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Lord of Rage
Jill Monroe
Osborn: The Dark Warrior Princess Breena is plagued by strange powerful dreams – visions of a warrior lover. She’s never believed them true until she is taken from her home and cast into a dark, dangerous realm. Wandering this terrifying new world she encounters a mysterious woodland cottage – and the enigmatic stranger who haunts her dreams.Osborn, a dark warrior who has lived in hiding since his family suffered a vampire attack, is instantly captivated by Breena – and intent on seducing her. Yet Breena needs his protection more – and the supernatural skills he has long buried – to bring vengeance upon those who took her kingdom.



“My magic … it’s gone,” she told him.
Disappointment flashed across his eyes before it quickly faded. Or he masked it. Come on, Breena, you’re supposed to be good at reading people.
He placed the barest of kisses against her mouth. “Then tell me stop, and I’ll stop.”
How could she when she ached to finally live every emotion and sensation the Osborn of her dreams had promised?
She shook her head. “I can’t.”
His fingers began to caress the skin below her ears, never thinking how sensitive she was there. Something dark and slightly possessive flashed across his face, turning his features stony. But this wasn’t scary. Oh, it was dangerous, and should be a warning, but it was so, so tantalizing …
Breena wanted more.
Dear Reader,
Writing Lord of Rage was an amazing experience. Not only because I’ve always been a fan of dark, sizzling paranormal romance, but I also got to work with three talented authors—Gena Showalter (Lord of the Vampires), Jessica Andersen (Lord of the Wolfyn) and Nalini Singh (Lord of the Abyss).
We started out with a single idea—rewrite fairytales with a mystical twist—and from that, the Royal House of Shadows was born.
And, baby, did we have a blast! Our world is filled with dangerous magic, vampires and werewolves, and I couldn’t resist adding one more creature to the mix—an elusive berserker possessed with a strength and rage so intense, his enemies shudder with fear. Add in a lost princess and watch as the sparks start flying.
All my best,
Jill

About the Author
JILL MONROE makes her home in Oklahoma with her family. When not writing, she spends way too much time on the Internet completing “research” or updating her blog. Even when writing, she’s thinking of ways to avoid cooking.
Lord of Rage

Jill Monroe






www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
This book is dedicated to my husband and daughters—I love you all!
Thanks so much to Gena Showalter, Jessica Andersen
and Nalini Singh—you were so much fun to work
with from beginning to end!
A special thanks goes to Tara Gavin for making it all happen.
A shout out goes to Deidre Knight, and everyone at
The Knight Agency, whose support is invaluable.
And a trip down memory lane thank you to Missi Jay who
first introduced me to berserkers back in school when we
played the game on her Atari 2600 instead of studying.

Prologue
Once upon a time, in a land unseen by human eye, there was a beautiful princess … destined to wed to further her father’s political gains.
Not the kind of fairy tales Princess Breena of Elden grew up reading in the warmth of her mother’s solar room. In those stories, the princesses rode glowing unicorns, slept on piles of mattresses, their rest only interrupted by a tiny pea, or lived in towering enchanted castles filled with magical creatures.
Although, none of those princesses could talk to themselves in their dreams.
As far as magical abilities, Breena’s gift was pretty worthless. When she was a child, she could talk herself out of a nightmare, which was a bonus to her seven-year-old self, but now, as an adult, it didn’t add anything special. Her mother could look into the dreams of men, was able to send fearful emotions into the hearts of her father’s enemies or even peer into possible futures.
And once upon a time, Queen Alvina had married Breena’s father for her own father’s political ambition. Joining her magic to the blood drinker’s power. Her oldest brother, Nicolai, could absorb the powers of others, while her other brothers Dayn and Micah could mindspeak with the blood drinkers of their kingdom.
While Breena’s dream talking was not powerful … she could always connect to one particular warrior.
That’s how she referred to him while awake. Warrior. As she slept, she thought of him as lover. His dark eyes matched his unruly hair that she so liked to slide her fingers through. His broad shoulders begged for her touch. Her lips. Sometimes in her dreams he’d take her in his arms, his body big and powerful, and carry her to the nearest bed. Or down to the hard floor. Sometimes it was even against the wall. Her lover would tear her clothes, ripping them from her body, then cover her skin with the softness of his lips or roughness of his callused palms.
Breena would wake up, her heart pounding and her nipples hard and throbbing. She’d ache all over. She would draw her knees to her chest, trying to suck in air, clearing her mind of the need and the wanting.
Once she caught her breath, and her heartbeat slowed, she was left feeling only frustrated. She spent the time just after waking trying to remember. To get back into the dream. She’d been with her warrior a hundred times in her sleep, but what came after the clothes ripping and touching? Her dreams never told. Nor could she ever fully see his face. While she knew how he smelled, tasted and felt like beneath her fingertips, he remained elusive. Mysterious. A dream.
But one thing was for sure. If the man barged out of her dreams, through her door and stalked across her chamber, she’d be frightened. He was little more than savage. Fierce and primal. He wielded a sword as easily as she brandished a hairbrush.
Hairbrushing. Now that was important in the life of a princess. Especially one whose sole job was to marry. Breena sighed, and began to pace the confines of her room. Her feet as restless as her spirit.
And she knew those kind of thoughts would lead to danger.
In all the fairy tales her mother had read to her while growing up, a princess always got into the most trouble when she yearned for something more. She’d be tempting—no, challenging—fate, if she strode with a purpose to her window to gaze below, out past the castle gates, to the trees of the forest, and wonder … what if? What’s out there? Is there anything more than this?
She might as well swing the doors open wide and invite in disaster and offer it a cup of sweet tea.
Besides, how was she prepared for adventure? Out past the gates, armed with only a few paltry magical abilities, she’d be as lost as that little boy and girl whose trail of bread crumbs was eaten by the birds. If she could defeat a fearsome ogre with a fabulous meal plan, then what lay beyond those gates might not be so worrisome. But giants and ogres wouldn’t be impressed that she was competent in more than twenty kinds of dances from all over the realm. Or that she could arrange every detail from the musicians to the amount of candles needed in the great hall for a ball.
She eyed her discarded needlework. That’s what a princess should be concerned about. Perfect stitches.
Tomorrow her father would begin the search for her husband. Breena knew King Aelfric had put off the task; he didn’t want his daughter living away from him. His life with Alvina had started as a marriage of convenience where love had grown, and they’d forged a close-knit family. But that family was growing up and changing. Her oldest brother, Nicolai, quickly escaped the dinner table after the meal was over, most likely to the bed of a woman. As a gently bred princess of Elden, Breena wasn’t supposed to know those kinds of details—but she did. Already approaching the middle of her second decade, Breena was several years older than when her mother had arrived in Elden, ready to fulfill the marriage contract.
That’s why she was so restless. Their family could no longer hold back time and the changes a ticking clock brought with it. Soon she’d be leaving her childhood home, to marry, and go to another kingdom. She’d be in the arms of a man whose face she could see clearly, whose features were not fuzzy results of a dreamhaze. A man who’d show her what happened after the clothes came off. The time of her dream lover was over. It would be wrong to force him into her dreams once she belonged to another.
But she wasn’t married yet. Her fingers found the timepiece her mother had given her on her fifth birthday. She wore it on a necklace around her neck, a sword and shield decorating the front.
“Why a sword?” she’d asked. Though she was more prone to running through the castle rather than walking gracefully, even her five-year-old self knew weapons of war did not suit a princess.
Her mother had shrugged, secrets darkening her green eyes. “I don’t know. My magic forges the timepieces.” The queen bent and kissed Breena’s cheek. “But I do know it will aid you on your journey. Your destiny. Make it a good one.”
A craving to see her warrior jolted her. Breena should probably be worried that those cravings hit her more and more frequently.
But if her destiny were not to be with her warrior, then she’d take her mother’s advice and make her journey a good one. Breena kicked off her delicate slippers and lay down on her soft mattress, not bothering to slip out of her dress or tug the covers up over her chin. She closed her eyes and pictured a door. When her mother tried to teach her how to take over the dreamworld, she’d told her that all she had to do was turn the knob, and walk through. The door would take her anywhere she wished to be.
The door only took her to the mind of her fierce lover, and right now that was the only place she wanted to go.
She found him sharpening the steel of his blade. Breena often found him taking care of his weapons. In her dreams, she was never made nervous by his axes or swords or knives. She relished his ferocity, his ability to protect. Attack. She leaned against a tree and simply watched the play of his muscles across his shirtless back as he slid the cloth around the hilt.
Breena never found much time to simply observe him. The warrior in him was always on alert, and because she was in a dream, his features were never clearly defined. Did lines from his eyes indicate he liked to laugh? Were there lines across his forehead, marking him as a man of intensity and concentration? All she could see were broad brushstrokes. Not the kinds of things that would tell her who he was inside.
A smile curved her lips when his shoulders tensed. Her lover had sensed her presence. The sword and cleaning cloth dropped to the grass at his feet as he turned. Her nipples hardened as his gaze traveled up and down her body, his breath little more than a hiss. Breena squinted, once more trying to peer through the dreamhaze that never seemed to let her see the true angles of his face. Only his eyes. Those intense brown eyes.
His footsteps were silent as he walked over the leaves and twigs carpeting the ground. She pushed away from the tree, moving toward him, wanting to meet her lover as quickly as she could now that he knew she’d arrived.
This would be their last time together.
Or at least it should. She should be focusing on her kingdom, and aiding her father in selecting her husband.
Breena twined her hands around her lover’s neck to bring his lips down to hers. The man in her dream never kissed her gently, as she suspected a courtier bred to rule over a castle would. No, this man’s lips were demanding. His kiss was passionate and filled with primal desire.
“I want you naked,” he told her, his voice tight.
She blinked at him, startled for a moment. He had never talked before in her dreams. Breena liked his voice, elemental and filled with hunger for her. He reached for the material at her shoulders, ready to tear, but she stilled his hand. She didn’t want him to be the seducer this day, not that his lovemaking would be considered a smooth seduction. No, she wanted to be equal partners this last time. Breena wanted to undress for him.
With a twist of her wrists, she tugged at the ribbon between her shoulder blades and felt the fabric of her bodice give. Propelled by a slow roll of her shoulders, her dress began to fall. His eyes narrowed when her breasts were revealed, her nipples growing even tighter before his eyes. He reached for her. Breena knew what he would do the moment he had her in his grasp, and she laughed.
“Not yet,” she teased. Then she picked up her skirts and ran to the tree. She’d never played this game before … never thought to. She knew on some level her warrior lover would savor the chase. He would win, but she had every intention of letting him find her.
Although her lover was silent, Breena sensed he was close. She laughed again when his hand curved around her waist. He tugged her back against the solidness of his chest. The hard ridge of him pressed against her, and something needy and achy made her stomach feel hollow. The urge to tease and run vanished in an instant. Breena wanted—no, she needed—his hands on her body and his lips on her breasts.
Something hard clamped across her mouth. Confusion filled his dark eyes and the solid lines of him began to blur. Fade. His hands tightened around her arms, but it was too late.
“Stay with me,” he demanded. “What’s happening to you?”
She struggled, willing herself farther through the doorway, closer to him. But it was too late.
Breena fought against the force holding her head in place.
“Quiet,” a voice ordered.
She shook her head, and reached for her lover’s hand. But she grasped only air. Some thing, some force, was taking her away from him. “Help me,” she tried to call, but the hand covering her mouth wouldn’t let her speak.
And he was gone.
Breena was back in her bedchamber. Rolfe, a member of her parents’ personal security, stood over her. “Quiet, princess. The castle’s under attack. They’ve already taken the king and queen.”
She sat up, the last vestiges of her dream fading completely. As the meaning behind the guard’s words sank in, her fingers began to chill and her heart began to race. “We must help them,” she whispered.
Rolfe shook his head. “It’s too late for them. They’d want me to get you and your brothers and take you through the secret passageway out of the castle.”
“But …” she began to protest. Tears filmed her eyes and her throat began to tighten. The passageway had been built by some long-ago ancestor as a last-resort escape route if the inhabitants of the castle feared there was no other option but flight.
“Come, princess, and hurry. Put on some shoes. We must fetch Micah and Dayn.”
“What about Nicolai?”
The guard shook his head.
Fear slammed into her. The enormity of their danger finally penetrated her dreamhaze. This wasn’t an attack on the castle, like those easily repelled in the past; this was an all-out onslaught. “He’s been taken, too?”
“I cannot find him. Come, we must save who we can.”
Breena began to shudder, but took a deep breath. She had to be strong and face whatever danger lay ahead. Her brothers depended on her.
After sliding her feet into the slippers at the foot of her bed, she followed Rolfe down the hallway that led her to Dayn’s and Micah’s chambers. Below she heard the clash and clang of sword against shield. The war cry. And the sound of death.
She quickened her pace, quietly stealing into Micah’s room first as Rolfe went to Dayn’s. Earlier they’d celebrated Micah’s fifth birthday. It was now up to her to make sure he celebrated another. If she had her mother’s abilities, she’d already be placing awakening thoughts in her brother’s dreams. Instead, she would have to gently shake him on the shoulder.
“Where’s my brother?” she asked the maid after walking into the chamber where her brother slept.
“His nanny took him. To one of the high rooms in the castle.”
Breena sagged in relief.
“But what should we do about the little cousin?”
Her hand flew to cover her gasp. Their cousin, Gavin, who wasn’t much older than four, had come for the party. She doubted any of the guards would think to check on him. She raced down the hallway to where he slept.
“Gavin, darling,” she whispered. “Get dressed. You’ve got to come with me and Rolfe.”
Her little cousin rubbed at his eyes. “Why?” he asked, more asleep than awake.
“We’re playing hide-and-seek,” she told him with a smile.
He sat up in bed, confused by the timing, but still ready for the game. Gavin was young enough for her to carry. She simply lifted him from the covers and draped him over her shoulder. She sang a soft lullaby in his ear so he wouldn’t grow fretful and loud.
Rolfe joined her in the hallway. “Dayn’s not in his room.”
Fear for her dear older brother made her shake all over again. “Perhaps he’s already escaped.”
Doubt flickered in Rolfe’s eyes for a moment, before the guard quickly masked it. Dayn was in charge of protecting the outer walls of the castle. Of course he’d be involved in any kind of defense. But their defenses had already been breached. That would mean her brother—
No, she would not allow her thoughts to go there. Right now she must take care of Gavin. Rolfe was already rushing toward the corridor that would lead to the escape route no one in Elden had needed in several generations. Who would be attacking them? Why? Their kingdom had been at peace with most every other in the realm.
Rolfe pushed aside a heavy tapestry revealing the door leading to their means of escape. The sounds of fighting still echoed from below, but were growing closer. The hidden door groaned when Rolfe pushed at the ancient wood. When it finally gave way, the hinges objected loudly after their lack of use for years.
“Stop!”
Breena turned to see a hideous creature, one created from evil. Its eight legs, gleaming with razors and dripping with the blood of her people, sped toward her. It would get them all if she didn’t do something to distract it.
“You must walk now, Gavin.”
“But I want you to carry me,” he protested.
“Princess,” the monster called to her, baring its fangs. She realized the revolting beast was focused solely on her. Would do anything to get her, including killing her cousin.
“Go!” she screamed, pushing Gavin into Rolfe’s side, and slammed the door shut.
“Breena,” she heard her little cousin cry. But then she heard a comforting click as Rolfe slid the dead bolt from the inside. Relief made her legs shake. Taking a deep breath, she turned. The monster was almost at her side. Like her mother, this creature wielded magic, except it harnessed the dark powers that came only from corrupting life-sustaining blood.
It shoved her against the wall, one of its razor-adorned legs trapping her in place. It tugged at the handle, but the door didn’t budge. “No matter. They can’t hide in there forever.” Then it looked over at her. Its eyes were cold. She’d never seen eyes so full of … nothingness. It chilled her.
A smile, if one could even call it that, pulled at its upper lip. “Come. The master will want to see you.”
It grabbed her arm, and she sucked in a breath as one of the razors pierced her skin. Her captor dragged her to the staircase where the fighting still waged. Only the crash of sword against sword was already fading as it pulled her down to the great hall. The agonized moans of the injured and dying mingled with the terrified weeping of the captured. Then she spotted her parents on the dais where they held court, chained to their thrones. A mocking humiliation.
Anger began to grow in her chest, chasing away the fear. Her father lay slumped where he once ruled proudly. Blood ran down his cheek and pooled at his feet. So much blood. Too much blood. A sob tore from her throat, and she yanked her arm from her captor’s grasp. She couldn’t let him die like that. Not her father, who ruled with justice, who loved his people.
The blow came from behind. It knocked her to the floor, the cold stone of the hearth cutting her forehead. Blackness began to move across her vision, and she blinked to try to clear it and the pain. She met her father’s gaze. He didn’t have much longer to live. Breena forced herself to look at her mother. Her beautiful mother with the striking silver hair, now stained red from the blood she’d shed.
Her parents reached for each other, and the gesture comforted her. They’d die together. Dark brown eyes flashed across her mind. Her dream warrior would fight these creatures who practiced blood magic. He’d die trying to save, to avenge. She wished he were here now.
“No!” called a man, his tone cold. He had a voice that sounded like death.
Breena knew without having to be told that the man, or something that had once been a man, who raced toward her parents was the Blood Sorcerer. A legend. A rumor. Tall and skeletal, this was the creature mothers warned of; he took those foolish to leave the safety of Elden and turned them evil.
Something potent swirled between her parents’ outstretched hands. They weren’t reaching for each other as she’d first thought, they were rallying their powers. Breena reached for the timepiece, her fingers worrying into the sword and shield decorating the front. How ironic, when what she really needed was a sword and shield.
And a man who could wield that sword.
Her timepiece began to warm and glow against her skin. A wave of magic shuddered through her entire body, and Breena no longer felt the sting from the cut of her temple or the coldness of the hard stone beneath her body.
Breena’s last thought was of her warrior.

Chapter 1
A furore libera nos, Domine! Deliver us from the fury, O Lord!
Ten Years Ago
Osborn’s fingers tightened around the smooth handle of his spear. He’d spent countless hours peeling away the bark and sanding the rough wood until it felt easy in his hand. His legs shook in anticipation as he sat at the campfire, watching the logs turn orange and the smoke rise to the stars. His last night as a child. Tomorrow he’d follow the path his father—and his father’s father and the generations of his forebearers—had once all walked since the beginning of the beginning. Tomorrow he’d meet the final challenge. Tomorrow he’d become a man or he’d die.
“You must sleep,” his father told him.
Osborn glanced up. Even in the dimness of the firelight he could recognize the tension bracketing his father’s eyes. Tomorrow he’d either join his father as a warrior or his father would be burying another son.
“I’m not tired,” he admitted.
With a nod, his father joined him on the ground, the fire warming the chill night air. “Neither could I that night.”
Osborn’s eyes narrowed. Even though he’d asked a dozen times about his father’s Bärenjagd, he’d said little. A father’s task was to prepare his son for the fight, but what to expect, how to feel … that battle was left for each boy to face alone. On his own terms. It defined the warrior he’d become.
If he lived.
An abrupt shake to his shoulder awoke Osborn in the morning. Somehow he’d fallen into a deep sleep. “It’s time.”
The fire had died, and he resisted the urge to pull his pelt around him tighter. Then he remembered.
It was now.
A smile tugged at his father’s lower lip when he saw the suddenness of Osborn’s actions. In a flash of movement he was dressed, bedroll secured and spear in hand.
“It’s time,” he announced to his father, repeating the words he’d been given.
They were eye-to-eye now, and still Osborn would grow taller. Later tonight he’d be returning a man, welcomed to take his place among the warriors.
His father nodded. “I will tell you what my father told me, and I suspect his father and the fathers before him. What you must do now, you do alone. Leave your aleskin here, and take no food. Nothing but your weapon. Be brave, but above all, be honorable.”
“How will you know when it is done?” he asked.
“I will know. Now go.”
Osborne turned on his heel, and trekked silently though the brush as his father had first taught him so many years ago. One of his many lessons. Last night they’d slept on the outskirts of the sacred bear lands. Now was the time he must cross over.
With a deep breath he stepped onto the sacred land, reveling in the unexpected thrust of power that pounded into his body. The surge swelled in his chest, then grew, infusing his limbs, his fingers. With new energy, he gripped his spear and began to run. Running faster than he’d ever run before, he followed that tug of power, trusting his instincts.
Time lost meaning as he ran. He never grew tired, even as the sun continued to rise in the sky. His vision narrowed, and the heavy tang of musk scented the air. Bear musk.
The time was now.
Every muscle, every sense, tightened. Instinct again told him to turn his head, and then he saw it.
The bear was a giant. Towering more than two feet above Osborn, its fierce claws curved, its dark brown fur pulled tight over taut muscles. Osborn met the fearsome creature’s eyes. Again something powerful slammed into him, and his muscles locked. His body froze.
The bear growled at him, a thunderous sound that made the earth beneath his feet rumble. Osborn felt his eyes widen, but he still could not move.
The time was now.
Osborn forced his fingers to shift, his arm to relax. Then, with a flowing arc he’d practiced alongside his father hundreds of times, he sent his spear soaring. The sound of its sharpened tip whizzed through the air. The animal roared when Osborn’s weapon sank into his chest. Blood darkened its coat.
With a guttural cry, Osborn sprinted to where the bear had stumbled to the ground, pawing at the wood lodged inside its body. The animal went wild as Osborn neared, striking toward him with those killer claws. A wave of fear shuddered down his spine. The rusty, salty scent of blood hit his nostrils. The breathy, angered groaning of the bear made Osborn shake his head, trying to clear the sound. The bear rolled to its feet, once more towering above him, and close. So close.
He steeled his resolve. He was to be a warrior. A brave one. Osborn reached for the spear. One weapon was all a boy was allowed to take. The bear swiped at him, his claws ripping through the cloth of his shirt, tearing the skin of his bicep. With a mighty blow, the animal sent Osborn to the ground, the air knocked out of his lungs by the force.
Forget the pain. Forget the blood. Forget the fear.
Once again, Osborn’s focus narrowed. He reached for the spear again, this time dragging it from the bear’s body. But not without a price. The mighty animal clawed at him again, leaving a trail of torn flesh crossing from his shoulder down to his hip. The pain was agony, and his vision blurred, but he steadied his hand and aimed at the animal’s throat.
The animal fell to the ground again, but Osborn knew it would not be getting back to its feet. He met those dark brown eyes of the bear. A wave of anguished compassion settled into Osborn. This was why the warriors never told of their experiences.
The bear took a labored breath, blood trickling from its nose. Osborn squeezed his eyes tight, fighting the nausea that threatened. His glance drifted to the pain-glazed eyes of the bear. He was dishonoring this great animal’s spirit by letting it suffer. The bear’s soul clamored for its release. Its next journey.
The time was now.
Osborn grabbed the spear once more, then plunged it directly in the bear’s heart, ending its life. A rush of energy slammed into him, almost knocking him backward. He fought it, but it was ripping and tearing through his soul. The ber energy fused with his own nature, turning him into the warrior the rest of the realm referred to as berserkers.
He felt his muscle begin to quiver, feeling weak from his loss of blood. But the wounds would heal. He’d be stronger than ever before. Osborn gulped in air and stumbled his way back to the place where he’d parted from his father.
Intense relief passed across his father’s face, and his brown eyes warmed when he saw Osborn approach. Osborn immediately straightened despite the pain. He was a warrior; he’d greet his father that way. But his father hugged him, grabbed him and held him tight to his chest. For a few moments he basked in his father’s pride and love before his father broke away and began packing away their camp supplies.
“It was harder than I thought. I didn’t think I’d feel this way,” Osborn blurted out for no reason he could guess. He regretted his rash words instantly. That was a boy’s sentiments. Not a man’s. Not a warrior’s.
But his father only nodded. “It’s not supposed to be easy. Taking of a life, any life, should never be something done without need and compassion.” He stood, slinging his pack over his shoulder. “Guide me to the bear. We must prepare it.”
They trekked silently together, crossing into the sacred land to where the bear had taken its final breaths. His father taught him to honor the bear in the ancient ways, then they set to work.
“Now you possess the heart of the bear. As a warrior of Ursa, you will carry the bear’s spirit with you. Your ber spirit will always be there, waiting silent within you, ready for your call. The strength of the bear comes to you when you wear your Bärenhaut,” his father told him, lifting up the bear pelt. “Do not don your pelt without thought and careful consideration. You will be able to kill, Osborn, and kill easily. But only with honor.”
“I will, Father,” he vowed with a humble sense of pride. “What do we do now?”
“We take the meat back so our people can eat. The claws we use for our weapons. We don’t waste what the bear has given us. We revere its sacrifice.” His father ran a finger down the bear’s fur. “But the pelt, that belongs to you. You wear it only when you go into battle and must call upon the spirit of the bear.”
As he’d observed with his father, and the dozen of Ursa warriors who guarded their homeland. Now he was joining their elite ranks.
They came at night. But then vampires were strongest at night. Attacking when all would be asleep. While the warriors and their sons were on Bärenjagd. A coward’s choice.
The cries of women filled the night air. The blaze of burned homes and barns and grain silos lit up the sky. Father and son took in the scene below. Osborn’s mother was down there. His sister.
His father shucked his clothing, grabbing for his Bärenhaut and sword, which were never far out of reach. Osborn’s own bear pelt wasn’t ready, not yet dried by the sun, but still he reached for the fur, drawing it about his bare shoulders. Blood and sinew still clung to the pelt, and seeped into Osborn through the wounds on his arm and down his body. A powerful rage took him over. He felt nothing else. No sadness over the bear, no worry or concern for his brothers or sister and mother, no anguish over the loss of the food stores that would keep his people alive through the harsh winter. Osborn felt nothing but the killing rage.
With a war cry, he charged down the hill, to his village, his people. To do battle. Not heeding the warning of his father. A vampire turned at his call, blood dripping from his chin, a chilling smile on his cruel lips.
The anger, the force of his rage, overpowered him. He charged the vamp, grabbing for his throat, tearing at his flesh, ripping at the creature’s body with his bare hands. He didn’t need a stake, only his fist, slamming through skin, bone, to the heart below. The vamp collapsed at his feet.
Osborn turned, ready to kill another. And he did. Again and again. But the Ursa warriors were outnumbered. Armed with clubs, the vampires waited to ambush the father-and-son pairs slowly returning, easy and unaware targets. The creatures knew what they were doing, fighting his people with neither blade nor fire.
The bodies of his neighbors lay among the blood drinkers he’d killed. In the distance, he still saw his father in the fight, easily taking on two vamps, his berserkergang a trusted ally. But then he saw his father fall. Vamps were ready to suck the last of his life force. His spirit.
“No,” he cried, his rage growing, building. He grabbed a sword from one of the fallen vamps as he ran. The blade might not do damage to his flesh, but it would soon find a home in a vampire’s bitter, dark heart.
The blood drinker at his father’s throat lost his head without knowing the threat approaching. The second vampire was able to put up a fight, fueling Osborn’s anger. He laughed into the dawn as the vampire fell at his feet. He turned ready for more, to kill more. His rage only soothed by the death of his enemy. But he was surrounded.
Vampires moved at incredible speeds to join those slowly encircling him. Even with his berserkergang upon him, the spirit of the bear filling him, he knew he could not defeat this many vampires. The vampires had made sure there was no one to help him.
He’d just make sure he took as many as he could with them when he died. He raised his sword, preparing to do battle.
Just as quickly as the vampires had moved to surround him, they stopped. Light began to filter through the leaves of the trees. One by one the vampires left, faster than his eyes could track.
“Come back and fight,” he called to them.
The sound of the wind rustling over the grass was his only answer.
“Fight, cowards.”
But his rage was fading, only anguish left in its place. His pelt began to slip off his shoulders.
Those vampires still left dying on the ground began to sizzle. Smoke rose to the sky from their bodies, and soon they were nothing but ash. The smell was horrific, and he turned away, sinking to the ground by his father’s prone body.
He lifted his father’s hand. It was cold, lifeless. Tears pricked at his eyes, but he blinked them back, in honor of the spirit of the man who’d died to save his people.
The vamp Osborn had relieved of his head left nothing behind but his tunic. Under the cover of the night, he hadn’t realized the attackers had been similarly dressed. His own people did not dress alike when they engaged in battle. But one kingdom of the realm did. The magical vampires of Elden. He recognized the navy and purple colors of Elden’s royal military guard.
It made no sense. Nothing made sense. There’d been peace between his people and Elden for generations. The king only had to ask, and the Ursan warriors would fight at his side.
Only one thing made sense in Osborn’s mind—every last resident of Elden would die by his hand.
The day was filled with hard, gruesome work. He carefully gathered the bodies of his people, trying to remember them as they were—his neighbors, his school buddies, not these lifeless bodies covered in blood and desecrated by bloodthirsty vampires. He found his mother cradling the small, lifeless body of his sister, protecting her even in death. His sister’s favorite bear doll in its frilly pink dress lay nearby. Trampled.
By the time the sun was overhead, his grisly task was nearly complete. Tradition dictated the funeral pyre should be set at dusk, burning into the night. But he suspected his family would forgive him for not making himself an easy target for vampires waiting to rip out his throat. Except there were two members of his family unaccounted for. His two younger brothers, Bernt and Torben.
For the first time since his berserkergang left him, and he was free to see the carnage left in Elden’s wake, did Osborn feel a small twinge of hope. His younger brothers played marathon games of hide-and-seek, but this time their skill at not being found might have saved their lives. And their older brother knew their favorite place. Picking up his steel and pelt, Osborn took off at a sprint.
The earthen smells of the cave was a welcome relief from the smoky ash and blood and death where he’d been working. He whistled into the cave. He heard no returning sound, but he sensed they were in there. Wanted them to be. Needed it. Osborn had never understood his younger siblings’ fascination for this place. He hated the enclosed, dark hole that was the cave, but after chores, his brothers would spend hours in the shelter of the rock. He hoped it held true this time. Osborn took a step inside. “Bernt, are you here? Torben? Come out, brothers,” he urged quietly.
He heard the quick intake of breath, and a relief like no other made his throat tighten.
“It’s Osborn. Take my hand,” he suggested as he forced his fingers deeper into the cave with dread and hope.
He was rewarded by small fingers encircling his hand. Two sets of hands. Thank the gods.
He gently drew them outside the cave, their dirty faces blinking in the harsh sunlight so welcome.
“Mom told us to hide,” Bernt said, guilt already hardening his young face.
“We wanted to fight,” Torben defended. “But she made us promise.”
He gave a quick squeeze to each of their shoulders. The way his father would. “You did the right thing. Now you will live to fight another day.” As he had lived. As he would fight.
After gathering what stores they could find and carry, his brothers helped Osborn light the pyre, saying a prayer for the spirits of their people.
The three of them traveled far away from Ursa, crossing through the various kingdoms of their world. Osborn spent his days hustling for food, trying to keep his brothers safe and work on their training. But he soon learned the only marketable skills a warrior of Ursa possessed was for that of killing. Hired out as a mercenary. An assassin.
The boy who’d once mourned the death of a fearless animal now enjoyed the killing. The smell of death. The pleas of his prey.
Osborn thrived under the threat of his imminent death. Not even the pleasure found between a woman’s legs could quell the blood fury. Only when he faced the steel of another’s blade did his senses awake. Only when the sting of pain lashed through him did he feel … anything.
Only when he witnessed his life’s blood pumping from his body with each beat of his heart did he hear the echoing pulse of his ancestors'. Now gone. All dead. Except him. He always survived.
But the royals of the various kingdoms of their realm grew worried and fearful of this man they’d once hired. A man who took jobs without question was not a man to be trusted.
Now he was the hunted.
And once again, eight years since fleeing his homeland, Osborn gathered his younger brothers and fled, this time deep into the woody plains of the sacred bear, a place where no one but an Ursa warrior would dare to tread. And those warriors were all gone.

Chapter 2
Breena stumbled through the tall grass and bramble. Large thorns tore at the delicate skin of her bare legs, but she no longer cried out in pain. If she were at home in Elden, she could blunt the pain with her magic, force it through some door in her mind and slam it shut. But that power eluded her in this unfamiliar place. Here, wherever she was, she had to endure it. Push through the throbbing of her tired muscles and the sting from the cuts and abrasions running up and down her arms and legs.
The voluminous folds of her once-ornate skirt, her protection from the harsh wilderness, was now gone, ripped and torn away as she’d traveled. Blood ran down her legs from the scratches, joining the dried layer already caked to her calves. Her knees were skinned, and still she drove herself to put one foot in front of another. She pushed forward as she’d been doing since she’d been ripped from her own realm and thrown … somewhere.
She stepped on a rock, its sharp edge digging into the tender arch of her foot; the dainty slippers she’d been wearing when she’d woken up were long gone. She stumbled again, this time falling to the ground, and, as she landed, she lost the last of her strength. Breena would cry if she had even a tiny sliver of energy. She hadn’t eaten in days, the only water she’d had was when she’d sipped off plant leaves. No one looking at her now would ever think she’d once been a princess. One who could do magic.
She pulled her hands together, closed her eyes and concentrated, willing her magic to appear. Produce a trickle of water or a berry to eat. But it did not. Just like it hadn’t appeared since she’d arrived with only two thoughts she couldn’t chase from her mind. Two seemingly opposing goals.
To survive. To kill.
Breena rubbed at her brows, trying to soothe the sharp ache knotting behind her eyes. Those goals seemed to come from someplace outside of her. Survival from someone warm, caring … Her mother? She hugged her arms around herself—yes, her mother would want her to live.
To avenge. To kill. That thought was masculine. Powerful. Authoritative. Her father.
And yet, she’d not do either. She’d neither live nor live to kill. Unless killing herself by pushing forward counted.
She doubted it was what her father had in mind. Her fingers went to the timepiece that had somehow survived whatever kind of hellish force brought her to this wild place. An unknown vengeance burned deep inside her, and she understood, perhaps since waking up dazed and alone in this strange land, that her parents had done something to her. Why here? Were they de—Pain ripped behind her eyes, making her gasp. Her parents … The throbbing always came when her thoughts lingered too long on them. She didn’t even know if they were alive or dead. But each time her attention drifted their way, Breena could see a little more. Until the pain took over.
Breena would die either way, so she might as well keep going.
Bracing for the pain, she pulled herself up off the ground and stood. She took an unsteady step, followed by another.
A bird flew overhead. She’d heard a story once about a lost boy following a bird and it leading him to a beautiful meadow filled with fruit and a pond of cool, delicious water. Of course, the boy got lost there, and never returned home. Breena was sure there was some lesson buried in the story, warning curious children about wandering off, but right now, she could only focus on the drinking and eating part.
Shading her eyes, she decided following the bird was the best plan she had so far. She spotted another skull attached to a tree. This was the third she’d seen just like that.
A bear skull.
She had to be in Ursa. The clan with the affinity to the great bear. Fought like them, she’d heard her father comment, clearly impressed. The Ursan kingdom had been allied to her own since her great-grandfather’s time. He’d negotiated the conditions himself. If she could just find them, find their village, perhaps they could help her get back to Elden. No, the Ursans were all gone. If only those warriors could help her with both goals, live and kill. The thoughts she’d woken up with two days ago.
Was it two? Felt like more. Like her home in Elden was a lifetime ago. Time was so hazy. It didn’t make sense. Like so many things since she’d woken up. Breena remembered something happening to her home, fear for her brothers. When she closed her eyes tight, images of her mother and father appeared. Performing last magic.
But why did they send her here?
Pain ripped across her chest, and Breena shook her head. She didn’t want those images in her mind. But something had happened to her. Traces of magic surrounded her. Someone else’s magic. Certainly not hers.
Instead, she tried to replace the images of her parents with that of her warrior. As she slept beneath the protective cover of trees, Breena attempted to walk into his dream. His mind. But just like her missing magic, her warrior was lost to her now, too. She found no door.
So she followed the bird, a hawk, as it made a lazy loop in the sky above her head.
“Please be thirsty,” she whispered. And hungry.
The bird made a squealing sound and dove. Breena forced energy into her feet. Her legs. Not her misplaced magic, but old-fashioned willpower. She sprinted as she chased the bird. Jumping over a fallen log, avoiding a thorny bush.
She came into a small clearing, only to spy the bird claiming a perch rather than hunting for sustenance. Disappointment cut into her side like a stitch, and she rested her hands on her thighs, dragging in large gulps of air. No meadow, no pond … just a perch. She glanced up to glare at the hawk, and then realized it was perched upon the gable of a cottage. A well-kept cottage.
The clearing around the wood cabin was neat and free of weeds and stones. A small plowed area—a garden, perhaps—lay to one side. That meant there had to be water and food inside.
With a squeal she raced to the door, fearing it would be locked. But she’d break through the window if she had to. She knocked on the door, but no one came to invite her inside. Polite niceties of etiquette over, she turned the handle, and thankfully the knob twisted easily and she pushed the door open.
Wholesome grain and cinnamon scented the air. There, on the stove, stood a large pot of oatmeal. Everything in her body seized. Food. Food. Reaching for the ladle she began to eat from the large utensil. Irritated with the awkwardness of it all, she tossed the spoon on the counter and dug in with her hands, feeding herself like an animal. Her mother would be appalled.
But then it was her mother who’d wanted her to survive. To live.
Her very empty stomach protested as the food hit, and she forced herself to slow down. Breena didn’t want to make herself sick. A pitcher stood on the table. She didn’t care what was inside; even if it were blackberry juice, she was going to drink it. She put the spout to her lips, and allowed the sweet taste of lemonade to fill her mouth and slide down her throat.
Despite her efforts to slow down, nausea struck her and she began to shudder. She took a blind step to the left, falling down hard on a chair at an awkward angle. With a sharp crack, the legs gave way and the chair broke, taking her to the floor.
Breena began to laugh. Tears formed at the corners of her eyes and fell down her cheeks. She’d found herself a cottage, and she was still stumbling to the ground. No one would believe her to be a princess with oatmeal drying on her hands and lemonade dripping down her chin.
The wave of nausea passed only to be replaced by a bone-deep weariness. Breena had already eaten this family’s meal and broken their furniture, but she didn’t think she could attempt another thing except lay her head down and close her eyes. She spotted an open door leading to another room of the cottage. Her spirits lifted; perhaps a bed awaited. With one last surge of strength, she crawled across the wooden floor, delighted to see not one but three beds. None were as grand or ornate as the sleigh bed she had in her tower room in Elden. No heavy draperies hung from hooks above the headboard, nor was the bed covered by mounds and mounds of fluffy pillows in bright colors, but they were flat, clean and looked comfortable. Of course, anything would be comfortable after sleeping on the hard, cold ground for days … weeks? Her perception was off; she couldn’t grasp what was real.
What she needed was a good night’s sleep. She should leave some kind of a note for the inhabitants, but her eyes were already drooping. The combination of fear, hunger, weakness and displacement finally zapped what was left of her waning strength. She fell across the largest of the beds, too tired to even slip beneath the covers.
Too weary to even attempt dreamtime with the warrior.
It was a good thing they weren’t hunting for food because his brothers’ loud voices would have scared away any game. Osborn glanced over at Bernt. In a year, he’d be looking him in the eye. Torben wasn’t that far behind.
If they still lived in their homeland and he was any kind of good big brother, Bernt would have already tested his strengths as a warrior at his Bärenjagd by now. Guilt slammed into Osborn. He should have prepared his brother better, led him to the rites that would make him a man before his people. Before all of the Ursa realm.
But there was no Ursa realm anymore.
What good was the Bärenjagd, the berserkergang, if he couldn’t save his people? If it left him hunted like an animal? Nothing better than another man’s mercenary?
Yet a restlessness hovered over his brother. A need not fulfilled. Bernt had become prone to taking off into the woods, with dark moods and fits of anger that didn’t resemble the avenging rage of a berserker.
Unfulfilled destiny.
Osborn would have to do something. And soon. An urgency now laced the air. Doubt after doubt crashed into him. Had he worked with Bernt enough on handling his spear? Keeping his balance in combat? Steadying his nerves?
Osborn scrubbed his hand down his face. More than likely, his thoughts mirrored the worries and reservations of his own father. Thoughts his father must have hidden as he’d stared into the fire while his young son Osborn slept nearby.
Only Osborn wasn’t Bernt’s father. Didn’t possess his wisdom. What could he teach about honor? He’d lost his years ago.
His brothers zipped past him, racing for the door. Bernt was in a good mood today. A rarity. Chopping wood for hours under the blazing sun had bled the aggression from him. For the day. The two crashed through the front door, knocking off each other’s hats, and generally being loud. But then when were they not loud? At least he’d given them a childhood of carefree days. At least he’d given them that much.
The pot of oatmeal he’d thought he’d left on the stove now lay on the kitchen table. The ladle lay discarded on the scarred wooden countertop, slops of grain sliding down the sides and waiting to be cleaned.
“Who did that?” he bellowed.
The lemonade pitcher was filthy. Dried glops of oatmeal stuck to the handle and it appeared someone had taken a drink directly from the spout.
“No one’s going to want to drink from this now. How hard is it to get a cup?”
And when had he become an old woman?
“I didn’t do it,” Torben said.
“Me neither,” Bernt replied. Already his shoulders were stiffening, his brighter mood growing stormy.
“I don’t care who did it.” How many times had he said that since taking over the care and responsibility of his younger brothers? “Both of you can help clean it up.” And that?
Osborn moved, and the sound of splintering wood broke the tense silence. “Look at the chair.” He pointed to the remnants of Bernt’s attempt at furniture.
“There’s another one that’s busted,” Bernt grumbled.
“You’ll get the hang of woodworking,” Osborn told him, forcing as much reassurance into his voice as he could muster.
Bernt’s look grew defiant. “I’m supposed to be a warrior.”
Yes, and there lay the problem.
“Well, now you’re a would-be warrior who works with wood,” he said simply, as if it fixed and explained everything. But how long could the three of them pretend?
Torben crouched and reached for one of the busted chair legs. He tossed it from hand to hand as Osborn had once done with a spear. Osborn had been ignoring the fact that his other brother also exhibited every sign of being a warrior.
“This chair didn’t fall apart by itself. It broke with force.” His brother met his gaze. “Someone’s been here.”
“Told you I didn’t make the mess,” Bernt said, his voice still a mix of defiance and triumph. “Someone’s been eating our food.”
“And someone’s been sitting in our chair,” echoed his brother.
But Osborn barely heard. All his senses were focusing. Narrowing. The cold began to creep down his limbs, hardening his muscles. For the first time he noticed the tiny bits of grass leading to their bedchamber.
His fingers slid down his boot for the blade. His brother was already handing him the pack sheltering his berserker pelt. The pack was always within reaching distance of one of them.
He crept silently across the wooden floor. Telling his brothers to stay back would be useless. Someone had invaded their home. Any warning Osborn issued to them could not compete with Ursan warrior instincts.
A soft sound, like a moan, drifted from the bedchamber. The chill began to subside. His berserkergang sensed whatever made that noise was no threat, and began to stand down. But that moan … it shafted through his body, alerting all his senses in a different manner. As a man.
The three of them peered inside the room.
“Someone’s sleeping in your bed. And she’s still there.”
Osborn stalked into the room. The woman lay on her stomach on his bed, her long blond hair fanning across his pillow. Something primal kicked him in the gut.
“Is she dead?” Torben whispered.
His gaze lowered to the even rise and fall of her back. He shook his head, relief chasing the last of his berserker’s nature away. “She’s asleep.”
Why were they whispering? This woman had invaded their home, messed his kitchen and destroyed his property. But he couldn’t work up any sense of outrage.
The woman looked as if she’d fallen onto his bed, and gone to sleep. Like a dream come true for most men.
She sighed, a soft delicate sound, and hiked up her leg. No covers hid her from his view. Her legs were bare, and his gaze followed all the way up.
Holy hell. What was left of her skirt has been ripped away, and he could see the rounded curve of her ass. Desire, hot and heavy, hit him. Hardened him. Sweat broke out along his brow.
He forced his eyes downward once more, this time noticing the deep cuts and abrasions all up and down her legs, marring her delicate skin.
How did—? Who would—?
Something deeply buried rose within him. A force as strong as his bear spirit. Not warring, but mingling. Joining and growing more powerful. His.
“Leave,” he ordered his brothers.
Neither needed a second command from Osborn. They recognized the chill in his voice. The forces charging through him. They fairly tripped over each other fleeing the room.
A line crossed her brow as the clumsy shuffling footsteps of his brothers escaping the bedroom penetrated her sleep. She rolled over and his gaze traveled down once more. He’d never seen a face so delicate, her bones fine and skin that looked almost too soft to touch. Her chin was another thing—not softly rounded like the rest of her, but stubborn. The flaw only made her more appealing. Pink tipped her cheeks and nose, like someone who’d been in the sun too long. The material of her bodice was dirty and torn, many parts missing, but Osborn could tell it had once been fine. Expensive.
Who was she?
The woman took a deep breath, her breasts rising and drawing his attention. Osborn could not look away. Flashes of her bare skin peeked through the rips of her clothing. His eyes narrowed and he could see the rosier skin of her nipples.
His.
The primal conviction drove a harsh thrust of heat and desire through him. Osborn stepped toward her. Peered down at her sleeping figure in his bed. He could see every line of her face. The dark fan of her eyelashes. The soft curve of her bottom lip. He forced his hands down to his sides. Fisted his hands so he wouldn’t be tempted to touch her. Trace his fingers along the skin of her arm. Her cheek. Find out for himself if she was as soft as she looked.
What the hell was he thinking? She wasn’t his. One person didn’t possess another. He willed his body to back down.
Just then her eyes opened, green and sleepy. His gaze darted to her lips, which were turning into a smile. A smile for him.
“Warrior,” she said, and hugged his pillow to her chest, still more asleep than awake.
Everything in him controlled and restrained disappeared. Osborn needed to feel her in his arms, kiss that mouth. He reached for her shoulders, dragging her unresisting body toward him. Her eyes widened as he dipped his head.
He tasted the sweet tartness of the lemonade on her lips. But nothing in this world he’d ever sampled was as good as her. Osborn wound his fingers in the messy strands of her blond hair, drawing her still closer. Smashing the softness of her breasts against his chest.
His heartbeat pounded, and he took advantage of her unresisting lips and plunged his tongue in her mouth, savoring her, twining his tongue with hers. No, nothing he’d ever had tasted this good. Felt this good. Made him feel this good. Except …
Except one thing. The woman who invaded his dreams. Tormented his nights. Left him alone feeling tortured, battling a fierce wanting and hungry for more.
He pulled his mouth from hers. Thrust her away.
The sound of their harsh breathing filled the small bedroom. The woman blinked up at him, confusion pulling her brows together. A flush rose along the delicate chords of her neck and across her collarbone. She’d been as affected by that kiss as much as he had. Satisfaction curled in his gut.
She ran her fingers along her lower lip, and he longed to trace that path with his tongue. Suck those fingers into his mouth. All the torment and hunger and wanting torturing his body when he awoke from his dreams with her was magnified tenfold, a hundredfold, for having the real thing in his arms. This wasn’t a dream … was it?
“You’re real?” he asked, his voice raw and harsh.
Her nod was slow in coming.
Then he knew. The woman in front of him wasn’t some dream girl his imagination had conjured to taunt him in the night. The haze that seemed to surround her in his dreams was gone. She lay before him in sharp focus. Osborn remembered the utter helplessness he’d felt, raged against, when he tried to draw her back to him that last time. How he’d failed.
Somehow she’d put herself there. She was responsible for all the anguished desire he’d felt. All his want. Need. His yearning for something he could never have.
Thought he could never have.
His.
Yes, she was his.
His berserkergang was wrong to back down, assessing the woman in his bed posed no risk. Everything about her was a threat to him. And still the chill signaling the approach of his berserkergang did not hit him.
Something must have been in his eyes, or the set of his lips must have alerted some self-preservation instinct inside her. He reached for her again. And that’s when she screamed.

Chapter 3
Breena had never been so terrified in her life. She’s always thought that if she actually met up with her warrior in the flesh she’d be frightened … and she was right. The man who’d woken her up—his face tight with desire, outrage and stunned disbelief—was huge. Broad shouldered with the kind of muscular arms that easily proved he wielded a sword. Fearsome. A fighter.
Although he wasn’t fighting, whatever was inside him drove him right at her. He quickly approached her, leaning toward her with determination and intent burning in his eyes.
What he intended to do, she didn’t fully know, as her dreams never really went much further than the kissing, but whatever it was … it had to be dangerous.
There was a reason princesses were locked up in towers and hidden away in far-off places, guarded by magical creatures. It was to keep those princesses safe from the kind of danger this man radiated. Because despite her fright, some small part of her wanted to know what all that danger was about. She screamed louder.
His hand covered her mouth to stifle her.
That was the second time someone had muzzled her, and it would be the last. Maybe it was the food, or that she’d finally snatched a bit of rest or just plain fear, but Breena, princess of Elden, had had enough.
With every last bit of strength she possessed, she pushed at his shoulders, her scream changing to a grunt, then finally silent.
He didn’t budge, but his hand fell away. The sound of her labored breathing filled the tiny space of the bedroom. His dark eyes searched her face, lingered at her breasts and followed down her legs. Then his gaze slammed into hers and he reached for her again.
“That’s far enough,” she said, scrambling to the floor, putting the bed between their bodies.
He lifted a brow at the protection she’d chosen. A bed—not the safest of barriers.
“Who are you?” she asked.
“I’ll ask the questions,” he told her, his voice gruff and rumbly.
Breena pursed her lips and nodded. The warrior did have a point, she had invaded his home.
“I’ve dreamed about you,” he said, angry wonder lacing his words.
She’d been expecting questions, demands; instead, his statement sealed the connections she had with this man. Her dream lover. Her warrior.
She wet her bottom lip with her tongue. “You’ve been in my dreams, too,” she admitted. Because I put you there. She’d just leave that little detail out of her explanations. Every instinct told her to be cautious, to not offer him too much information about herself.
“But there’s never been fear in your eyes.”
No, she could imagine what her gaze had conveyed in his dreams. A woman who wanted. Wanted him.
Faster than she thought such a large man could move, he was around the bed that separated them, and at her side. Crowding her. Breena took a step backward. And another. The wood-beamed wall of the cabin cut into her shoulder blades.
He’d backed her into the wall, and there was no escape.
“I’ve wondered a thousand times what your skin would feel like.” The back of his hand smoothed down her cheek. His nearness was devastating to her senses. The scent of him, like the woods and fresh air, made her long to breathe him in deep. Heat radiated from his body, chasing away the chill to her skin from wearing tattered clothing.
Blood pounded through her body, rushed in her ears. Her eyelids fluttered at the first touch of his skin against hers. She’d been so alone for the past few days, so afraid, and his touch made her feel safe for the first time.
He’d wondered what she’d feel like outside of a dream. “So have I,” she told him, and her fingers lifted to his face. Touched the line of his jaw.
His large hand captured her exploring fingers, drawing them to his lips. “Tell me your name.” It was a gentle command. “I’ve wondered.”
“Breena.”
“Beautiful name,” he said, his gaze lowering to her lips for a moment, then back to meet her eyes. “You look exactly as you appeared in my dreams.” He dropped her hand to pull a twig from her hair, rub away some of the dirt from her cheek. “Who’s done this to you?”
The caution she’d felt earlier returned. “The details are fuzzy.”
Okay, not truly a falsehood. The fine points of how she’d arrived in this strange kingdom, how long she’d wandered around in the wilderness or even eaten, were fuzzy. She tried to concentrate, to come up with some piece of information that would allay his curiosity … but the only picture she could conjure in her mind was the sinister, bony frame. The frightening creature with the eight legs that made a shudder slide down her back. The blood of her parents spilled on the floor of the great hall where they’d once danced and once ruled over a kingdom. That was clear.
She swallowed down a quiet sob, her body quaking, remembering her terror that night.
“In my dreams there was no fear in your eyes. Don’t be afraid of me.” He reached for her hand again, drew her fingertips to his mouth. The warmth of his tongue sparked a carnal response from deep inside her. Breena found it hard to breathe, hard to concentrate on anything but this man. His warmth. His dark eyes, and what he was doing to her body with his lips.
Breena suspected he meant his actions to be soothing, or to draw her attention away from her fear. Instead, she was more afraid of him than ever.
The warrior drew her hand from his mouth and placed it on his shoulder. She sunk her fingers into the dark strands at the nape of his neck. She gasped when his lips grazed along her collarbone, his tongue teasing the sensitive place beneath her ear.
“Tell me why you’re here,” he urged.
To survive. To kill.
She shrugged her shoulders, wanting the voices out of her head. Breena leaned her back against the wall, giving him better access to her body. Her skin. Her. “I don’t know. I thought it was an accident that I found your cottage, but now … now I wonder if maybe I was drawn here.”
He seemed to like her response because he tugged the lobe of her ear into his mouth.
Her throat tightened with relief. The man whose dreams she’d visited was perfect. She’d always dismissed her magic as being weak and inadequate, but her powers must have led her to the door that was the gateway into this man’s dreams. A warrior who could help her return to Elden, defeat the invaders … just like those heroic princes from her stories.
“Now you can help me,” she said, her body beginning to shiver as he traced the curve of her ear with his tongue. Even the feel of his breath, warm and heavy against her skin as he exhaled, did strange things to her body.
“Don’t worry, I’ll help you all you want.” His voice was a promise.
“You can amass an army?” she asked, daring to run her hands along the broadness of his shoulders, delighting in the dozens of muscles roping his arms.
His lips stopped their exploration of her neck. “An army?” He leaned away from her, his eyes heavy-lidded and filled with desire and confusion. “Just what kind of help are you needing?”
“I only—”
But her warrior was already cutting her words off with a slicing arc of his hand. “My sword is not for sale.” His gaze crept down to her breasts. “For any price.”
“My family is in danger.”
“It’s not my concern,” he told her, his voice indifferent, his stance nonchalant.
“But … You’re supposed to …” she sputtered. He was her warrior. He was supposed to help her. Wasn’t this some kind of requirement of the fairytale code?
His gaze dropped to her nipples poking at her shredded bodice. “I’ll have Bernt try to find you some better clothes. But you are leaving.”
For the first time since waking up in her bedchamber with Rolfe ushering her to safety, Breena felt completely worn out. Defeated.
Survive.
The command echoed through her head. That’s what she was trying to do.
“I need your help.”
He cupped Breena between her legs, and her breath lodged in her throat with a hiss. “If the help you need is here, I’m happy to please.” His fingers caressed her sensitized skin, her tattered clothing hardly an obstacle. “And I would please you, Breena.”
Her nipples hardened at the carnal guarantee in his words. Her skin heated, and she felt wetness between her thighs.
Then he dropped his hand. His expression grew hard. “That’s all the help I’ll be offering.”
She watched as the man of her dreams left her to walk away, slamming the door behind her.
For months Osborn had woken up in an agony of frustration and wanting. Hunger and need for one woman. After holding the real thing in his arms, caressing her soft skin, tasting her sweet lips, he knew nothing could ever satisfy him.
Nothing but turning around, tossing Breena on her back and burying himself in her sweet flesh.
He couldn’t remember when the dreams had first begun, and now he saw those dreams, those fantasies, for what they really were—nightmares.
His brothers were grouped by the kitchen table. The wood from the broken chair already swept away, the table clean of the leftover dried oatmeal. All traces of Breena’s visit gone … except he felt her in his home now. Felt her presence in him.
His skin began to chill. His berserkergang grew wilder inside him. The walls of the cabin he’d built alongside his brothers, his sanctuary, now boxed him in and imprisoned him. “I have to get out of here,” he told Bernt and Torben, grabbing his pelt bag and ignoring the curious glances of his brothers.
“What about her?” Bernt dared to ask.
Osborn turned on his brother, a roar of anger on his lips. “Get rid of her before I get back.”
“But she’s …” His younger brother Torben swallowed.
“What?” he bellowed his question.
“She’s a girl.”
And his cock knew it.
Bernt cleared his throat. “We thought maybe she could stay. Make our meals.”
“And clean, and do the laundry. Girls like to do that stuff.”
Obviously he’d kept his brothers away from civilization for too long. He could just add it to the list of his faults and deficits where his brothers’ raising was concerned. “We’re not a houseful of dwarves, and she’s sure as hell not staying.”
“But—”
Osborn shot his brother a look, and Bernt was smart enough to know when to shut his damn mouth.
“Get her some clothes and get her out of here.” Osborn slammed the door behind him, making every beam of wood and pane of glass rattle.
“What do we do?” Torben asked.
Bernt shrugged. “Get her a pair of pants, one you’ve outgrown. I’ll see if I can find an old shirt and shoes small enough to fit her feet.”
“I don’t see why she can’t stay,” Torben said, happily defiant when his oldest brother wasn’t around.
Bernt only shook his head. Nothing about today made much sense.
The door to the bedchamber opened, and the woman poked her head around the corner.
Breena had heard the voices from the other room. But then how could she not? She was pretty sure her warrior had left, and she was also plenty sure the hinges of the front door had taken a beating with his retreat.
Why was he so angry? It just didn’t add up. Her magic had drawn her to him; it must have. Why would she be able to put herself into the dreams of a man so powerful, so fierce, one who could surely help her, help her family, if she weren’t supposed to use that gift?
Two boys stared at her from the other side of the door. They had to be his brothers. They all shared the same dark hair and dark eyes. Tall and lean, like gangly youths, but soon they’d fill out and be as muscular as their older brother. The youngest might even grow to be taller than her warr—
Okay, she was tired of calling him warrior. “What’s his name?” she asked.
The youngest looked over at his brother, as if spilling that beast’s name could be construed as some kind of betrayal.
“Osborn,” the older one said. “And I’m Bernt and this is Torben. We’re going to find you something to wear before you leave.”
Osborn. She allowed his name to roll around in her mind. In all the nights she’d visited this man as he’d slept, she’d never really thought of him as something other than her lover. The warrior in her dreams. Never imagined him in real life, as a man with a family, and responsibilities and a name.
There was another personality trait many of the princesses shared in the stories she’d read, selfishness, and she’d only ever thought of Osborn as someone to help her.
But was hoping to protect her family selfish? Her kingdom and all her people were dying. In truth, they might even now be dead or enslaved.
Breena squared her shoulders. Osborn might want her far away from him, but she had no plans to go. Her magic had brought them together, and her warrior might be reluctant but he was going to help. She eyed the front door. Apparently he wanted his brothers to get rid of her before he returned.
Not going to happen.
Kings and princes might rule through sheer force of will and strength, but as her mother always told her, a queen knew how to get what she desired with nothing but a smile and her brain. And she’d taught those skills to her daughter.
Breena flashed that smile at the boys right now. “Thank you for your hospitality. I’m so sorry I broke your chair, and it was such a fine work of craftsmanship, too.”
Bernt’s cheeks began to flush. Flattery always worked on men.
Torben laughed. “You thought that chair was goo—”
The younger brother’s words were cut off by a smack to his shoulder.
“I’ve been walking for so many days, and seen so many interesting things, but this cabin is …”
The brotherly irritation lining Bernt’s forehead faded. “We haven’t been outside our lands since—” he stopped, his brown eyes clouding “—well, for a long time. What’s out there?”
Now this was very curious. She didn’t know how long she’d roamed, but at least a couple of days, and she’d never once spotted another person. Osborn had apparently hidden himself and his brothers away from civilization for quite some time. Why?
Bernt looked more boy now than youth. She had him. A boy’s sense of adventure was universal.
“It’s a magical world out there.”
Torben’s eyes focused. “You’ve seen magic?”
She lowered her voice and leaned forward as if she was about to impart a great secret. “I can do magic,” she told him.
“Show me,” he demanded.
Now she had him, too. She only had to draw out his curiosity until her missing magic reappeared.
She stretched her arms above her head. “Oh, I’d love to,” she told them. Was she going overboard with the reluctance lacing her voice? “But it seems I have to be on my way.” She aimed her steps in the direction of the door.
“Oh, but—”
“Maybe you can stay a little longer.”
She flashed them a smile. “You did say something about clothes.”
“And we have something that will take away the pain of your cuts and sunburn.” The boys left her side in a sprint, Bernt rummaging through an old wooden chest by the window, while Torben vanished into the bedchamber. They both returned with well-worn but clean pants and shirts. About three sizes too big. But if for some reason she was back out wandering the woods again, the rugged material of her new outfit would protect her from the sun and the tree limbs.
“Tell us about what you’ve seen,” Torben urged.
What would intrigue him besides her magic? Food always worked for her. “My favorite day is market day. All the tradespeople and farmers bring their wares and set up booths. Of course everyone gives you a little sample of their food so you’ll buy. One walk down the aisle and you’re completely full.” Or so she’d been told by one of the maids who’d helped her dress. Her parents would never have allowed her to go to market day, so she had something in common with these two brothers who longed to experience something new and different.
“What kind of food?” Torben asked, licking his lips. “All we get here is porridge and meat. Burned meat.”
“To a crisp,” Bernt added. “Osborn is not a very good cook.”
“And if we complain, he’d make us do it. Can you cook?”
She didn’t exactly cook, but she knew how to direct a kitchen staff. “My favorite is stew.” That wasn’t a lie. She didn’t specifically say she’d cooked it. “Thick with lots of vegetables and fresh baked bread.”
Both boys closed their eyes and moaned.
“But there’s more than just the booths. There’s singing, traveling acrobats and minstrels and dancing bears.”
Bernt’s face grew angry. “Bears shouldn’t dance.”
She’d forgotten she was in Ursan lands. “It was only one time. I’d love to tell you more, but I better change clothes and start walking before it gets dark.”
Torben slumped in disappointment. “I’d like to try that bread.”
Breena began to finger the frayed edge of the pants they’d given her. “I’d hate to put on these fresh clothes when I’m so dirty. Is there somewhere I can take a bath?”
She’d only suggested a bath to stall time, but now that she’d said the request out loud, Breena actually longed to be clean. To wash the grass from her hair, the dried blood from her knees.
“We usually just hop in the lake.”
“There’s no bathing tub?”
The boys just looked at her blankly.
“I’m guessing you wouldn’t have shampoo?”
Torben only nodded.
“Okay then, point me in the right direction.”
Bernt’s brow knotted. “I don’t think this is a good idea.”
“Technically I’ll be out of the house, so he can’t get mad,” she assured him.
“Oh, he can get mad.”
She just bet he could.
Osborn stalked through the woods, crashed though the tall grass and avoided the areas where the bears slept. Sweat slid down his back as he pushed himself to keep going. Away from his home and away from her.
He swiped at a branch closing in on his eye. Clearly he was going crazy. The isolation of his lonely life was making him want things he had no business wanting. What a fool he’d been. He’d clung to the woman who visited him as he slept. He hadn’t realized how much until what he’d been fighting so hard to hold on to had been ripped away from him. At first he’d try to force his thoughts to something else during the day. Keeping the area around their cabin clear. Ensuring there was enough food and clean water. Taking care of his brothers. But finally he succumbed, and he’d work to remember those dream moments with her throughout his day. Although, truthfully, it wasn’t very hard. Those moments drew him to his bed at night so he could dream.

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