Bound by the Viking Read online

  Author’s Note

  Welcome to Warriors Unleashed! Bound by the Viking is the newest story in this new series of short standalone books, and I’m excited for you to meet my Viking. Colden is a shapeshifting Viking who turns into a bear when he goes berserk… and he’s more than a little rough around the edges (okay, he’s very, very rough around the edges). He’d never describe himself as a gentleman—but he can’t stop himself from rescuing Bera, a werewolf-damsel-in-distress, either. After that it’s the best kind of fireworks between these two.

  Although Bound by the Viking is a standalone story, if you like wicked, alpha Vikings, you might enjoy Colden’s fellow Vikings in Viking’s Orders and At the Viking’s Command. If you enjoy this story, please join my mailing list to be the first to hear about the next Warriors Unleashed book (I’m thinking dragons, werewolves and Vikings oh my!).

  ~ Anne

  Colden

  Freya’s tits, but the wolf den was no Four Seasons. Even after I killed my snowmobile and strode inside the cave, the cold beat at me like Thor’s hammer. The bitter scent of smoke and kerosene heaters didn’t add to the ambiance, plus the mangy scent of werewolf was overwhelming. How the shifters managed to stink like wet fur and eau de old dog when it was ten degrees below zero out was a mystery, but that was winter in Greenland for you and reason number one why we Vikings had gone a-sailing all those centuries ago.

  I slid a glance up at the ceiling. The caves were none too scenic, either. The decorating style consisted of dirt, rocks, and a shitload of ice and snow. If I’d been a werewolf, my vote would have been for tropical relocation ASAP.

  Oh wait. Werewolves weren’t democratic. They were an autocratic, rule-by-the-fist race, and the last werewolf Alpha had made the unilateral decision to relocate his pack to this particular armpit of Greenland in preparation for launching an attack on Odin. And yet, looking at the sorry assortment of wolves lurking in the shadows, it got harder and harder to believe that the werewolf pack was actually a player in Ragnarök. These sorry-ass pieces of fur were supposed to coordinate an assassination attempt on Odin, the ruler of the Norse gods? Not fucking likely. On the off-chance it was true, however, here I was to shut them down.

  I checked the ceiling again, but other than a new icicle or two, nothing. Nay. Pigs weren’t flying yet.

  Out of ideas, I elbowed my fellow Viking. “Remind me again why we’re here.”

  Vars bared his teeth. Guess he didn’t care for the poke. “Because Calder’s bride convinced her shiny new husband that her pack planned on assassinating Odin, and since Calder’s busy banging said new bride, someone else has to take point on investigative duty. You’re an ugly bastard, and I don’t give a rat’s ass, which makes up for my pretty face. That makes us perfect for the job. Or possibly the rest of our clan just wanted some alone time without us and decided we could manage Calder’s pack while he’s on honeymoon duty.”

  A hard punch to my gut accompanied this last.

  I didn’t give a damn about the blow. It took more than that to make me flinch, and we both knew it. Punches were merely punctuation in a conversation. I still didn’t understand how our fellow Viking, Calder, had decided that not only would he take a mate, but he’d take a mate who came with an entire ready-made werewolf clan. Werewolves were not the ideal accessory, even for a Viking warrior who shape-shifted into a bear when he went berserk in battle. And if these werewolves had truly plotted to take down Odin, they were a liability because it would only be a matter of time before some other Norse god or goddess came gunning for them.

  “We could just kill the wolves,” I suggested. A quick takedown was neater and required none of this talking bullshit. Possibly, I’d made my suggestion too loud, because the nearest werewolf cringed away. Loser.

  Vars didn’t disagree. “Killing would be simpler, but Calder’s mate is fond of her pack.”

  “All the pack?” Every pack had a few assholes that could be sacrificed for the greater good.

  Vars grinned. “You make an excellent point.”

  “We’d be in and out quicker too. You really want to spend the night here?” The cave did not improve upon closer acquaintance.

  “You think it’s an option to leave and check in somewhere cozier?” Vars held my gaze steadily as if leaving were really an option. “What are the odds these wolves act differently if we’re not around?”

  Pretty good, because from what I’d seen so far, pack life centered around fear and dominance. You dominated—or you ran scared. Since being afraid wasn’t part of my vocabulary, that put me in camp A. I planned on kicking just enough werewolf ass to discover what the pack alpha’s plan for Ragnarök had been.

  “If Leif wasn’t talking shit, he had a plan. A weapon. A secret ninja stealth assassin.”

  “He had something,” Vars agreed. “We just haven’t found it yet. Hate to say it, but it may take us some time.”

  I lifted a shoulder because the man wasn’t wrong. “I don’t have anywhere else to be, but I would like to wrap this up before Calder finishes his honeymooning shit.”

  A knowing grin split Vars’s face, making it all too obvious why my man here had his pick of the females. I, on the other hand? I sported a scar down one cheek, the earning of which had taken care of my pretty days. Which had probably lasted all of five minutes anyhow. Being not dead was far preferable to having good looks.

  “Best wedding present ever,” Vars agreed. He moved deeper into the cave. Sleeping bags lined the walls, some of them laid out on blow-up air mattresses. Crap spilled from duffel bags, and someone had invested in the full line of cheap-ass camping pots. I doubted the pizza-delivery guy made it out here—or that the wolves had the cash to start with. I’d visited plusher digs in the Middle Ages.

  Calling the cave spartan was an insult to the Greek fighters. Owning your own personal werewolf pack seemed more akin to paying through the nose for a property that the online copy touted as possessing “prime ocean views in the metropolitan center” but that turned out in reality to be a fixer-upper fishing shack on the middle of an ice floe in Antarctica. Or worse.

  Because this cave and these werewolves definitely fell in the worse category. Somewhere deeper inside the cave, a female whimpered in pain, the soft sound almost drowned out by a deeper, masculine growl.

  Fuck. I hated it when females cried.

  I should walk on. Get the ass kicking over with, uncover the wolves’ nefarious plans for Odin, and get back to my life. The message from my brain didn’t reach my feet, however, which stopped dead. Yeah. I was going to have to do something about it.

  I looked over at Vars. “Pit stop.”

  We’d already spent a good part of the day getting to the werewolf den, so Vars had to be itching to get on with our official business, but he simply nodded agreeably and fell in by my side, letting me take point. He was the kind of guy who, if I announced that I planned on doing some werewolf culling, would just ask me where he should start. He had my back same as I had his.

  Another whimper followed by a low growl. The female was down a passageway to my left. She wasn’t the secret assassinate-Odin’s-ass weapon. From the sound of things, she was at the bottom of the food chain in this cave, maybe literally.

  Vars shot me a glance. “Rescue mission?”

  Fuck if I knew, but I guessed I wasn’t getting back to the job until I’d made a few things clear to the asshole bothering the female. As of right now, the cave was under new management. My management. While Calder chased down his mate—and fucked the living daylights out of her on a three-week honeymoon somewhere a lot warmer than Greenland—I’d been temporarily promoted. Alpha dead, long live the new Alpha and all that shite. Which meant Werewolf Asshole needed to learn some new manners.
r />   The side room—side cave, whatever—was ten steps down the passageway. The place wasn’t built for men my size, so I had to hunch over, which kind of sucked. Vars whistled quietly behind me, his weapon making an almost inaudible snick as he pulled the blade from its sheath.

  No point in knocking. It wasn’t as if I planned on asking permission. I shoved aside the blue tarp covering the door. My personal theory was act first, think later, and right now a whole lot of unwelcome instincts pounded at me. Unfamiliar instincts like protect and comfort.

  What. The. Fuck?

  The werewolf was mostly naked, displaying far more werewolf skin than I needed to see. He’d pulled his belt from its loops, the better to smack the shit out of the female he’d pinned to the wall. That right there was reason number one why the wolf needed to die. The cocksucker had also unbuttoned his jeans partway, giving gave me a bonus peep show, and that was thing number two I hadn’t needed to see. The precarious position of his jeans on his hips made it plenty obvious that the bastard was thoroughly enjoying the beatdown he was administering.

  In fact, the stupid bastard was so into his situation that he failed to hear us coming. I yanked him away from the female and sent him careening into the opposite wall. Conveniently, he hit headfirst. Maybe the crack would knock some sense into him.

  The female took one look at me and dropped to the floor, arms going up over her head.

  “Next time, knee him in the balls,” I said in the general direction of the brown hair covering her face. “And then run. Got me?”

  She squeaked, and I didn’t think the sound was an affirmative. This was why my dating life sucked and my brothers had gotten all the strong, feisty women. Here I was, trying to make her feel better, and instead I’d only scared her worse. At least I hadn’t gone berserk and shifted. That had to count for something.

  Vars shoved his blade back into its sheath. “You’re blocking the door, dumb-ass. How’s she supposed to get by you?”

  The werewolf groaned. I’d have to make sure he hurt worse than he did, because the female sniffed. Quietly, like she was trying not to make too much noise.

  Tears. Not my thing. Plus she acted like I roasted puppies for fun when all I’d tried to do was help her. This was the problem with good deeds. I should have borrowed a page from the Valkyries and squashed my Boy Scout urge in the bud. Hel, for all I knew, I’d interrupted some kind of kinky werewolf game.

  Except… the cave smelled like fear. And she bit back another sob.

  “You want me to kill him?” I asked her. Look at me, soliciting opinions and acting all open-minded. But I had to do something. Walking away now, leaving her broken on the floor—everything in me argued that was wrong, and I’d spent a lifetime living by my instincts.

  Leaning down, I got my hand under her chin and nudged her face up. Silky, impossibly soft skin met my fingertips. Ours my bear roared inwardly. This one is ours.

  Fuck. Was the werewolf mating urge contagious? She resisted my upward tug, hiding her face in her arm. She was curvy in my favorite places, her body softly rounded and downright sweet. Of course, I’d eat her for breakfast. The terrified message her body telegraphed said she knew it too. I needed to get out of this cave and get on with my life.

  Whatever this thing was that I felt when I looked at her, it was temporary. A chemical thing or some kind of raw, beast-like attraction. I’d kill the male werewolf and stomp out of here; she’d live happily ever after or not, but at the opposite end of the world from me. I forced myself to let go while the silence stretched out between us and her tears dried up some. Somehow, leaving the cave didn’t seem to be an option for me.

  “I’m waiting for my answer.” My gaze flicked over her, assessing the damage. Nothing too permanent, but she’d have bruises and that pissed me off. From what I could see of her, she was tiny. I’d bet her head would barely reach my chest if I could coax her off the ground. Her hair was all tangled up, and I had the strangest urge to smooth the wild locks into place. The male werewolf had torn up her clothes, her T-shirt hanging off one shoulder, exposing a lacy pink bra strap I’d bet she’d die rather than show me. She wore a man’s flannel shirt and nothing else, her bare feet curled into the cold floor.

  The werewolf definitely needed to die.

  “I’m taking silence as a fuck yeah,” I told her. She started to say something, then hesitated. Girlie had more spine than I’d thought, however, because she eyed the crumpled pile of wolf like she might actually go all judge and jury on his sorry ass. Her ring finger was bare, although I had no idea if werewolves marked their territory with wedding bands or if they were more the type to bite and piss all over things. Frankly, I was putting my money on the second option because living in a cave in Iceland screamed uncivilized.

  Naturally, the werewolf picked that moment to groan and roll to his feet, proving all over again that he was ten different kinds of stupid. Done dealing with him and his shit, I slammed a fist into his jaw. Reacting beat chitchatting.

  “Nice,” Vars whistled. “Your management style is direct and forceful. I’m sure Calder will be properly appreciative when he returns from the honeymoon and only some of his wolves are broken.”

  The wolf female flinched and scooted backward, so naturally I turned straight back to her like a Viking homing pigeon. There was no reason for me to be so interested in her. I’d accomplished the rescue, and now I was free and clear to leave. My bear rumbled a protest. Yeah. Maybe leaving wasn’t on the day’s agenda. I had a feeling though that I was looking at her like I had some brand-new Friday-evening plans of my own.

  “I’m Vars. He’s Colden. You got a name, sweetheart?” Vars crouched, reaching for the female. Fuck If I knew what my brother was doing—his dating life had become nonexistence after he’d been the third in our leader’s threesome and he didn’t seem like the kind of guy who was interested in polite introductions—but I didn’t want him touching the little werewolf, and that was an unwelcome surprise. My bear got right on board with the possessiveness too, trying to shift right through my skin.

  “Yeah,” I growled, feeling my bear rise toward the surface. “Mine.”

  Fuck me, but he needed to rethink his react first, think later mission statement. Vars halted his forward momentum, shooting me a glance like he wanted to know what was up. Problem was, I had no idea.

  “Mine,” I repeated. Yeah. That was my voice making claims. Funny how the word still sounded right.

  “Funny,” Vars rumbled, and the bastard sounded like he was trying to keep his laughter at bay. “Is she the secret weapon?”

  Ha-ha.

  The little wolf’s back hit the wall, cutting off her escape route—hadn’t I told her to run for the door first chance she got?—and she tipped her head back. The curtain of brown hair fell back from her face, giving me a good look at the purple and yellow bruises decorating her left cheekbone—and the world kind of came to a standstill like I was starring in my very own greeting card commercial. One of those hokey ones where the lovesick bastard lopes across a flower-filled meadow pulling dance moves no self-respecting male would ever cop to, let alone with an audience. My bear hummed happily, clearly more in tune with his inner Hallmark than I was.

  And now that I’d had a good look at her face, I realized that I knew this werewolf. She was considerably more dinged up and battered than the first and only time I’d seen her before, which made me see red all over again. Of course, she hadn’t been in a good situation before either, but maybe I could fix things this time. I’d chosen to be the good guy that night and walk away from what had been offered to me, but here was Fate, dangling her in front of my nose again. I’d treat her better than the fucking werewolf, that was for certain.

  “Bera.” I punched Vars in the midsection. Hard. “Her name is Bera.”

  Bera

  Don’t show fear. I had positively no idea if Viking berserkers were like dogs, but reciting those three words represented the only hope I had of calming my racing heart. One
minute I’d been taking what Erik had been dishing out with his fists and his belt because he liked hurting me and I… wasn’t strong enough to stop him.

  Not strong enough yet.

  That yet had been my one-word mantra for the last year, a desperate lifeline I’d been chanting silently as Erik did his thing and I did my best to survive, when suddenly Erik had gone flying and I’d been left facing a large, enraged Viking warrior wearing a predatory smile, enough weapons to outfit a small army, and a biker’s jacket.

  As far as saviors went, my Viking wasn’t topping the list of nice guys. In fact, he was so far removed from even being on the list that he might as well have been on another continent. He stood over me, sucking the air out of the room, and all I could do was squeak and turn in on myself. And okay, steal one quick, peek at his legs because, holy wow, the man filled out a pair of blue jeans. It was no wonder he’d been able to lay out Erik.

  When my gaze finally made it to Viking Man’s face—and it took a few seconds because Erik’s blows had my head swimming plus there was plenty of Viking Man to look over—I realized I had another problem on my hands. Or standing over me, as it were. Viking Man had a name. Colden. I’d actually been introduced to him a little over a year ago and under circumstances I’d done my best to forget. He still wasn’t good-looking. A long, jagged scar ripped through his left cheek, and even the bones of his face were rough-looking and harsh. Hours riding in the sun and the wind had darkened his skin, and his shoulders about blotted out the cave. He was big. Real big. He could have pinned me with one large hand, but the problem was much simpler than that. Looking at him got my panties wet in a way I’d never experienced before. Apparently my body had a thing for the Viking bad boy.

  Stupid body.

  “Colden.” His name shot out of my mouth, more hoarse whisper than confident statement. I needed to add grow a pair to my list of mantras, because I just sat there on the floor and stared at him. He’d haunted my dreams for too many reasons to count, and that was a problem. Heck, he was a problem. Colden was a violent, ruthless Viking warrior who turned into a bear when he got mad, and I’d had it up to here with the paranormal world. I’d been hoping to retire, preferably to some nice, tropical beach destination with piña coladas, a coral reef, and a hammock. It was a dream, sure, but it beat facing my day-to-day reality, which was immured in a cold, ice-bound cave in the heart of Greenland with a bunch of feral wolves who bit. Who wouldn’t prefer warm sand to that?