Chapter 50 Erik
Erik
My gaze follows Rhyland as he gravitates toward Dani. Their bodies instinctively turn toward each other across the crowded feast hall. Their movement is like watching celestial bodies in perfect orbit—each step and gesture synchronized in an unconscious dance.
My fingers drum against the ornate goblet as I scan the room for the hundredth time, searching for a flash of platinum hair or the glint of mismatched eyes. Bryn's absence gnaws at me, each passing moment deepening the hollow ache in my chest.
The urge to seek her out claws at my insides, foreign and unsettling. This isn't me—I don't do uncertainty. I calculate, analyze, plan. But Bryn... she's thrown every carefully constructed strategy into chaos.
Is she hiding in their chambers, letting her thoughts of failure fester like a wound?
The strategic part of my mind—the part that's gotten me through centuries of warfare and politics—is screaming to retreat, to accept defeat with dignity.
But another voice sounds suspiciously like my brother's, urging me to fight.
The cave flashes through my mind—Bryn's body yielding to mine, her breath catching at my touch.
The barn... gods, the barn. Her kiss had been wild, desperate, matching my passion with an intensity that still burns in my blood.
Her body had come alive under my hands, betraying every denial her lips now speak.
I shift on my feet as memories assault me: Rhyland's determination when he first scented Dani, his relentless pursuit despite her resistance. How often had I watched my brother charge headlong into that battle, refusing to accept defeat?
Rhyland had fought for her and pursued her relentlessly until she accepted their bond. Perhaps that's what Bryn needs—not my careful strategy or measured approach, but raw, unrelenting pursuit.
My fingers tighten around the goblet. The thought of pushing her, breaking down her walls one by one until she acknowledges what blazes between us... it goes against every careful instinct I possess. And yet...
My jaw clenches. Perhaps it's time to take a page from my brother's book. After all, when has anything worth claiming ever come easily?
Movement on the grand staircase catches my eye, and my breath freezes in my lungs.
Bryn descends like a warrior goddess transformed.
Her platinum hair cascades like moonlit silver, free from its warrior braids.
The white silk gown hugs every curve, crystals on the bodice throwing rainbow light across her swollen breasts.
My hands itch with the memory of their weight, how perfectly they'd fit my palms.
The goblet in my hand creaks dangerously as my grip tightens. I force myself to set it on a passing servant's tray before shattering the crystal.
I close the distance between us in long strides, my boots silent against the crystal steps. Bryn's eyes snap to mine, a flicker of something—surprise? Desire?—crossing her features before her warrior's mask slides back into place.
"Well," she drawls, eyeing my formal attire. "The stoic warrior knows how to dress for battle."
"You're one to talk," I manage, though my voice comes out rougher than intended. "You look..." Words fail me as I drink in the sight of her. "Georgeous."
A flush of color stains her cheeks for a heartbeat before she catches herself. I extend my arm, and her eyebrow arches in challenge.
"Playing protector again, Erik?" She says my name like honey over steel. "I've faced frost giants. I can handle stairs."
"The stairs might survive you, but your beauty is more lethal than Grave Warden tonight."
"Fífl," she mutters without heat.
"And what does that mean, little bird?"
"It means 'fool,' you silver-tongued rogue." She takes my arm. "Don't get ideas. I'm just here to support my sister."
"Of course," I murmur, savoring how her body unconsciously leans toward mine as we descend. "Heaven forbid anyone think the mighty Bryn capable of enjoying my company."
She snorts, but I catch the slight upturn of her lips. "Your silver tongue is as dangerous as your blade, Erik." Her fingers flex against my arm. "Though neither will win you what you seek."
"And what is it you think I seek?" I ask, guiding her past a cluster of watching Aesir.
Bryn turns those mesmerizing eyes to mine, challenge written in every line of her body. "You're playing a dangerous game." I feel her tense against me. "One you cannot win."
A smirk tugs at my lips. This isn’t something she—or I—can deny much longer. The tension between us is undeniable.
The music swells, and I turn to her. "Dance with me?"
Bryn's eyes narrow playfully. "A warrior and a dancer, silfrhár? You're full of surprises."
"Silfrhár?" I repeat, letting the word roll off my tongue. "Another insult, perhaps?"
She places her hand in mine, her touch sending electricity through my veins. "Silver hair," she translates with a teasing lilt. "Though perhaps I should call you grimmr instead—the masked one. Always hiding behind that stoic facade."
I pull her close, closer than proper but not enough for scandal. "Only you see through my facade," I murmur. "Though I've had centuries to perfect my waltz."
"We'll see who leads whom," she challenges, moving with deadly grace.
She fits against me perfectly as we move across the floor, her warrior's body betraying every denial her lips speak. Each shiver and caught breath when I pull her closer tells its own truth.
The music draws us together, her silk dress whispering against me.
Her scent of winter winds and starlight floods my senses, making my head spin.
When my thumb traces circles on her lower back, her breath catches, those mismatched eyes darkening as they meet mine.
For a moment, her warrior mask slips, revealing raw hunger underneath.
"Be careful, silfrhár," she warns, voice husky as her nails dig into my shoulder. "Your control is slipping."
Christ, how I want to kiss her. To taste those lips again, that smirk up at me with such defiance. To show her exactly how much my control has already fractured. But I won't—can't—push her. Not here. Not yet. Even if every cell in my body screams to claim what's mine.
I spin her out, using the movement to put blessed space between us. But when she turns back into my arms, she's closer than before, her chest brushing against mine with each breath.
"My control?" I manage, voice rough as sand. "What about yours, little bird?"
Her pulse races beneath her skin, heat radiating between us as her pupils dilate, nearly swallowing the gold and blue of her irises.
"I don't know what you mean," she whispers unconvincingly, her gaze drops to my mouth for a fraction of a second before snapping back up.
Her fingers slide up my neck, sending heat through my veins. For a heartbeat, she leans in, her lips a whisper away from mine. The world narrows to this moment—the heat of her breath, the flutter of her lashes, the slight part of her lips.
But then she pulls back, reality crashing like a bucket of ice. Her hands drop from my shoulders as if burned, and she stumbles backward.
"I..." Her voice cracks, and she clears her throat. "Tell my sister I'm not feeling well." The warrior mask slips back into place, but her hands tremble slightly as she smooths her dress. "I'm retiring for the evening."
Before I can respond, she turns and practically flees toward the stairs, her white dress a beacon in the dim light. She doesn't look back, but the rigid set of her shoulders tells me everything—she's running from this, from us.
Fuck this. I know what I saw—what I felt.
My feet move before my mind catches up, carrying me after her retreating form. Her dress whispers against the crystal stairs as she practically runs, stumbling once in haste. I unleash my vampire speed the moment she rounds the corner at the landing, materializing before her.
She jerks back with a gasp, eyes flashing. "Don't pull that vampire shit with me." The words come out breathless as she sidesteps around me, her skirts brushing my legs.
I let her get as far as her chamber door, watch her fingers close around the handle. Then I'm behind her, pressing her against the solid wood, letting her feel every hard line of my body. My arms snake around her waist, pulling her flush against me.
A groan tears from her throat, and the scent of her arousal floods my senses. Her head falls back against my shoulder, even as her fingers tighten on the door handle like it's the only thing keeping her upright.
My lips brush the column of her throat, feeling her pulse thunder beneath the delicate skin.
"Why fight this?" The words ghost across her flesh, drawing a shiver from her body.
"This pull between us..." I drag my teeth—not fangs, not yet—along the sensitive spot below her ear. "It's consuming me, Bryn."
Her fingers clutch the door handle like an anchor, her knuckles white with tension. But she doesn't pull away. Instead, she arches into me, her body betraying what her pride won't admit.
"Erik..." My name falls from her lips like a prayer and a curse combined. "We can't—"
I silence her protest by nipping at her earlobe, drawing a gasp that shoots straight to my groin. "Can't what?" My hands slide up her ribs, ghosting just beneath the swell of her breasts. "Can't give in to what we both know is inevitable?"
She spins in my arms, her back hitting the door with a soft thud. Those mystical eyes burn with desire and defiance, setting my blood on fire. "Nothing is inevitable," she growls, but her hands fist in my shirt, pulling me closer as she protests.
Our breaths mingle in the scant space between us, every exhale charged with electricity. One move, that's all it would take. One slight tilt of my head and I could claim those lips that have haunted my dreams.
"Why would you want me? After everything, I'm nothing—"