His devastating half-smile sends my pulse racing. Workout sweat still clings to his temple, black hair damp at the edges. His navy tank top might as well be painted on, and those tattooed biceps cage me in, turning the driver's seat into our own intimate universe.
"Really?" I arch an eyebrow, not entirely trusting this sudden surrender from Fort Knox himself.
"Mm-hmm," Rhyland hums. "You deserve freedom. I won't cage what's mine." His ocean eyes pin me in place, that alpha stare brooking no argument. "But you will be safe. That's non-negotiable."
Victory bubbles up inside me like champagne. "Cross my heart," I chirp, stretching up to kiss his lips quickly before attempting my escape.
His sexy body doesn't budge. Typical.
"Not good enough," he growls, that commanding eyebrow arch making my insides flutter. "I want a proper kiss as payment, baby."
The conflicting urges to smack him and climb him like a tree war within me, but I settle for option three. I slide my fingers into his damp hair and pull his mouth to mine, kissing him with enough heat to trigger a fire alarm. His low groan vibrates against my lips, his thumb tracing my cheekbone in that possessive way that turns my bones to liquid.
Heat rushes my face as I register our audience—Emily's dramatic gagging sounds, Bryn's appreciative murmur, Seraphina's soft giggle. The realization that everyone's watching only heightens the electricity between us, sending a delicious shiver down my spine.
"Jesus, get a room!" Lucian interrupts. "Save the Viking mating ritual for OnlyFangs, people! Some of us just ate!"
The penny drops.
I break away, catching that telltale glint in his eyes, the ghost of a satisfied smirk playing at his lips.
Oh. My. God. This devious man planned this whole thing—he's weaponized my exhibitionist streak against me.
Well played, Fjord Lord. Well played.
Nestled in a cozy booth at Ray's Boathouse, with a stunning view of Puget Sound, we girls grab our menus, ready to indulge in much-needed sustenance. After hours of pampering—mani-pedis and Brazilian waxes that left my legs and vag silky smooth—I'm practically purring with contentment.
On the other hand, Bryn is shifting gingerly in her seat, her face a mix of discomfort and annoyance. "Is this what men on Midgard truly prefer? A hairless mound?" she grumbles, her eyes narrowing. "I fail to see the appeal."
I can't help the snort that escapes me. "Oh, honey, just wait until Erik gets a load of your newly bare goods. Trust me, he'll be worshipping at the altar of your smooth snatch faster than you can say 'Valkyrie.'"
Bryn's lips twitch, a dangerous glint in her mismatched eyes. "The silver-haired fífl has never complained about my natural state."
"Oh, hewon't be complaining," I assure her. "He'll be too busy thanking every god in the Seven Realms."
The esthetician's warning about waiting 24 hours suddenly pops into my mind.
"Just remember—no test-driving the new look for at least a day. Gotta let things... settle down south."
Bryn's eyes flash with genuine outrage. "What treachery is this? You failed to mention this crucial detail before I allowed that woman to pour molten wax on my nethers!"
I shrug, trying not to laugh at her expression. "Oops. Must have slipped my mind during your screaming fit."
Bryn grumbles something under her breath in Norse, but the way she smiles tells me she's already plotting how to drive Erik wild with her new look. I lean back, basking in the satisfaction of a job well done. Operation 'Valkyrie Makeover' is officially a success.
Our waiter appears, looking slightly overwhelmed by our giggling group. He places a basket of bread at our table—notepad poised and ready. "What drinks can I get you, ladies?"
Sable, trapped at the end of the booth, launches into her drink order first—something fruity with enough alcohol to tranquilize a miniature horse. I catch Bryn eyeing the waiter's tattooed forearm with interest as if she's cataloging the differences between Midgardian men and their Asgardian counterparts.
"I'll have the blackberry mojito," I tell him, then gesture to Bryn with a mischievous smile. "And my sister here will try the Bloody Viking." I can't resist adding with a wink, "Extra spicy."
Bryn's eyes narrow, her warrior's posture suddenly alert as if I've just announced a battle strategy. "Bloody Viking?" she whispers with deadly seriousness. "They serve the blood of fallen warriors in this establishment?"
Emily snorts into her water while Seraphina's eyes widen to celestial proportions.
"Jesus, Bryn," I stifle my laughter behind my hand. "It's just tomato juice and vodka with horseradish. No actual Vikings were harmed in the making of this cocktail."
Bryn's expression shifts from battle-ready to slightly disappointed. "Midgardians have strange customs of honoring warriors," she mutters. "Very well. I shall sample this bloodless tribute."
