Viking's Gift: A Paranormal Shifter Biker Romance (Warriors Unleashed Book 4)

  Author’s Note

  Werebears, Vikings, and motorcycles, oh my! Okay… so there aren’t actually any motorcycles in the Warriors Unleashed as my Viking werebears are running around snowy Greenland. They’ve got snowmobiles! They’ve also got a whole lot of attitude and you don’t want to get in between a werebear and the woman he cares about—as one werewolf is about to find out. Carr’s gruff and snarly; Dee is independent and determined to make her own happily ever after. I hope their story is as fun for you as it is for them. If you enjoy it, please join my mailing list to be the first to hear about the next book in the Warriors Unleashed series.

  ~ Anne

  Carr

  Do you see that big, surly fighter shouldering his way through the door of the nearest cave? That’s my boy, my main man, the guy I trust to have my back. Calder can tear an opponent apart with his hands and his teeth—and that’s before he shifts into his werebear form. Yeah, as if it wasn’t enough that we’re Viking warriors, we’re also shifters. When the berserker rage hits us, we turn into bears. Nine hundred pounds of pissed off armed with claws—who the fuck takes that kind of angry on?

  Once we escaped from the assholes who kidnapped our band of Vikings and locked us up in Las Vegas, we were supposed to get on with our killing-for-hire gig. We’d take on Odin, the ice giants, any one of a half-dozen paranormal bad guys who needed an ass-kicking. Make some cash. Celebrate our newly won freedom with wine, women, and song even if I can’t carry a fucking tune. Instead, we seem to be making an unscheduled rest stop in Greenland. We’re twelve of the meanest, snarliest bastards in the world. We scare the shit out of our opponents and we follow up the fear with our fists. We win our fights. We wear our weapons with pride and we’re never anything but dangerous.

  Instead of a sword, I’m wielding a roll of packing tape.

  On the stack of cardboard boxes by my feet.

  Mercenaries aren’t movers. We’re not the guys who bang our way into your house carting packing supplies and dollies. We don’t load your furniture into a van. We don’t give a fuck if your crap makes it from point A to point B and we’re not the helpful sort—unless you’re looking for a wingman in a fight, a sharp blade to the throat, or a fist to the kidneys.

  The reason for this shift in our priorities? That would be the small female werewolf plastered against Calder’s side. Tyra’s hot, so I cut him some slack about the way he’s got an arm wrapped around her waist. The issue I have is that as soon as she got her hands on his balls, he handed over his heart. That sappy look on his face as he stops his stomping around the caves is one hundred percent directed at and Tyra-inspired. She’s his new mate, and in taking her on, he accidentally became the Alpha of the local werewolf pack.

  Yeah. We gave him shit about that.

  Teased him about giving up his man card, becoming a fuzzy lover, acquiring a ball and chain. Tyra leans up and whispers something to Calder and the guy’s grin gets bigger. He’s so fucking happy that he beams like a lighthouse, and this is a guy for whom smiling used to be an annual event. Semi-annual, if he had the mother of all years. Yes, it makes me curious about this love stuff. Nope, I’m not admitting that out loud to my boys. Plus, it’s not as if there’s much to enjoy in our present circumstances. Calder’s new pack spent the last three years living in a cave system, which translates into plenty of ice and snow, no working plumbing, and not much in the way of material possessions. Calder wants them out because with the winter storms already rolling in, the werewolf digs won’t cut it. The caves are one step up from a shantytown. You know those Brazilian camps you see in the news where you can’t quite believe people sleep in all that mud and trash beneath the cardboard and tin? Same kind of wrong here, except the wolves have snow instead of mud, shitty-ass tents, and a whole lot of plastic tarp. Been here a few weeks now with Calder, Vik, and Fell, and I still want to resurrect the old Alpha so I can personally kill him again. Pretty sure my fellow Vikings feel the same way.

  Like I said, this isn’t Tahiti and it’s definitely not the Four Seasons. The furnishings are Stone Age chic and no wolf alive would choose to stay here. Unfortunately, the logical choice is to move the wolves to the Viking keep. Plus Calder keeps moaning that Christmas is coming, the inference being everyone deserves a present and some hot fucking chocolate to mark the day. I’m not a celebrate-the-holidays guy. The same dates show up on the calendar every year and I don’t discriminate. Every day’s a good day to go a-Viking.

  But Calder has declared it’s Christmas at the Viking stronghold this year. Our keep boasts all the modern conveniences: central heating, running water, flush toilets, and satellite television. After two weeks camping in the werewolf caves, I don’t care what excuse Calder gives because I agree about shifting his wolfie friends somewhere warmer and softer. Doesn’t matter if I’m not good at sharing because our Viking team is moving out right before Christmas anyhow. We have a gig and we’ll hit the road. Fighting, fucking, all that good shit.

  A wadded up tent inserts itself into my field of vision, disrupting my happy thoughts of being on the road again. I automatically assess the mess. Tangled strings, bent tent pole, AWOL pins, and a tear the size of the Grand Fucking Canyon—the thing is ready for the tent graveyard rather than a packing box. I bet the owner is the kind of person who asks the waiter to box up three bites of steak too. Fucking waste of space.

  “Trash,” I snarl.

  “Mine,” the wolf holding the mess snarls right back, and my dick perks up as if she’s talking to the little head instead of the big one. She shoves the tent at me. I refuse to take it. Black ink scrolls across her knuckles in swoops and delicate curls. The nails are short and painted some kind of pink that looks just like a pearl necklace I once borrowed from a dragon’s lair on my last treasure hunt. Best fucking night ever—pounded a keg of ale with my boys and then we dared each other to slip inside the lair. Whoever came back with the most valuable prize won. My brother Vik and I eventually wrestled to settle the winner because he claimed bigger was better and the man stole a fucking gold urn that was four feet high. My pearls were prettier.

  The wolf glaring at me is the prettiest. See, I almost want to say screw the tent and pull her close to me. Dark hair stands up all around her delicate face like she either spent the better part of the morning running her hands through it or brush is no more a part of her vocabulary than share is part of mine. Her elfish face, all big eyes and interesting lines, grins at me and I swap pretty for mine.

  Wait.

  Fuck, no.

  No coveting the werewolf. She’s not a necklace I can steal fair and square. I don’t want to toss her over my shoulder and find an empty cave. Or bang her senseless in said cave. In about a hundred different positions.

  Brown eyes narrow. “Jeez. Did I get the one Viking who speaks one word of English?”

  She sighs, slaps the tent against my chest again, and snaps her order out in perfect Norse. Fucking sexiest thing ever. I pluck the battered tent out of her hands, drop it on the floor, and lift her up until she’s eye level with me. The tent may be crap, but her body is sweetly curved. Despite the multiple layers of battered clothing she wears, I can see way too clearly that she’s got an awesome pair of tits. This close to me, I appreciate the fuck out of them even as I can’t help but notice that she’s a tiny thing who barely reaches mid-chest on me. She’s pocket-sized goodness in one very grumpy package—which just makes me wonder what it would take to turn her sweet.

  “Sweetheart, the only place that tent goes is the camping graveyard.”


  She glares—maybe it’s my responding in English or the sad fact that this is the first time in two weeks that I’ve actually spoken to her?—and then she knees me in the stomach. Hard.

  Guess endearments don’t cut it in the sweet department.

  “That tent’s mine,” she snaps. “Pack it up, big guy.”

  Fuck, she’s single-minded.

  She’s part of Calder’s pack. Even if he’s only interested in fucking Tyra, this pissed-off, feisty werewolf belongs to him. It’s wrong to wonder if I can borrow her. And I understand her possessiveness. I hold onto what’s mine too. You can pry my possessions away from my cold, dead fingers—and I feel the same way about my brothers. They’re mine and no one gets to hurt them. So even though the tent isn’t worth shit at a secondhand store, I take it with one hand. And then because old habits die even harder, I toss her over my shoulder with my other, anchoring her in place. She bucks, hands pushing at my ass as she tries to get free.

  “The tent goes in the box, you idiot. Not me.”

  Okay. We’ve clearly established her opinion of my mental abilities.

  “Got it.” I give her ass a smack. Her ass is almost better than her face, a heart-shaped treat just made for my big hands. The faded leggings hugging her generous curves are a candy wrapper I itch to peel down inch by sexy inch and her scent—Christ. She smells good.

  And she deserves better than one well-used, pissed-off Viking.

  I drop the tent into the box and kick it over to Fell. “Tape this fucker up for me.”

  My wolf freezes and fear overrides the sweet, creamy scent of her pussy. Somehow, I’ve scared her.

  “I don’t play well with others,” she says way too quietly. After camping in a cave with her for two weeks, I know she’s not the kind of person who uses her inside voice on a regular basis.

  Fuck if I know what she’s talking about though. “Me neither.”

  She twists, looking at Fell. “I won’t do two guys at once.”

  Well that certainly clears things up.

  And honestly? I don’t want to share her. I’d tease her but she still smells of fear and my one job here is to protect her.

  So I give her the truth.

  “Me neither, sunshine.”

  Fell blows her a kiss. “Two at once is Vik’s thing. The rest of us are either too goddamned lazy or prefer room to work.”

  “Are you playing with me?” She practically hisses the question, but the fear scent vanishes. I bite back my grin.

  “Could be.” Fuck, yeah. “You wolves are into some kinky shit.”

  “Not me.” She sounds certain enough about that, but we need to get one thing clear.

  “One, none, or baker’s dozen—it’s ladies’ choice, sweetheart. You send anybody, furry or not, who tries to convince you otherwise straight to me.” Can’t keep the frown from my face, though. I shouldn’t have to say this to her because it should be understood. What the hell is up with her wolf pack?

  “Damn straight,” she announces, slapping my ass hard. Not sure what I did to deserve that. “Plus you should know that I’m a biblical kind of girl. An eye for an eye. Tit for tat.”

  “I go down on you, you go down on me. I don’t have any problem with that.”

  She mutters something. I don’t give a shit what because I’m too busy enjoying the wriggling that sends all my good intentions on vacation. The talking that starts up isn’t quite as much fun, although it’s kind of cute. She runs through plans, logistics, who needs to move which boxes where and when, and the last known sightings of each werewolf in her pack. I hear blah blah I pay attention to the people I care about blah blah I’m making sure they’re okay. It’s a good message, so I listen and run my hand up and down her butt. Now that I’ve started, I really don’t want to stop. There must be something wrong with me.

  When Fell gives me a thumbs-up, I haul her ass over to inspect his work. Seeing as how she’s unreasonably attached to that poor excuse for a tent, I figure she might want to make sure it’s safe and secure in its new temporary home. Means I have to set her down on her feet, which is disappointing. Not like she weighs much and I like having her sweet ass so close to my mouth.

  I turn her so she can look in the box. “Safe and sound.”

  She gives me another glare and then jabs me in the chest with her finger. “Keep it that way.”

  I’d like to keep her.

  And I can’t. Shouldn’t. Won’t.

  My relationships end with people dead.

  She whips a Sharpie out of her shirt, printing Dee in neat, uniform block letters on all four sides of the box before she prances off as if she owns the goddamned caves. Fuck. Hadn’t seen her coming. The wolves are fine but no way I get involved with one of them. Don’t need to tap someone I could break if my bear gets a little a crazy.

  And I’m pretty certain my bear would go totally crazy for her.

  Fell smacks me on the ass. “Done.”

  I cuff him on the shoulder. “Keep your hands to yourself.”

  “Thought it was open season on your butt.” He smirks. “Didn’t hear you complaining a moment ago.”

  “She’s prettier than you.”

  Fell’s attention to detail sucks, so I crouch down and refold her stupid tent, setting it back in the box. Take it back out and bubble wrap it first. It’s hers. She wants it—she gets it. Fell laughs so hard he falls over while I tape the box shut.

  “You want her, let her know you’re interested,” he says. “You’re not as pretty as me, but she could use a stand up guy.”

  I grunt and move away. I’m a big guy, even for a Viking, and Dee is a small, curvy werewolf. Us getting together would be like a Great Dane and a Chihuahua fucking. She probably wouldn’t stop yapping either, because the woman sure can talk. And talk. As always, I can hear her from the other side of the cave and it’s like listening to one of those brooks that babbles and burbles its way over the rocks, all pretty tra-la-la and blah-fucking-blah. As I’ve learned in our time together, unless you listen closely, because that’s where she’s hidden the good stuff.

  I watch her move around the cave. She carries a notebook in which she checks stuff off. She even has a complete diagram of the fucking tent with labeled parts. This is a woman who plans ahead. Who looks ahead. Me? If I even bothered hanging onto this shit, I’d just shove it into boxes and figure it out when we got to the keep. Or when hell froze over.

  I can’t have her. I’m a big, dirty bastard and she’s the angel that fucking belongs on the top of the Christmas tree. She’s so cute it should be illegal. Damn but her nipples call my name. My mouth waters, wanting to lick and tongue until she comes screaming and hollering my name. Not sure she’d be on board with that plan, frankly, because I’ve spent the last two weeks watching her check out the unattached werewolves.

  She hasn’t glanced my way once.

  Her complete dismissal of me means I can look my fill, though—and she’s fun to watch. When she’s not storming around the caves organizing everyone, she’s scribbling in a notebook she carts everywhere. She’s got a sweet tooth. She hates the cold. She’s forgetful unless she’s got you down in the notebook, in which case Odin help you, she’s never forgetting about you even when you wish she would. But honestly, she’s more kitten than wolf, for all the snarling she does about undone shit, unpacked boxes, and the general chaos rocking the caves. She’s the Band-Aid, the kiss, the magic potion that makes everyone and everything all better because she wants to be a fixer. She sort of sucks at it, but she’s in one hundred percent when anyone needs anything. She doesn’t know how to say no and she’s always going off on a tangent, but here’s the thing. I’d fucking follow her anywhere.

  It’s a good thing I’m shipping out before Christmas because otherwise I’d be acting way too much like Calder.

  I take advantage of her distraction to palm her backpack. She’s left it sitting next to her one box, so either she travels light or she doesn’t own much stuff to begin with. Personally
, I keep my bug out bag light, but I have a private keep about four hundred miles from our Greenland base where I store my treasures. I pop the top of the backpack and rifle through it while she’s elsewhere.

  Gotta see what my little professor’s hiding from me. She was part of the original research team researching ice melt or some such crap. Leif, the previous pack Alpha, stole the team’s tents and base before he gangpressed my Dee too. Not sure why they’ve got to cart all their crappy camping gear with them when our keep has walls and a working roof, but wolves are territorial. If it’s theirs, they hold onto it. Dee’s not holding onto much, though. She’s got a couple changes of clothes, some cute but worn out panties, a small stack of reference books, and more notebooks. I make a mental note to buy her stock in Office Depot as a Christmas present.

  I move closer to where she’s wrapping up her latest pissy fit and pass over her backpack. The wolf standing next to her slinks away.

  “Professor,” I blurt out as smooth as if I’m fifteen and a virgin again. It’s not a good feeling.

  Her gaze moves over me and I fight the urge to take a step backward. Why the fuck am I nervous? Being bigger and meaner has its perks.

  I jerk my head toward the cave’s entrance. “We’re ready to ride.”

  “Okay.” She looks around me. It’s like I’m just a big obstacle in her way.

  “Who are you riding with?”

  Now she looks at me, tilting her head back to meet my eyes because she’s that much shorter than me. “Ake.”

  So she’s taken. Or she’s chosen. Six of one, half-dozen of the other, right? The problem is that particular werewolf is a dick. I’ve been keeping my eye on him because he was an enforcer for the previous Alpha and he likes being in charge a little too much. He hasn’t taken well to the new regime change.

  I shake my head. “Pick again.”

  The pack has some decent guys—like Even, Calder’s second-in-command—but Ake’s a straight-up loser.

  “Fuck off,” she suggests sweetly.