Edge of Control: (Viking Dystopian Romance) Page 2

  It was one more betrayal, the way it always was. From the nipples that hardened beneath her bindings, stinging when she breathed, to that traitorous melting between her legs. It didn’t matter how much Eiryn beat herself up for it, her reaction to this man was always the same.

  There were so many men. There were so many raiders. There were warrior brothers to go around, should she get a hankering to shit where she ate. But there was only one Riordan.

  And she didn’t know, half the time, which one of them she hated more. Him, for trespasses that went all the way back into her childhood, the prick, when she’d thought of him as little more than a friend to her older half-brother. Or herself, for remaining constitutionally unable to rid herself of this affliction that only he ever brought out in her, no matter how many winters stood between that one, stupid summer and now.

  She comforted herself with the bittersweet knowledge that at least he didn’t know it.

  Eiryn should have sheathed her blade the moment she’d ascertained there was no threat in this clearing, only too many irritating memories. She didn’t. She told herself it was in case of further attack.

  Riordan didn’t look at her again, but Eiryn didn’t make the mistake of imagining he wasn’t fully aware of every damned breath she took, the way he always had been.

  He dropped his blade and jutted his chin at the captive below him in the clear command that marked him second only to the war chief in the brotherhood. “On your feet, asshole. You can tell my king your bullshit story and see how he takes it. But if I had to make a prediction? He’s not going to like it. Or you.”

  Eiryn took in the captured man as he climbed awkwardly to his feet, favoring his left side in a way that suggested he’d taken a significant hit. His head was shaved and there were no tattoos under the ragged harness of weapons he wore, featuring bulky old guns as well as blades that could be a whole lot sharper and better cared for. It all marked him as one of the annoying mercenary cockroaches who had been plaguing the raiders for too long now, ever since one of their number had gotten his dick a little too hard for raiders a few years back. Krajic had killed a brother and pillaged his way through too many mainland raider settlements, making mercenary blades for hire—never favorites of anyone with a drop of actual honor in their bodies—blood enemies of the clan. This one was panting with exertion and pain as he stood and wobbled on his feet, scowling at Eiryn as if he thought she was some kind of fever dream.

  He should be so lucky.

  “Bitches can’t be raiders,” he muttered, clutching at his hurt side as if he thought he could shove the edges of his wounds back together. “That’s fucking ridiculous.”

  Eiryn smiled coolly. “That’s probably why you’re not one, then.”

  “That’s the king’s bodyguard, dumbass.” Riordan flashed his usual easy grin that beguiled women and enemies alike and was, as Eiryn was all too aware, a finely honed weapon as dangerous as his wickedly curved blade. And as potentially seductive as that dark sugar voice of his, another tool Riordan used all too often and much too effectively. “The last fool who called her a bitch found himself in bite-sized pieces all over the battlefield, to the delight of the wolves. Is that your goal, friend?”

  The man wisely shut his mouth. Because there was nothing that should terrify a captive more than being called friend by the man who’d already come a little too close to killing him.

  Riordan stripped the mercenary of his weapons, then lashed the douchebag’s arms behind his back with his own ratty harness. Eiryn didn’t share her thoughts about mercenaries, or her unsettled reaction to what had sounded like a rousing defense from the least likely source imaginable, because there was no point. Riordan knew what she thought about mercenaries and the less she looked at his motives for anything and everything else, the better.

  And because she’d long ago made it a personal policy to speak to Riordan as little as possible, and to worry over his murky, usually hurtful intentions even less. So far, it had served her well.

  He pushed the captive ahead of him and watched him stagger a few feet. Riordan sighed, then barked out an order to start walking.

  “Head toward the sea. Run if you want,” he told the man, sounding as if he was discussing something lighthearted. Happy. “But it will piss me off if I have to exert myself to catch you again, and believe me, you won’t like what happens when I do.”

  The mercenary thrashed away from the clearing, making enough noise as he dragged himself off that they could probably hear him all the way across the Atlantic Ocean in the eastern islands, where the raider clan made their home. Not that it mattered. He could have been entirely silent and Riordan, the clan’s best tracker by far, would still be able to find him with precious little effort. Riordan was remarkably talented in all arenas, Eiryn reminded herself darkly.

  All hail Riordan, the epic and extraordinary dick, best friend to kings and war chiefs and in his spare time, a ruiner of lives.

  And only when the man was swallowed up by the woods entirely did Riordan turn back to face her, folding his arms across his broad chest as he did. That smile of his was gone from his distractingly well-sculpted face as if she’d imagined it. And even if she hadn’t seen the hard, disapproving look he wore, she could read his temper in every bold line of the steel and granite body he kept in war-ready condition at all times. He looked like he was vibrating with it.

  “What the fuck are you doing?”

  She sheathed her weapon as if she thought that might be what he meant, when she knew better, and raised her brows at him. “What?”

  Riordan’s dark eyes glittered. “Where’s Wulf?”

  “He’s a big boy. A king, actually, in case you hadn’t heard. He can take care of himself.”

  “Whether he can or he can’t isn’t the point, is it?” His mouth was grim. Judgmental. “You’re his bodyguard. It’s your job.”

  Why was she standing here entertaining this conversation? What was the matter with her these days? Riordan was neither her blood nor her king. He was a warrior brother just as she was, no more and no less. She owed him no allegiance beyond that and the fact something buried deep inside her wished otherwise was nothing short of depressing. He was history. He was nothing but a very old mistake she’d take back if she could. It didn’t matter what he thought—about anything.

  “Thank you for the update on my role in the clan,” she told him, making no particular effort to reel in the harsh bite of her sarcasm. “I appreciate it.”

  “Eiryn.”

  It was a testament to what a weird night it was—on the heels of this endless, heavily twisted summer—that hearing him say her name in that rich, low voice of his . . . got to her. That, and he didn’t say her name much.

  Not like that. The way he might have years ago, dark and full of intent, and for entirely different reasons.

  It was like a sucker punch.

  And maybe he knew she couldn’t breathe through it, because he kept going.

  “You’ve been screwing up for at least a month now. And not subtly.” His dark gaze was hard on hers. “I get that you’re mad. Everyone gets that you’re mad. You’ve spent a long time plotting revenge on the wrong person and that’s got to suck. But there’s only so long that you can let shit slide before it becomes a little bit bigger than a private family problem between you and Wulf.”

  She made herself smile, as sharp as her blade. “I don’t remember asking you for your opinion.”

  “Then it’s your lucky night, because I’m offering it anyway.” He didn’t move closer to her. He knew better. But somehow, Eiryn felt as if the trees were closing in on her. And as if she was in danger of being charred straight through from a completely different fire. “Wulf didn’t tell you he was the one who gave the order to have your asshole father crippled because of this. Exactly this kind of crap. Because he didn’t think you could take it. Why are you proving him right?”

  “Nice try.” She didn’t know when she’d folded her own arms across her
chest, but she was aware of the way she mirrored his even, ready stance. As if they were already locked in combat despite the fact their blades were sheathed. Then again, the wars they’d fought against each other had only sometimes required blades. “He didn’t tell me because I was a kid when it happened. And he didn’t tell me when I came back because he thought I knew. Then, when it was clear I didn’t know, it was more convenient for him that I blame Tyr for it.”

  “Because he didn’t think you could take it,” he repeated. His voice a lot harder this time.

  Riordan was famous for his easy grin. His lazy laughter. He was everybody’s best friend, was Riordan. But he wasn’t smiling or laughing now. Eiryn had never gotten the carefree, laidback Riordan everyone else thought they knew so well. She always got this one instead. Dark and fierce and in her face.

  Lucky me.

  “I don’t know what makes you think I give a shit what you think, all of a sudden.” She rolled her eyes. “Or why you suddenly decided we’re buddies who talk now. Guess what? We’re not. We don’t. Let’s go back to the part where we ignore each other the way we’ve been doing for years.”

  “This is a courtesy,” he bit out. Then Riordan shook his head, his dark eyes something like ferocious from across the small clearing. “If you were any other member of the brotherhood I’d already have knocked you on your ass and then handed it to you for good measure. Trust me.”

  She laughed at him, a nearly soundless taunt. “You’re welcome to try. I kind of hope you will.”

  And for a sleek, taut, furious moment, she thought he would. She thought he finally would—

  But Riordan straightened instead, cocking his head to one side as if he was listening to the wind. He probably was, the asshole. He’d probably claim it was all part of his tracker mystique.

  “My captive just fell in the goddamned creek,” he muttered in disgust. He focused back on her, and the punch of that dark gaze settled deep in her belly. Then burned, blazing its treacherous way down lower until it made her pussy clench. Then ache. And Eiryn thought she’d rather die than ever let him know it. “Here’s the quick and dirty version, babe. You need to handle your shit.”

  “Noted. And don’t call me babe, dick.”

  Riordan smiled, a slow curl of that mouth of his, damn him. His dark eyes were much too hot on hers. Too hot and too knowing. “My apologies, brother.”

  Brother was how all the raider brotherhood tended to address each other. It was easy recognition and purely platonic. But that wasn’t how Riordan said it. He’d made it something else entirely. Something dirty and breathtaking at once. Eiryn fought back the shiver that snaked its way down her spine, keeping herself perfectly still even though she thought it might snap her bones in two.

  It shouldn’t hurt, but like everything else this summer, it did.

  “There was already enough drama with Gunnar over the past year,” Riordan continued after a moment that felt much too heavy to Eiryn. “And at least he had an excuse. He lost his mate. But you have to know that hurt pride isn’t the same as grief. You’re not going to get the same leeway that Gunnar did. You really want to keep testing that? You think you’re so special Wulf won’t slap you down for all this bullshit you’ve been pulling? And what do you think happens when he does?”

  Eiryn lifted one hand from her crossed arms, stayed otherwise expressionless, and slowly, deliberately, gave him the finger.

  Riordan shook his head. She could see his jaw clench and told herself there was no answering tension inside her. “I get it. You’re tough. You’re a badass. You’re made of stone, all the way through.”

  “Are you writing me a love poem?”

  “You’re letting your bullshit get in the way of your job,” he gritted out. “It’s interfering with your commitment to the brotherhood. Fix it or don’t fix it, whatever. But let’s be clear, brother. I’m not going have your back if it all blows up in your face.”

  She waited a moment, eyeing him through the dark and the smoke, wishing the fire didn’t make him glow like that, slicked brown gold over pure, hard steel. And more, that he didn’t get to her in that same old maddening way he always had. But then, if Riordan had been forgettable in any regard, maybe she would have gone ahead and forgotten him.

  She’d certainly tried.

  “I must be missing something,” Eiryn said softly. Viciously. “When exactly did you ever have my back? Brother?”

  He shouldn’t have dredged up old shit if he couldn’t take it, she told herself with more than a little self-righteousness when Riordan stiffened at that, then looked like he had to bite something back. His jaw clenched so hard she could see the muscles at the hinges pop.

  “I should have known better than to bother with you or your shit,” he gritted out. “It never changes, does it?”

  Then he stalked out of the clearing without a backward glance, just as she’d wanted him to do from the start, and he melted soundlessly into the dark woods as if he’d never been there in the first place.

  And it was the smoke from the temple fire that stung her eyes, she told herself. That was all. She blinked it back as she forced herself to start walking again, following the sounds of raiders shouting out their greetings to one another in the dark as they tried to pinpoint their potential losses.

  Eiryn wasn’t a little bitch. She didn’t cry. Ever.

  She hadn’t cried when Tyr had crippled her war chief father during the tumultuous days when Wulf had claimed his throne. By cunning and force. She hadn’t cried during all those hard, lonely years when she’d been the old man’s sole caretaker way out on one of the tidal islands as far away from the raider city as it was possible to get while still within the clan’s territory. She hadn’t shed a single tear during her father’s harsh training sessions that were little more than extended, voluntary episodes of sheer torture, or when he’d sent her away when he was done with her like she was so much useless trash.

  The list of things Eiryn hadn’t cried about grew longer all the time.

  She hadn’t cried when Riordan had ripped her up inside way back when, at the end of that summer they’d never talked about directly and if she had her way, never would. Or any time since, not even when she’d finally found out what she should have suspected—that Wulf had ordered Tyr to cripple their father instead of killing him so that Amos could live out his days with the shame and dishonor. And not when Gunnar had taken such delight in telling her the truth in a way calculated to hurt her most.

  Hey, Eiryn, he’d said, so casually, as if she couldn’t see that glint in his frigid blue eyes that warned her something was coming. She’d readied herself for the attack, but it hadn’t helped. How blind do you have to be not to realize that Tyr never would have crippled the new king’s father without permission? Absolute and unambiguous order to do exactly what he did. Hate him all you want. But he was only following orders.

  He’d even laughed.

  And Wulf hadn’t denied it. Or even pretended to apologize.

  I never claimed otherwise, he’d said, every inch of him the uncompromising king slapping down an upstart subject. She’d been an idiot to imagine he was ever anything else. Or that she was. You assumed.

  But she hadn’t broken down then. She hadn’t shed so much as a single tear in the month or so since that day, despite the approximately eight million times she’d examined all the facts and been forced to come to the conclusion that she’d been played for a fool by everyone. The king, her blood half-brothers, Riordan, the entire raider brotherhood. She’d been cold-bloodedly encouraged to believe the lie, because Wulf needed her loyalty and her skill.

  She might as well be a hired blade. A mercenary, just like these cockroaches running around out here tonight. For all her blood kin liked to rant on about the bonds of clan and despite the tattoos on her body that marked her as a member of what was meant to be another, better family, she’d discovered that once again, she didn’t matter.

  Hadn’t Riordan said as much? Gunnar’s ins
ane, suicidal rampage against the clan in general and Wulf in particular had been forgiven a month ago. His fight with their brother, the king, had been allowed and excused, not deemed an act of treason and punished accordingly. Wulf himself had protected Gunnar during his yearlong descent into grief-tinged madness after the death of his first mate. But for Eiryn there was no such protection or consideration. As usual.

  She hadn’t cried about any of it. Amos had beat that out of her when she was still little more than a girl. She wasn’t crying now.

  And she was straight up scowling when she found the rest of the raiding party down near the base of the hill, slowly gathering around the makeshift fire one of the brothers had built to signal the rest. She received the usual nods of greeting when she showed her face, but no one approached her. Few ever did. Part of that was the simple fact that the three female members of the brotherhood were necessarily set apart from the rest by virtue of the fact they were women, no matter how deadly. She, Hedy, and Emmalyn made up their own little club within the brotherhood whether they liked it or not. But the brotherhood wasn’t necessarily a collection of close friends. Their bonds were far deeper and darker than that. They were made brothers through battle and blood, vows and raids, not friendship. And Eiryn had spent her entire adult life cultivating the idea that she was lethally spooky and so unnerving that even the biggest and brawniest of her warrior brethren preferred to give her a wide berth.

  As long as she could remember, she’d wanted nothing more than that uneasy respect. She moved like a ghost and her blade flew like a nightmare. And that was all she’d been, all she’d wanted to be and all she’d ever dreamed of becoming, for a long, long time.

  Eiryn stood off to the side now, half-hidden in the shadows, as Riordan hauled his captive—newly sodden and with a freshly bloodied nose to boot—into the flickering circle of light a few moments later. Riordan threw him on the ground with an easy, careless swing of his sculpted arm. He didn’t look around or indicate that he knew she was there, but that glimmering chain of unwelcome awareness that always hummed between them told her that, as usual, he knew exactly where she was.