demand I look at him, to strip me of my gown, bend me over, and have his wicked way with me. Yet the silence continued to descend, and I felt my nerves climb even higher.

But then he took a step closer, and I held my breath, felt my pulse go impossibly faster. He was so close now that his body heat slammed into me, yet despite that warmth, chills moved within me. Through me. My nipples puckered further, and this strange kind of awareness claimed me.

He lifted his hand, and my eyes went even wider at the sheer size of it. He was so big, so masculine, and I was like this tiny doll compared to him. My hand would be completely engulfed in his if I were to place it in his palm.

Why does that arouse me so much?

And when he placed his index finger under my chin and gently—slowly—lifted my head, I felt the world tilt under my feet.

My focus started on his boots, and with every small motion of him tipping my head back, I let my gaze move along his body. His legs were big and muscular, encased in dark leather trews. His thighs were the size of the trunks of the thick trees that made up the forest right outside our village walls.