Osborn stalked away and both Bernt and Torben shot her accusatory looks. Breena just shrugged. They knew their brother didn’t need any actual real provocation to be grumpy.
The three of them did as they were instructed. Balancing didn’t seem too hard. She’d seen plenty of dancers at the palace, and one even walked along a rope suspended between two chairs. Fifteen minutes in and she hated those dancers, and knew the rope balancer had to be a fake. She fell off her plank over and over again. At least she was having better luck than the two boys. They spent more time on their backs than they did standing on their plank. By the time Osborn returned, she was hot, sore and really, really anxious to grab her stick so she could whack him with it during their mock swordplay.
He tossed each of them a green apple and a pouch of water. “Water first.”
Despite the fact that their backsides must be sporting a permanent imprint of the ground, Bernt and Torben laughed and teased each other while they ate. Osborn wouldn’t look at her, and even though she was surrounded by three other people, Breena felt the loneliest of her life.
Their taskmaster couldn’t have given them more than ten minutes of rest. The core of her apple had barely shown itself when he had her up and holding a sword. A real one this time, no sticks. Maybe he’d suspected she’d been entertaining dark thoughts with that stick.
“Take it out of the scabbard,” he told her.
She slid the blade from its holder, the sun glinting off the silver edge. There was nothing ornate about this weapon. No jewels encrusted on the hilt, no elaborate carvings marring the blade. A simple weapon. So unlike those of her father and brothers.
“It was my first sword,” he told her. “Take good care of it.”
And even though she looked up to meet his gaze, Osborn never lowered his eyes to meet hers.
“Thank you,” she said. The steel in her hands meant something to the man who’d given it to her. She’d always protect it.
He shifted to face all of them. “In a surprise attack, the fatal blow is often struck before the victim’s sword is even drawn. The rest of the afternoon, I want you to practice pulling your sword from its scabbard. Quickly. Quietly. Over and over again until it’s second nature to you. You should be able to do this in your sleep. One day you may have to.”
For hours they honed this particular skill. She stood still, and pulled the sword from the scabbard; while running, with her scabbard at her side, she pulled the weapon out; when the scabbard was beside her on the ground, she unsheathed the sword. Breena performed the maneuver until it was perfect. Then Osborn instructed her to switch sides and use the hand she didn’t favor.
“If you’re injured, you may be able to fight off your aggressor.”
Every muscle of her body ached by the time Osborn called a halt sometime before the late-afternoon chores. If she thought she was sweaty and dirty after the balance torture Osborn had conceived, she wouldn’t be fit to sleep in a stable tonight. She followed him back to the cabin, barely able to hold her sword and scabbard, but not about to ask Osborn for help.
What she would seek his aid in was finding a bar of soap. His lips firmed and that hungry look returned to his eyes when she told him she wanted to take a bath.
“Naked?” he asked.
“That’s generally how it’s done. How do you wash off?”
She watched as he swallowed slowly. “I usually hop into the lake.”
Breena shook her head. “Probably should avoid that place, now that the energy is less…magical. It’s too bad you don’t use a tub. Sitting in sudsy warm water in front of the fire is one of life’s real pleasures.”
Osborn looked like he wanted to be anywhere but in this conversation. Too bad. “I’ll just grab a basin and wash off in back. Soap?”
“In the cabinet under the window.”
“Thank you,” she told him with a smile. “No one comes outside,” she yelled, so the boys would know to stay inside the cottage. When had she become a yeller? Since meeting up with a family of berserkers, the rage must be rubbing off on her.
The water she’d pumped into the basin was cold, but she knew it would feel fantastic against her hot and sticky skin. The soap, however, was another matter. It smelled like Osborn. Warm chestnuts. She breathed it in deep, rubbed the soap between her hands until she built a lather, then began running the smell of him all over her body.
OSBORN SPENT THE REST OF his day wondering about her bath. How she took off her shoes. Her shirt. Her pants. How the fading sun must have glinted off her naked skin. Her hair. He imagined wetting her skin with a sopping cloth, grasping his soap and rolling it along her arms. Over her breasts. Down her stomach. Between her legs.
He envisioned stepping behind her, shedding his clothes and standing before her naked. He felt the slick soap and her soft hands along his chest, over his back and gripping his cock. He was in performance mode in record time. She’d slide her hands up and down the shaft of him as she slid her tongue into his mouth. The movements of her hands and mouth mimicking one another. She’d rinse away the soap and sink to her knees. Kiss the head of his cock, tongue the shaft, then slide him all the way into her mouth.
He groaned, nearly coming with the erotic visions. He was going crazy. Osborn had to get her out of his cottage. His life.
But how could he when he wanted her more than almost anything in his life?
He found her later that night, curled on her side in front of the fire. The blanket lay at her feet and he crouched down low to tug it back over her slim frame. Her hair was still damp, but would soon dry before the fire. She shivered, and he worried that she might be cold. Rolling to his side, he fitted her back against his chest. The way her soft curves formed to his body was sweet, sweet torture. One he’d gladly endure over and over.
Breena smelled fresh and clean, and…a little like him. His soap. Possession arced through him, and he curved an arm around her waist. She snuggled toward him in her sleep as though it was natural. Where she should be.
He buried his nose in her hair, the delicate strands sliding over his cheek. Breena shouldn’t smell like a man. And he shouldn’t be holding her. Wanting more. Needing more. But he’d steal just a few moments. Then he’d pick himself up and go to his bedroom and shut the door. Firmly.
CHAPTER NINE
BREENA IMAGINED A DOOR in her mind. Two doors. The second door was new. Menacing. While the first stood familiar, opening that door and walking through had been forbidden to her. She went to it, anyway. Leaned against the closed entry. She longed to go inside. Days had passed since she’d last crossed the threshold and found pleasure. And passion.
But she could not go in.
She turned to the second portal. The entrance was ornate while the other gate was plain. Timeworn carvings in the ancient Elden language adorned the mahogany door. Jewels and rubies, sapphires and diamonds, were embedded in the knob. It should be the most desirable doorway in the world. Instead, she looked again at the simple entry, but that was not her path. That way had been barred to her.
Steeling herself, she gazed once more upon the door that should be inviting. A crimson haze seemed to surround it on all sides. The color of blood. Breena didn’t want to go inside. Didn’t want to know what lay beyond once she turned that bejeweled knob.
Yet this was her destiny.
Her fingers shook as she reached for the handle and turned. A film of oppressive hate dropped over her, smothered her. Her legs buckled, and she wanted to turn back, but knew she couldn’t. Steeling herself, Breena stepped inside.
She was in the great hall of her home in Elden. Beautiful tapestries hung on the walls, and fat tapers illuminated the room, just like always. But instead of the friendly chatter of people, the bustle of the servants and the laughter of the king and queen, she heard only agony. The wailing of the wounded. The fearful cries of those left behind and being rounded up by creatures of unimaginable horror. The smell of blood was heavy in the air. It sickened her, but not as much as the sight of her people, dead and dying on the cold stone of the castle floor.